Secret Passage

by Amanda Stevens

  “What is it?” Camille’s heart pounded so hard she could hardly breathe. Why was she having this kind of reaction to him? It wasn’t as if anything was going to happen between them. Was it?

  “Why do I feel I know you?” he asked almost desperately.

  She twisted the locket at her throat. “I told you. On a subconscious level, you probably remember me from the mine.”

  “That doesn’t explain why your name feels so familiar on my lips.” He reached up and trailed his hand down her throat, then pressed a fingertip to her pulse. Camille knew that it was racing. Now he knew it, too. “Why do I know your taste, your touch…the way your body moves when we make love….”

  Camille gasped. She would have protested, but she was rendered speechless by his words, by his nearness, by the memory of his body, naked and hard against hers.

  His fingers encircled her neck and he pulled her to him. “I know you, Camille. I know what you like,” he whispered, and then he kissed her, proving to them both just how right he was.

  He did know her. Still. After all this time.

  He kissed her so deeply Camille’s legs began to tremble. She wound her arms around his neck, threaded her fingers through his hair and kissed him back. Kissed him deeply. Kissed him the way he liked to be kissed.

  Because she knew him, too. Still. After all this time.

  He drew back in shock. “My God—”

  She pulled him to her, capturing his lips, tasting him with her tongue. Groaning, he drew her nightgown over her head and tossed it aside. Then he picked her up and carried her to the bed. Camille didn’t resist. Instead, she lay back and let him gaze at her.

  “I want you.” His voice trembled with emotion. With need.

  “I know.”

  His hand skimmed her breast, and Camille closed her eyes, capturing his hand between hers and holding it to her heart. “I want you, too. It’s been so long….”

  “Who are you?” he whispered harshly.

  Camille opened her eyes. He still stared down at her, but the desire had faded, replaced by a cold, black suspicion. She shuddered at that look and reached for her nightgown.

  Zac caught her wrist. “Answer me, damn it. Who are you?”

  Camille tried to shake off his hold. “Let me go.”

  His grasp tightened on her wrist. “Not until I get some answers.”

  “Answers to what?” Camille asked angrily. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “What the hell do you want from me?”

  “Nothing! I offered you a place to stay because you had nowhere else to go.”

  “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you’re who you say you are.”

  And Camille didn’t believe how cold his eyes had grown, how savage his voice sounded. In the blink of an eye, he’d changed into a man she didn’t know, but had always feared.

  “Why did you come in here tonight? What did you hope to gain by seducing me?”

  “Seducing you?” Her voice quivered with outrage.

  “Don’t try to convince me you were swept away by passion. That’s not the action of a woman still grieving for her husband, much less a dead son.”

  Her heart twisted. “How dare you?” she whispered. “How dare you use Adam to try and hurt me that way—”

  Zac went deathly still. “What?”

  His hold on her relaxed, and Camille scrambled away from him. She got up, grabbed her nightgown and, clutching it to her, backed toward the door.

  “What did you say?” Slowly he got to his feet.

  “Stay away from me,” Camille warned.

  “You called him Adam.” He sat back down on the bed as if all his strength had suddenly drained away. When he looked up again, Camille had never seen such anguish on anyone’s face.

  Her anger faded, and she took an inadvertent step toward him.

  “Get out of here,” he said in a voice she didn’t recognize. “Get the hell out before I do something we both might regret.”

  Chapter Nine

  Camille wasn’t all that pleased to see Alice approach her desk the next day. Since she’d seen the young woman with Talbott in the cafeteria, her suspicions were aroused. What exactly was Alice’s relationship with Talbott, and what had happened to the young research assistant she’d been seeing? According to Alice, he worked in a highly classified area of the Y-12 Plant. Had he been passing her top secret information? Information that she, in turn, had been relaying to Talbott?

  Alice held up a metal spool and smiled ruefully. “I just broke my last typewriter ribbon,” she said. “I guess it’s been reinked one too many times. Need anything from the supply closet?”

  “No, thanks.” Camille kept sorting through her files, but the moment Alice left the room, she got up and followed her out.

  The clatter of typewriters followed her down the long, narrow hallway. Alice was just ahead of her, and, when the girl turned to glance over her shoulder, Camille darted into an empty office. Peering around the corner, she watched as Alice unlocked the supply-room door and disappeared inside.

  Within moments, the door opened again, and Talbott stepped into the hallway. He glanced around, then strode off in the opposite direction from where Camille stood. A moment later, Alice emerged looking very much like the cat that ate the canary as she headed back toward her office.

  THAT AFTERNOON, a summons came from Dr. Kessler’s office. Camille couldn’t have been more surprised. She’d only seen her grandfather in passing. They had yet to formally meet, but every time Camille saw him, she was tempted to tell him who she really was. She held back for two reasons. One, learning her true identity could be detrimental to both their futures, and two, he would probably think her insane and have her thrown off the reservation.

  So Camille held her tongue, but when she entered his office that afternoon, she was struck again by how different he was from the man she knew as her grandfather. Different…and yet so many things about him were endearingly familiar. The stooped shoulders. The gentle eyes. And like his twenty-first-century persona, he cared little for his appearance. Today his suit was rumpled, his bow tie all askew and his shirt was badly frayed at the collar and cuffs.

