Stephen’s warning had come ten hours ago, and there was still no sign of him. If he had called from Atlanta, he’d been less than four hours away.
What was taking him so long?
She shuddered at the possibility that some unknown person whose threat Stephen had uncovered might have caught up with him, but she immediately dismissed those fears.
Not Stephen.
He was too smart. Too careful.
Too dear.
Drawing her jacket closer around her, she sank onto the stairs, glad for the reassuring bulk of her automatic pistol in her shoulder holster. Stephen had selected a safe house in the middle of nowhere, miles from its nearest neighbor, even farther from the closest town. Her only contact with civilization was the telephone, but she didn’t dare call anyone. Not before Stephen could explain the danger that stalked them. Depending on the level of sophistication—and desperation—of the people who sought to harm her—they might have tapped her home and office phones and that of her parents in Raleigh in an attempt to trace her.
There was nothing to do but wait. And pray that Stephen was okay.
She hadn’t seen him in sixteen months, hadn’t had the courage to face him, even to speak with him, after their last disastrous encounter. She never would have guessed a simple going-away party could have caused such fateful and unexpected consequences.
The party had started out simply enough. She and Jason Bender had organized the surprise celebration at Stephen’s apartment. Because Rachel had a key Stephen had given her so she could water his plants whenever he was out of town, and Jason had cornered Stephen for the day with a request for assistance on a bank fraud case he was working, the secret preparations had been a breeze.
She had met the caterers at the apartment and hung balloons, a good-luck banner and streamers. Later she directed guests to hide their cars so Stephen wouldn’t see them when he arrived. Somehow almost fifty people—everyone in the Savannah FBI office, local law enforcement personnel, federal and district attorneys, and several of Stephen’s neighbors—had crowded into his small place.
His reaction when he’d unlocked his door and stepped inside was something she would never forget. Luckily she had anticipated it, or he might have accidentally shot someone when he went for his gun.
Her own reflexes as quick as his, she had flung her arms around his neck, effectively blocking his ability to draw. At that point, her innate reticence evaporated. Without a thought for the consequences, she had pressed her lips to his mouth and kissed him, while all around them, fifty voices shouted, “Surprise!”
The other guests might as well have been on another planet. Oblivious of her audience, she yielded to the warmth of Stephen’s embrace, the exhilarating taste of him, the thrum of his pulse beneath her fingers caressing his neck.
He pulled back first, and his dark eyes burned into hers. “Well, that was a surprise.”
She covered her indiscretion quickly. “Diversionary tactic only, Chandler. Couldn’t have you shooting your own guests. The Bureau wouldn’t like it. And it would tend to lower your social rating, too.”
“On a scale of one to ten,” he said, “I’d rate that diversion a fifteen.”
“Just another of my hidden talents.”
“You have others?”
“Hundreds.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Too bad. Now that you’re moving to Atlanta, you’ll never know them.”
His arms tightened around her. “If they’re as outstanding as that kiss, maybe I should turn down that promotion and hang around.”
His searing look took her breath away and robbed her of further words. She was saved by guests surging around them, clapping Stephen on the back with congratulations on his promotion. He released her, and she faded into the crowd. With Stephen preoccupied, she slipped away to the kitchen to splash cold water on her overheated face.
She had no idea what had come over her. She was acting like a lovestruck teenager—and Stephen was her best friend, for Pete’s sake, not her lover.
She dried her face, picked up a tray of glasses and returned to the living room, where Jason and another agent, Stan Lewolsky, were opening bottles of champagne. Avoiding Stephen’s gaze, she wandered among the guests, making small talk. His questioning glance followed her around the room like a heatseeking missile.
An apt analogy, she thought ironically, since her cheeks flamed every time she remembered his kiss.
In an attempt to soothe her inner turmoil, she—who rarely touched alcohol of any kind—downed glass after glass of champagne, until the sounds and activity of the party swirled around her in an everincreasing blur.
The bubbly had gone straight to her head. She’d started imagining things, like the sultry looks of longing that Stephen cast her way, and the strange expression, almost of loathing, that she’d caught from Jason Bender. He’d probably been appalled by her uncharacteristic behavior.
A flicker of light in the mountain valley jerked her back to the present, and her pulse went into overdrive. Already shivering from the cold, she trembled harder, wondering if the vehicle making its slow, steady climb up the mountain was Stephen or his unnamed assailants.
Considering the possibility they might have found Stephen and forced him to reveal where she was, she stepped into the shadow of the porch. She kept telling herself it had to be Stephen but she withdrew her gun from its holster just the same.
She lost sight momentarily of the lights on the road below, but she could hear the crunch of tires on gravel and the engine straining in low gear as it climbed the steep incline toward the cabin. She flattened herself out of sight around the corner just as the car’s headlights swept the clearing in front of the house.
The vehicle parked next to her Explorer, and its engine stopped. Having seen her sport utility vehicle, whoever was driving would know she was here. Gun ready, she held her breath and waited.
No one emerged from the dark car.
