by Dinah McCall
He thought back to the days when Hitler had been in power. His desire for a pure and perfect Aryan race had taken him higher than any man in government power had ever gone, although in the end, he had also fallen farther than any man before him. The little he’d been given on Waller’s background said that the old man had been involved in genetic research. So what if they had learned how to manipulate DNA? What if they had implanted the woman with her own fertilized eggs as usual, but changed in some manner so as to create a perfect child? It made sense to Rostov. If any part of this was true, then it was no wonder his country had still wanted the old man back. But if this was so, then why hadn’t the world seen the evidence firsthand? More than enough years had come and gone. This child if it had lived, would be in its late twenties—plenty of time for an exceptional person to make a mark on the world.
He frowned. What if it had already happened? The world was filled with geniuses of all kinds. Men and women who manipulated the computer industry and the Internet as easily as he tied his shoes. And what if it wasn’t just mental superiority that they’d been striving to achieve? There were Olympic medalists and military heroes—professionals of all kinds who were unique in their own fields. And if the men who had created them had a piece of that action, the possibilities were endless.
His frown deepened. Even if this was so—and he had yet to prove his hypothesis—it still remained for Rostov to find a way to cash in on the information.
Quickly he scanned the rest of the diary, noting mention of at least nineteen other “projects,” as Weller had called them, and then in 1992 the entries ceased.
He flipped through the pages, hoping for something to explain the further lack of entries. He found nothing but a single notation on the very last page.
December 2000
In trying to play God we have, instead, created Hell. No one knows why, but Isabella is the key.
Rostov closed the diary and then shove it beneath his mattress before turning out the light. Without bothering to remove his clothes, he rolled over on his side and closed his eyes. He didn’t know what it all meant, but the longer he thought about it, the more convinced he became that he had an agenda of his own. Tomorrow he would make contact with his superiors and tell them the old man was dead. After that, the world was his for the taking—and he was going to take all he could get. And—according to Vaclav Waller—Isabella Abbott was the key to his success.
Isabella slept curled up on her side, her face to the window and the moonlight shining through. In her dream, she was in London, lost on a dark street with no end in sight. As she walked, thin fingers of fog swirled at her feet, yet as afraid as she was, she resisted the urge to run. Behind her, the sounds of footsteps on the cobblestone streets could suddenly be heard, and she turned in fear, terrified of who was behind her.
Someone called her name! Her breath caught between a gasp and a scream as a figure emerged from the shadows. She went limp with relief.
“Daddy! Oh my God, Daddy, it’s you! I got lost and was so afraid.”
Samuel Abbott paused beneath the gaslight, the moisture from the fog heavy on his clothes, his breath coming in quick gasps as if he’d been running.
“You’re not lost, Isabella. Look up.”
Isabella looked. There was a street sign right above her head. Braden, Montana? That didn’t make sense.
“But, Daddy, I thought this was London.”
Samuel shook his head. “You’ve never been to London.”
“But I have,” she argued. “I remember.”
Samuel smile. “That’s not your memory,” he said softly. “Let it go. Let it go.”
Isabella woke with a start, half expecting to see the room filled with fog, and instead got moonlight in her eyes. She rolled over with a groan, bunched her pillow beneath her chin, then closed her eyes, willing herself not to dream. She’d had all the nightmares for one night that she could handle.
Jack lay wide-eyed and sleepless, staring up at the pattern on the ceiling, trying to make sense of what he’d just read. Frank Walton, aka Vaclav Waller, had been involved in DNA research when he’d “died.” Rumor had it that the Russian government had been about to pull the plug on what they considered flawed research and send him to a lab involved in chemical warfare. But somehow he’d wound up on a private plane, on his way to a world-class medical convention in the Bahamas, instead. And the plane had gone down two hours after take-off, with no survivors.
Jack shifted where he lay and bunched a couple of pillows beneath his head before refocusing his thoughts.
Odd thing about that plane crash. Besides Waller, there had been six other doctors, one with a wife, and two pilots on board. No bodies or wreckage were ever found—only an oil slick in a vast ocean of blue to indicate their passing.
But Waller hadn’t died then. That was now a given. So had he somehow faked getting onto that plane and then made a getaway at the airport before it took off? Jack chewed the edge of his lower lip as he considered another option. Considering the fact that no wreckage or bodies were ever found, then the possibility existed that the plane had never gone down. And if that hypothesis was true, then what had happened to the other doctors?
The agency had sent him the three known pictures of Vaclav Waller, but the images had come across the Internet too grainy for him to tell much about the faces. He needed to see a real one and had indicated as much by return email. Knowing the Bureau, there would be one waiting at the check-in desk tomorrow morning, so for now he was going to have to settle for a night of supposition.
Finally he closed his eyes, and when he did, his mind was awash with the memory of Isabella Abbott walking into his arms, of the feel of her body pressed to his, and of the kiss she gave him when she left. Cursing himself and the weakness of the flesh, he crawled out of bed and strode to the bathroom, stripping off his sweats as he went. He’d already showered once, but another was overdue, and this one was going to be quick and cold. He was hard and hurting, with no other way of alleviating the pain.