  He glanced up when she walked in, and once again his eyes took her aback.

  “Miss Somersby, isn’t it?” When she nodded, he motioned her to a chair across from his desk.

  Camille sat and opened her steno pad.

  “You won’t need that,” he said. “I didn’t call you in here to take dictation.”

  Camille waited curiously for him to continue.

  “I’ve been watching you ever since you came on board here,” he said. “And I’ve been impressed by what I’ve seen.”

  “Thanks,” Camille murmured, but she couldn’t help wondering why he’d called her in.

  “I’ve seen you eating alone in the cafeteria from time to time. I take it you don’t have many friends here?”

  She shrugged. “I haven’t been here all that long.”

  “No, but I can tell you’re a serious young woman. You aren’t prone to idle chatter like so many of the others. You’re hardworking, efficient and, more important, discreet. That’s why I feel I can ask a favor of you.”

  Camille stared at him in surprise. “What kind of favor?”

  “Do you know how to type?”

  “Yes.”

  “In that case…” He pulled a folder from his desk and held it out to her. When she would have accepted, he hesitated. “First, I have to be certain that the contents of this folder will stay between the two of us. I’m not exaggerating when I say your prudence could be a matter of life and death.”

  Camille nodded. “I understand.”

  “Inside this folder, you will find a series of handwritten letters,” he explained. “I want you to type them for me, but it is imperative no one else know of their existence.”

  Again Camille nodded.

  “Do not make any carbon copies,” he warned. “Once you’ve finished,
bring both sets of letters back to me along with the ribbon from your typewriter. Understood?”

  “Yes, of course.” Camille took the folder and stood.

  When she got to the door, her grandfather said anxiously, “One more thing, Miss Somersby.”

  She turned back. “Yes?”

  He seemed at a momentary loss for words. “Is there any possibility that you and I have met before?”

  Camille almost smiled. “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “There’s a familiarity about you. I noticed it the first time I saw you, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on why it was so.”

  “Maybe I remind you of someone,” Camille suggested.

  He looked thoughtful. “Yes, I think that must be it,” he mused. “It’s your smile, I think. It reminds me of a young woman I knew back in New York. A colleague at the university where I taught before the war. I’ve often wondered what happened to her….” He trailed off, as if no longer addressing Camille.

  Elsa Chambers, she thought. The woman who would become her grandmother.

  “Perhaps when the war is over you should look her up,” Camille suggested.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” His voice grew slightly gruff. “I’m sure she’s married by now. She was a very beautiful woman. At any rate, I hardly think she’d remember me.”

  “You might be surprised,” Camille murmured.

  But she didn’t think he heard her. Nicholas Kessler appeared lost in thought.

  WHEN CAMILLE FINISHED the letters, she slipped them into the folder, along with the cotton ribbon from her typewriter, and carried them down the hall to her grandfather’s office. She knocked, then stepped inside, stopping abruptly when she realized he wasn’t alone.

  “You’ve finished the reports, I see.” He put a slight emphasis on the word report.

  “Uh, yes.” Camille walked over and handed him the folder. Before he could take it from her, however, Talbott reached out and intercepted the package.

  “You didn’t tell me that you work directly for Dr. Kessler,” he said.

  “You didn’t ask,” Camille countered.

  “Is there a problem?” her grandfather asked in confusion. “Miss Somersby has been cleared for top secret access. She and the girls in the pool deal with thousands of classified documents on a daily basis. Why are you concerned about the work she does for me?”

  “I’m concerned with every aspect of security in this city.” Talbott stared down at the folder for a moment, then handed it to Kessler. “Your reports.” He, too, put an emphasis on the word.

  “Thank you.” Her grandfather took the folder and placed it on his desk, then calmly clasped his hands on top of it. “That will be all Miss Somersby. Unless Special Agent Talbott has anything further.”

  “No, nothing,” he said with a slight smile. “I think Miss Somersby and I understand one another perfectly well.”

  ZAC USED THE FLASHLIGHT he’d found in Camille’s kitchen to search the mine. The crates that he’d seen two nights ago were gone from the main cavern, but he had a feeling they were still hidden somewhere inside the mine.

  About a hundred yards into the tunnel, he found them and quickly set to work. Placing the flashlight carefully on the ground, he used a crowbar to pry loose the lid on one of the crates, then whistled when he saw the contents. Nestled in a bed of sawdust was enough dynamite to blow up the whole damn ridge.

  The other crates contained weapons, documents and even more explosives.

  Returning the lids to the crates, Zac quickly hammered them back in place, then glancing around to make sure he’d left nothing behind, he hurried even farther into the mine to retrieve his own weapon.

  A little while later, he surfaced from the trees at the bottom of the ridge and quickly scanned his surroundings. It was the middle of the day and no one appeared to be about, but he knew he couldn’t be too careful. Whoever was stockpiling that dynamite would more than likely keep a close eye on the mine.

