“Is that why you’re so finicky about your luggage?” She frowned. “Good heavens, you didn’t carry cash with you?”
“No.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s good. It’s very dangerous to—”
“Not cash. A very special treasure.”
“Jewels?”
“Oh, yes, there are jewels.” He grinned. “Gold, emeralds, diamonds, pearls . . . and sixty or so pages of very interesting documents I’ve been working on for the last few years.” His smile faded. “You do not ask me why it is necessary for me to give such a high settlement.”
“It isn’t my—” The devil with politeness. She wanted to know. “Why?”
“I will need it if her parents are to trust me. In the past I have not always been a good man.” His next words were softly intense, as if he were trying to convince her. “But I have always tried to give good for good.”
His forcefulness gave Marisa a strange sense of being swept away. What the devil was happening to her? She made herself ask lightly, “And have you chosen your bride?”
“Long ago. But it was necessary I wait to claim her. Circumstances were not of the best.” He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Do you believe in fate, Marisa?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I believe in it.” He made a face. “Though a man like me can twist it a bit to serve himself.”
She smiled. “Then it’s hardly fate if it can be twisted.”
“You have a lovely smile.” His gaze fastened on her face, and she again felt that strange tingle of response. “But you should laugh more.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do not worry. I will teach you. I will teach you many wonderful things.”
She found herself staring with fascination into his glowing dark eyes. She whispered, “You will?”
“Oh, yes, I tell you the truth. It will happen. Trust me.” A gentle smile that still held a hint of mischief lit his face. “I have second sight.”
Praise for the bestselling novels of IRIS JOHANSEN
FINAL TARGET
“A winning page-turner that will please old
and new fans alike.” —Booklist
“A compelling tale.”
—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“Thrilling . . . will have fans of the author ecstatic and bring Ms. Johansen new readers.”
—Bookbrowser
“A fast-paced thriller in the best Johansen tradition.”
—Abilene Reporter-News
THE SEARCH
“Thoroughly gripping and with a number of
shocking plot twists...[Johansen] has packed all
the right elements into this latest work: intriguing
characters; a creepy, crazy villain; a variety of
exotic locations.” —New York Post
“Johansen's thrillers ooze enough testosterone to
suggest she also descends from the house of Robert Ludlum.
Johansen pushes the gender boundary in
popular fiction, offering up that rarity: a woman's
novel for men.” —Publishers Weekly
“Fans of Iris Johansen will pounce on The Search.
And they'll be rewarded.” —USA Today
“A spine-tingler.” —The Miami Herald
“Sabotage, dangerous secrets, and lots of dark action characterize Johansen's enthralling thriller.”
—Abilene Reporter-News
THE KILLING GAME
“Johansen is at the top of her game. . . .
An enthralling cat-and-mouse game . . . Perfect
pacing . . . The suspense holds until the very end.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Most satisfying.” —Daily News, New York
“[A] fast-paced, clever suspense novel that kept me
intrigued to the end. In fact, I read it in one sitting.”
—The Roanoke Times
“An intense whodunit that will have you
gasping for breath.” —The Tennessean
“For a well-plotted thrill-a-minute read,
you can't go wrong with this one.”
—The Pilot, Southern Pines, NC
THE FACE OF DECEPTION
“One of her best . . . a fast-paced, nonstop, clever
plot in which Johansen mixes political intrigue,
murder, and suspense.” —USA Today
“The book's twists and turns manage to hold
the reader hostage until the denouement, a sure
crowd pleaser.” —Publishers Weekly
“Johansen keeps her story moving at breakneck
speed.” —The Daily Sun, Chicago
"This is a great mystery with exciting
twists and turns.”
—The Sunday Advocate Magazine, Baton Rouge
AND THEN YOU DIE
“Iris Johansen keeps the reader intrigued with
complex characters and plenty of plot twists.
The story moves so fast, you'll be reading the
epilogue before you notice.” —People
“Fans of Mary Higgins Clark will enjoy Iris
Johansen's latest, a supercharged thriller. There's
peril, romance, and suspense aplenty as the good
guys race the clock to stop the villains.”
—Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine
“A well-crafted romance thriller.” —Kirkus Reviews
“From the first page, the reader is pulled into a
realm of danger, intrigue, and suspense with a touch
of romance and enough twists and turns to gladden
the hearts of all of her readers.” —Library Journal
LONG AFTER MIDNIGHT
“Iris Johansen is incomparable.”
—Tami Hoag, New York Times bestselling
author of Ashes to Ashes
“One of the most thrilling books I have curled
up with in a long time.”
—Michael Palmer, New York Times bestselling
author of Silent Treatment and Critical Judgment
“You'll be racing through to the last page.”
—Catherine Coulter, New York Times bestselling
author of The Maze
“Flesh-and-blood characters, crackling dialogue and
lean, suspenseful plotting.” —Publishers Weekly
“A lively, engrossing ride by a strong new voice in
the romantic suspense genre.” —Kirkus Reviews
THE UGLY DUCKLING
“A real knockout . . . [an] intense thriller . . . bravo!”