He stepped beneath the shower, gritting his teeth as the cold water needled his skin.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, and ducked his head beneath the spray.
Minutes later he was spread-eagle on the bed on his belly, trying to sleep, but something kept getting in the way of oblivion. He didn’t have to focus hard to know what it was. It was Isabella, and even though he knew she was asleep on the floor below, he imagined he could smell the scent of her perfume.
Isabella stepped out of the hotel onto the terrace, then down the steps, following the sound of the weed-eater on the south side of the building. Her Uncle David had told her the gardener was going to be fine, but she wanted to see for herself. As she walked, she couldn’t help but admire how neatly Victor Ross had been keeping the grounds and wondered if he would be interested in a permanent job. She rounded the corner just as Victor Ross Turned around. He killed the weed-eater when he realized she wanted to talk.
Isabella smile. “I’m sorry to disturb your work, Mr. Ross, but I wanted to see for myself that you were all right today. If you’re not feeling up to par, you’re more than welcome to take another day of rest.”
There was a brief moment of guilt as Rostov absorbed what she was saying. Things were certainly a lot different here than they were back home, and this woman had been nothing but kind to him. However, he didn’t feel enough guilt to change what he was going to do.
“Thank you, Miss Abbott, but I am fine.”
Isabella picked a dead leaf off the perfectly clipped hedge and tossed it aside, then gave the man another considering look.
Rostov waited for her to speak.
“Mr. Ross…I was wondering, do you have any immediate plans for your future?”
The irony of her question was not lost on the big Russian. She was part of his future; she just didn’t know it yet.
“Not really, Miss.”
Isabella nodded. “Then I have a proposition for you…if you’re in
terested, of course.”
“Yes?’
“You’re doing a wonderful job here.”
An odd spurt of satisfaction came and went. “I have found this ob to be quite enjoyable.”
Isabella hesitated. It wasn’t the first time she’d noticed his rather stilted form of speech and wondered if English was a second language, rather than learned from birth.
“Well, it shows,” she said, then added. “Which brings me to the point I was going to make. If you are interested, I would like to hire you permanently, with a raise in pay. In the winter months, when there is little to be done outside except shovel show, you would be available as a handyman in the hotel proper. You would live on the grounds, of course, but not in that shed. We would find a room for you in the hotel. There are a couple just off the kitchen that were once maids’ quarters. They’re not being used, because all our housekeeping staff live off the premises in their own homes. Maybe we could take out a wall or connect them in some way so that you could have a private suite of your own.”
Rostov was stunned. He took off his hat and wiped his brow while giving himself time to think. There was a moment when he actually considered doing just that. It was simple work. He would have a place to call his own. But he thought of the diary and the possibility that he might be recognized. Frank Walton had known him for what he was, even though they’d never met. And were it not for the beard he’d been growing and the fact that he’d stayed as far away from the old men as possible, he might already have been recognized again. He also had to consider the fact that Isabella Abbott was worth far more to him as a hostage, rather than an employer.
“This comes as a surprise,” Rostov said, and made himself smile to show appreciation. “I Haven’t stayed in one place for a very long time. May I have a couple of days to think about it?”
Isabella nodded. “Certainly. In the meantime, I’ll let you get back to work.”
“Thank you, miss. I do appreciate the offer.”
Rostov bowed before he thought, then straightened abruptly and shoved the hat back on his head. He knew that, but he’d done it without thought. Angry with himself for slipping up again, he restarted the weed-eater and began attacking a clump of grass that had escaped the lawn mower’s blades.
Isabella watched for a moment, then turned away. She was halfway to the terrace when it occurred to her that the man had actually bowed, as if she were some kind of royalty. Not that it mattered, but if she was a betting woman, she would lay odds that Victor Ross had not been born in the United States.
Jack was at the check-in desk when Isabella walked into the lobby. The photos from headquarters had arrived, just as he’d expected. Anxious to view them, he still hesitated, wanting a reason to talk to Isabella again, so he waited, telling himself that remaining on speaking terms with her and the staff was just part of his cover.
She circled the counter. “I’ll take it for a while, Delia. Why don’t you go finish that repost on my desk?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Delia said, and went into the office, leaving Isabella alone with Jack. She made herself act calm, when in actuality she was more than a little bit rattled by his presence.
“Good morning, Jack.”
Her smile ripped right through his conscience, but he hid it well.
“Good morning to you, too.”
Faint color spread across her cheeks as she remembered that she’d not only asked to be held but had kissed this man without conscience. Searching for something inconsequential to talk about, she pointed to the packet he was holding.
“I see you have mail. Something from your publisher?”
For a moment he couldn’t think what she was talking about, and then he realized he was supposed to be a writer.
“More in the way of research,” he said.
Before Isabella could follow up on his answer, the front doors swung suddenly inward. When she saw who it was, she groaned beneath her breath.