  He returned the hammer and crowbar to the tool-shed behind the cottage, then, hurrying inside the house, he shoved the satchel containing the money and his gun beneath the bed on the porch. Camille didn’t particularly strike him as the kind of person who would snoop in his personal belongings, but, then again, there was something about her he still didn’t quite trust.

  Not wanting to dwell on Camille—or the kiss they’d shared the evening before—Zac went outside and sat down on the front porch to think about what he’d just seen. Dynamite. Weapons. Fake documents. By all indications, he’d stumbled upon the lair of a professional saboteur, but because he couldn’t tamper with history, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

  CAMILLE WAITED with dozens of reservation workers outside the gate for the bus that would take them home that evening. Some of the employees had as much as a two-hour commute, but Camille would get off just outside Ashton, where she would have a short walk to the cottage.

  It would be nearly dark by the time she got there, but it couldn’t be helped. She’d driven to work for the past several days, and now her ration coupons were running low, forcing her, like so many others, to ride the bus.

  She didn’t really mind. The bus ride and then the walk would give her time to prepare for seeing Zac again. She’d purposely left for work earlier than usual that morning, not only because she had to catch the bus, but because she’d desperately wanted to avoid another confrontation with him.

  She frowned as she spotted the bus’s headlights in the distance. The kiss last night had caught her completely off guard even though she’d wanted it to happen since the moment Zac had opened his eyes in the mine. She’d dreamed about that kiss for years, yearned to have his arms around her, holding her close, whispering to her that the world was right because they were together.

  But the world wasn’t right. They were at war, and Camille had a mission to complete. A mission that could very well force her to choose between the man she loved…and the future.

  But that choice had already been made. She’d made it the day she’d convinced her grandfather that she was the right person for the job, that she, and she alone, could stop Zac Riley.

  “But you still have feelings for this man,” her grandfather had said kindly. “Don’t underestimate the power of that love, my dear.”

  “I’m not,” Camille denied. “But I know what’s at stake. I know what has to be done. And if I still have feelings for Zac, then I have to believe that somewhere deep in his subconscious he still feels something for me, too. I can use those feelings. I can make him trust me….”

  The bus pulled to a noisy stop outside the barricade, drawing Camille’s attention back to the present. As she boarded the bus, she noticed Alice Nichols just ahead of her in the crowd, but she made no move to get the young woman’s attention. Instead Camille pretended she didn’t see her and took a seat a few rows back from where Alice sat.

  Twenty minutes later, when the bus stopped in Ashton, Alice got off. Camille hesitated for a moment, then followed her, even though the next stop would have been much closer to the cottage. Now she would have a two-and-a-half-mile walk in the deepening twilight.

  The young woman hurried away from the bus stop, but Camille lingered for a moment to mingle with the crowd. When she felt it was safe, she followed Alice, keeping enough distance between them to remain undetected.

  A few blocks over, Alice stopped to admire something in a store window. A moment later, a car pulled to the curb beside her. Casting a furtive glance up and down the street, Alice rushed over and climbed inside.

  The vehicle pulled away from the curb and headed in Camille’s direction. Backing quickly into a doorway, she tried to disappear into the shadows as she watched the car go by her.

  The window was down, but she caught only a glimpse of the man behind the wheel. It was enough. She recognized him immediately.

  The driver was Daniel Clutter.

  BETTY AND VIV gushed over the lemonade Zac served them, despite the liquid’s ta
rtness. He had made it for dinner that night, a peace offering to Camille, but he hadn’t known what else to do when the nurses had shown up unexpectedly at the cottage. They’d walked all the way from town and looked so hot and dusty and…expectant somehow standing on the front porch that Zac had felt compelled to offer them a cool drink. It was the least he could do after all they’d done for him.

  And if he were honest with himself, he had to admit that he wasn’t exactly immune to their charms. They were both attractive young women, amusing and flirtatious, and their competitiveness with one another sometimes prompted outrageous behavior. They were both talkers, too, veritable founts of information about the townspeople and many of the strangers who’d arrived in the area to work behind the fence.

  “We stopped by your neighbor’s house to pay our respects, but, unfortunately, he wasn’t home,” Betty said, accepting a fresh glass of lemonade. She took a long sip.

  “You mean Daniel Clutter?” Zac asked in surprise. “You know him? He’s not a local, is he?”

  “He only moved here a few months ago, but he’s a widower so naturally Betty already knows him,” Vivian said dryly.

  Betty wrinkled her nose at her friend. “You didn’t exactly object when I made the suggestion to stop by and see him.”

  “No, but I should have. Did you see the way that awful woman looked at us? Why, you would have thought we were a couple of cheap floozies.” Viv folded her hands primly in her lap. “I didn’t appreciate her implications.”

  “She wasn’t the most hospitable person I’ve ever met,” Betty agreed. She turned to Zac. “Have you met her?”

  “Mrs. Fowler? Yes, I’ve had that privilege.”

  Betty giggled at his sardonic tone. “She has the strangest colored eyes. Have you noticed? They’re so dark, almost black, and very cold. Not at all like yours.” She peered at Zac through the falling twilight. “You have dark eyes, too, but they’re very warm and…passionate.”

  “Oh, brother,” Viv muttered.