—The Atlanta Journal
“[A] spectacular tale of revenge, betrayal,
and survival.” —Publishers Weekly
“Outstanding. A real page-turner. Many will
add [Iris Johansen's] name to their list of favorite authors.” —Associated Press
“A well-executed story that deftly provides
chilling suspense.” —Library Journal
“Iris Johansen keeps readers turning pages
to the book's suspenseful conclusion.”
—San Antonio Express-News
“A successful hardcover debut. As Johansen
quick-cuts back and forth between the good guys
and the bad, in tried-and-true Sheldonesque style,
the plot eventually delivers just desserts to all—
thanks to inventive surprises.” —Kirkus Reviews
"A fascinating, compelling drama with
myriad strands of intrigue swirling around a
heroine who will let nothing stop her in her
quest for vengeance.” —Linda Howard
“A fabulous, tension-packed romantic suspense
novel with seething emotions and deadly secrets
that lure the reader into a fascinating web
of intricate design.” —Kay Hooper
“In Johansen's hands, the romantic suspen
se
genre is done a good turn.” —Booklist
If you loved
Reap the Wind
you won’t want to miss
Iris Johansen’s latest hardcover
No One to Trust
The #1 New York Times bestselling author of Final Target and The Search continues to push the boundaries of suspense, reaching new heights in a spellbinding thriller that traces the extremes one woman will go to in order to survive.
Trained by the military as an assassin, Elena Kyler has always relied on herself to survive—until now. On the run from a terrifying killer, her desperation leads her to seek help from Sean Galen—the most dangerous man she knows. And in order to save her own life, she must learn to trust for the first time and find an ally in the most unsuspected place.
Available October 1, 2002
Dear Reader,
If you’ve only read any of my recent suspense novels, you’d probably be surprised to learn that I actually began my career writing historical romances. About ten years ago I began thinking of writing a book centered on a magnificent ancient statue with mystical powers called the Wind Dancer. But the more I thought about the book, the more complex the concept grew, and I realized it could not be contained in one book. It was soon clear this was to be a trilogy—the story of a family whose fate was intertwined with the Wind Dancer through the centuries—and although they were love stories, they were also filled with suspense and adventure. Each book stands alone, but the Wind Dancer is central to the thread of suspense that runs through each of them.
You’ve just read the third book, Reap the Wind, which as you know is a contemporary suspense novel.
The first book, entitled The Wind Dancer, is set in Renaissance Italy during the reign of the Borgias. It’s a story of ambition and revenge and the statue that sent the mighty Borgias spiraling downward. Interestingly enough, Lorenzo, the Assassin, is probably my favorite of all the secondary characters I’ve ever created.
The second book, Storm Winds, takes place during the turbulence of the French Revolution and concerns the role played by the Wind Dancer in the rescue of a member of the royal family. It’s also a love story and follows the lifelong friendship between two women.
The characters came alive for me and the enthusiasm
for writing these books became obsession. I’ve always believed that some books are written with the mind and others with the heart. The Wind Dancer books involved both my mind and my heart, and the characters and mystique stayed with me long after I finished writing the trilogy. Even though a decade has passed since I finished Reap the Wind, I couldn’t resist bringing the statue back to ignite the swirl of violence and intrigue in Final Target, one of my most recent thrillers.
After Final Target came out, I found myself inundated with mail from my readers asking about the history of the Wind Dancer, and I was delighted to be given the opportunity to explain this link to my earlier titles. I got to do what most authors never have a chance to do—go back and do a little reworking. What author can resist tweaking a bit when given the chance?
The books in the Wind Dancer trilogy are a little different from my more recent thrillers, because they’re a bit more sensual. But if you want to find out more about the Wind Dancer, there’s no better place to go. You can read more about the Wind Dancer’s history in The Wind Dancer and Storm Winds. I think you’ll like them. I’m very proud of these books. You can read an extract from each of them—just turn the page.
I guess it’s obvious that I’m one of the lucky people who truly love their work. I’d like to thank you for reading my stories and making that work possible. I’ll try never to disappoint you.
Iris Johansen
From The Wind Dancer . . .
Florence, Italy
March 3, 1503
“Stop, thief! Stop her! I’ve been robbed!”
Sanchia tore across the Mercato Vecchio, raced past the church and on down the street, jumping over an emaciated brown-and-white mongrel that devoured garbage scattered over the flagstones. She ducked under the outstretched arm of a leather-aproned cobbler, but his large hand caught the coarse woolen shawl covering her head. She jerked it from his grasp and kept running.
The merchant chasing her was plump, but still he was closing the distance between them, and Sanchia’s heart slammed against her ribcage in a delirium of panic.
She was going to be caught.
Her hands would be chopped off at the wrists.
She would be thrown in the Stinche to be eaten by the rats.
Hot, agonizing pain shot through her left side. A stitch. She had to keep running.
What would Piero do? she wondered wildly. The others were older; they could find a way to survive. But Piero was only six. So many things could happen to so young a child. . . .
“Grab her, you fools. The slut stole my purse!”