“Oh great,” she muttered. “Just what I need.”
“Who’s he?” Jack asked, as he watched the overweight and graying cowboy stride toward the desk.
“Lawton Cage. Bobby Joe’s daddy.”
“Is he going to give you trouble?”
“Most likely,” she said.
At that point Lawton Cage had arrived and their conversation was over.
“Miss Abbott.”
Isabella lifted her chin, giving full access to the damage his son had done to her face.
“Lawton. Haven’t seen you here in a while. Have you come to dine with us?”
He pointed a finger in Isabella’s face. “You know why I’m here Missy. I want to know what happened between you and my son yesterday, and I want to talk to the sorry son of a bitch who broke his now.”
Jack stepped between Cage and the desk.
“That would be me,” Jack said, and smile without humor as he casually pushed Lawton’s arm aside. “Didn’t your mother tell you it isn’t nice to point?”
Lawton Cage had been riding roughshod over anyone who’d gotten in his way since the day he’d turned twenty-one. To say he was pissed about Jack’s attitude was putting it mildly.
“Who the hell are you?” he growled.
“I’m the sorry son of a bitch. Nice to meet you.”
Jack heard a snort behind him and wasn’t sure if Isabella had laughed or choked of a cry of alarm.
Lawton’s face turned as red as his shirt as he double his fists.
“You’re gonna pay for what you did to—“
“No. I’m not the one who owes Miss Abbott, and since you’ve come to clean up your son’s messes, then it’s you who’s going to pay.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” He pushed past Jack and then leaned over the desk. “Isabella! I’ve known you since the day you were born and thought highly of your father. But I’m not going to ignore what happened to my son just because—“
Again Jack stepped between them, saving Isabella the task of trying to explain things to a man who was obviously out of control.
“What you should be doing is thanking her,” Jack said. “Because if it wasn’t for her, I would have had your son arrested.”
Lawton’s eyes widened. His nostrils flared. He stared at Isabella in disbelief.
“Is this true?”
“Yes, Lawton, it is. And I would like for you to leave now before you say something we’ll both regret.”
“I’m not going anywhere until I get some answers.”
“Fine, then,” Jack said. “I watched from the barber shop window while your son cut a tire on Miss Abbott’s car. Then he followed her out of town, for whatever purposes he had in mind. When I drove up, she was trying to fight him off. Her lip was bleeding, and she was begging for him to stop. I helped him make up his mind.”
“You broke his nose,” Lawton said, but the tone of his voice was weaker than it had been moment before.
“He was lucky it wasn’t his neck,” Jack said.
An angry flush spread slowly up the big man’s neck and face.
“There was time in these parts when what you did would have gotten you shot.”
“Yeah?”
Lawton nodded. “Yeah.”
“Well, where I come from, there was a time when a man like Bobby Joe Cage would have wound up as gator bait in some Louisiana swamp for what he did.”
Lawton stared, judging his opponent carefully.
Jack looked back, waiting for the man to make the next move.
Suddenly Cage’s mood shifted. He took a deep breath and, for the first time since he’d come into the hotel, removed his Stetson and nodded to Isabella.
“Miss Abbott, you have my apologies for what happened. I trust you’ll send the bill for the tire to me.”
“I believe Uncle David has already done that,” she said.
A muscle twitched at the corner of Lawton’s mouth, but to his credit, he didn’t argue.
“Then my business here is done,” he said. He started
to leave, then looked back at Jack.
“You. What’s your name?”
“You mean besides sorry son of a bitch?
“Jack, for Pete’s sake,” Isabella muttered, anxious for this to be over.
Jack heard her and grinned, but waited for Lawton to ask.
“Yes, besides that.” Lawton said.
“My name is John Jacob Dolan, but everyone calls me Jack.”
Lawton took a deep breath and then nodded, slapped his hat back on his head and strode out as forcefully as he had entered.
“Good Lord,” Isabella said, when the door had swing shut.
Jack turned and winked.
She started to laugh when Delia came out of the office and interrupted.
“Oh, Miss Abbott. A special delivery package came for Mr. Rufus about a half hour ago, but I can’t find him. What should I do with it? It’s marked Fragile, and I’m afraid if it’s left up here at the front desk something will happen to it.”
Isabella looked beneath the counter where Delia was pointing, for the first time seeing the long wooden box with international potage.
“Probably more of his archaeological stuff. I should probably take it to his room”
“I’d be happy to carry it for you,” Jack said.
Isabella hesitated. “Are you sure? I don’t want to delay your own work.”
“This is part of my work,” Jack said.
“What do you mean?”
His gaze slid past her mouth, then settled on her eyes. “Well…if you let me carry this for you, then I will have a legitimate reason to spend some more time with you.”
Her blush heightened, but she laughed. “Far be it from me to deny my knight in shining armor his one desire.”
“Oh…it’s not the only desire I have, but it’s a good start,” he said softly, then handed her his FedEx pack. “If you don’t mind?”