Dio, Sanchia thought, he sounded close. How could he run so fast with all those rolls of fat hanging around his middle? She dodged around a wheelbarrow filled with fish, turned the corner of the Canto di Vacchereccia, then bolted down an alley yawning between a goldsmith’s shop and an apothecary.
Darkness. Twilight lay over the city but full darkness reigned in the alley.
Bright eyes glittered in the deep shadows at the base of the small buildings.
Rats. Dozens of them!
She stopped short, involuntarily recoiling.
The stones beneath the thin soles of her shoes were greasy from the garbage thrown out there by shopkeepers. She need have no fear of the rats, though, while they were feasting on the garbage.
The smell of rotting food in the closeness of the alley was overpowering. She swallowed, trying to fight down the nausea caused as much from terror as the stench.
“Which way did she go?”
The merchant’s voice was wheezing and sounded a little farther away. Had she lost him when she darted into the alley? She shrank back into the densely clotted shadows of the goldsmith’s shop, her palms pressed flat against the stone wall. Her breath was coming in harsh, painful gasps. Could he hear her? She tried to hold her breath, but there was no breath to hold. Cristo, what if he had heard her?
The cold, wet slime-covered wall chilled her back as it penetrated the wool of her gown. Her muscles felt leaden, the blood frozen in her veins. She was suddenly acutely conscious of the sharp, rough texture of the stone wall against her palms, but the sensation was almost pleasurable. Touch. What would she do without her hands? How could she live? How would all of them live?
“This way, you stupid blunderer.”
She stiffened. The voice was not that of the fat merchant but one with which she was bitterly familiar. Her heart gave a wild leap of hope. The alley door of the apothecary shop had opened, and even in the darkness she recognized Caprino’s slight, foppishly dressed silhouette.
She darted the few yards separating them and almost fell through the doorway into the shop. Her gaze flew to the front of the store, but the apprentice behind the small counter was scrupulously avoiding looking in her direction.
“He’s safe,” Caprino said. “He does work for me.”
Poison, Sanchia thought with a shiver, or perhaps the strange white powders Caprino gave his whores.
Caprino slammed the door and held out his hand. “The purse.”
She fumbled beneath her shawl for the soft leather pouch and then dropped it into his palm. She leaned back against the door, her knees shaking so badly she could barely stand upright.
“You were clumsy,” Caprino said harshly. “I should have let that fat fool catch you. Next time I will.”
She had to wait until she could speak without panting. “There won’t be a next time. I’m never going to do it again.”
“You will,” Caprino said coolly. “You’re frightened now, but it will pass. You’ll forget the fear and remember only the money that buys bread. You’re not usually this clumsy. You may not come this close to being caught for the next ten
lifts.”
“I’ll find another way.” Sanchia’s hands clenched at her sides. “There has to be another way.”
“You didn’t think so when you came to me.” Caprino opened the door. “I have no more time for you. I have important business at Giulia’s. Stay here for another few minutes before you go back to Giovanni’s.” The door swung shut behind him.
He hadn’t given Sanchia her share of the purse, she realized dully. Trust Caprino to try to steal even the smallest purse, if given the opportunity. She would have to seek him out tomorrow and demand her portion. She had mouths to feed and Caprino was right about hunger being a sharp dagger that might goad even a saint into thieving.
But was hunger worth the risk of having her hands chopped off?
Fresh panic clutched at her as a chilling memory returned. Two months before she had seen a thief thrown out of Stinche Prison into the streets, his arms ending in bleeding stumps. Since then the fear of that punishment had lived with her during the day and invaded her dreams at night. She had tried and tried to think of another way to earn money to feed them, all the while fearing her frantic scheming would come to nought. There was no other way.
As there would be no other way the next time or the time after that. She would have to steal again just as Caprino had predicted. But he was wrong about the terror holding her in helpless thrall; it wasn’t a thing of the moment.
She knew the fear would never go away again.
“Good evening, noble messeres, I have the honor to present to you my greetings. I am Guido Caprino.” Caprino stood in the doorway and smiled ingratiatingly at the two men sitting at the polished table across the chamber. “The enchanting Madonna Giulia assured me I could be of some slight service to you.”
He carefully kept a bland expression on his face as he appraised the two men. The older had to be Lorenzo Vasaro, he decided. His high cheekbones and deepset eyes matched the description Giulia had given him of the man—and besides, Caprino’s own instincts responded to the shadowy aura of menace surrounding him. The man was lean, faultlessly elegant in his fashionably slashed black doublet, and clearly more dangerous than his companion. He gazed at the other man and felt a ripple of distaste. He was so male. Lionello Andreas might stand well over six feet, Caprino surmised, and he was too big-boned to lay claim to elegance no matter how richly he was garbed. Now, dressed only in gray hose and a loose white shirt, he appeared to be exactly what Caprino had expected: a barbarian warrior with more brawn than brains; he was not wearing a weapon, not even a dagger. Andreas might be the lord of Mandara, but Caprino would wager it was Vasaro who was the shrewd power behind the scenes there.
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