Her nerves stretched taut, Rachel didn’t move. The only sounds were the wind soughing through the trees, the rustle of a small creature scuttling through dry leaves, and the distant, plaintive hoot of an owl.
Remembering her tactical training from her academy days at Quantico, Rachel sidled around to the back of the cabin and slipped into the woods. With her ears attuned to any noise from the car or its occupants, she picked her way through the trees, placing her feet carefully to avoid tipping off her presence. In spite of the cold, she broke into a sweat from a healthy dose of fear and the effort of moving stealthily.
After minutes that seemed like agonizing hours, she had positioned herself in the cover of trees a few feet from the strange car.
Moonlight flooded the clearing in front of the cabin, illuminating the dark Taurus, typical of a government-issued vehicle. But if the car was Stephen’s, why hadn’t he exited to let her know he’d arrived?
The fact that no one had gotten out aroused Rachel’s suspicions. And accelerated her fears. Was this the danger Stephen had warned her about? Had someone found him? And if so, was Stephen harmed...or worse?
Rachel pressed the heel of her hand against her lips to suppress a moan. Swift, hot anger quickly dispersed the pain, stiffening her resolve. If they had harmed Stephen, she’d make certain they paid.
At the click of a door latch, she focused on the vehicle and lifted her automatic to the ready. Whoever this was, he wouldn’t enter the cabin without going through her first.
The driver’s door swung open.
The dome light flicked on and illuminated the interior and the driver slumped across the wheel, not moving. She couldn’t see his face, couldn’t tell anything about him except that he wore a suit jacket and had dark hair.
Aware of the likelihood of a trap, Rachel maneuvered through the trees at the edge of the clearing until she could view the lit back seat.
Empty.
The driver couldn’t have opened the door in his sleep. What was going on?
There
was only one way to find out.
Gun braced before her, she raced silently across the clearing to the open door, and shoved the barrel against the driver’s temple.
“Put your hands on the wheel,” she yelled.
The driver groaned and turned his head. Deathly pale, Stephen stared up at her.
“Thank God, you made it, Doc.” His voice was barely a whisper.
Rachel shoved her gun in her holster and reached for him, but when her hand clasped his arm, she drew back. Her fingers were sticky with blood.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “What happened?”
“Shot,” he murmured, “but he didn’t follow me. I lost him outside Atlanta.”
She cast an uneasy glance down the mountain toward the dark highway. “You’re sure?”
“I wasn’t followed.”
She had to get him inside before he went into shock—if he wasn’t in that state already. “Can you walk?”
“I’ll try.”
She knelt beside the seat, swung his legs out, lifted his uninjured arm over her shoulder and tugged him from the car. He stumbled against her, and they almost fell, but she managed to stay upright.
“It isn’t far,” she said. “Just rest your weight on me and move your feet.”
Straining to support him, she shuffled toward the porch, then half carried, half dragged him up the stairs and into the cabin’s main room. She lowered him onto the overstuffed sofa, and eased him onto his back.
“I have to get this jacket off you, see how much blood you’ve lost.”
“Good thing you’re a doctor, eh, Doc?” He smiled weakly.
“Wait’ll you get my bill, then see if you’re still smiling,” she said in a feeble attempt at humor.
His expression transformed to a grimace of pain when she lifted him and stripped off his jacket. Her knees threatened to buckle at the sight of his blooddrenched shirt, and her heart fluttered in panic.
She wasn’t a practicing doctor. She had completed medical school but none of her internship. From the looks of all that blood, Stephen needed someone experienced in treating gunshot trauma.
Tamping down her rising anxiety, she rummaged through a desk on the opposite side of the room and found a pair of scissors. After removing his Glock semiautomatic and shoulder holster with quivering fingers, she slid off his tie and cut away the bloodstained shirt.
“Is there a first aid kit in this place?” she asked.
“Over the kitchen sink,” he muttered through chattering teeth.
She covered his bare chest with an afghan, threw more logs on the fire, and went in search of medical supplies. A few minutes later she returned with the kit, a basin of warm water and an armful of towels.
After she had cleaned and bandaged his arm, her apprehension diminished somewhat. The bullet had passed clean through the flesh and muscle, miraculously missing bones and major arteries, but he had lost a great deal of blood.
“We should get you to a hospital,” she said.
“You know that...doctors are required to report gunshot wounds,” he said in a voice growing fainter with each word. “We can’t take...the chance of tipping... him off to our location.”
“Who? Who’s after us?”
“Later... Safe now.” His eyelids sagged. “Too tired...”
He grew so still, her fears resurged with a vengeance, but when she checked his pulse, its steadiness reassured her. She tossed his ruined shirt into the fire and carried the basin and first aid kit back to the kitchen.
A hasty search of the main bedroom turned up a man’s flannel shirt in a closet. Gently she put it on him and buttoned it against the cold. He didn’t awaken, not even when she plumped thick pillows behind his head and added a handmade quilt over the afghan.
One thing was certain. Until she knew the exact nature of the threat—who was after them and why—she wouldn’t relax her guard. She checked her patient again, then went into the kitchen long enough to brew a pot of strong coffee. It was going to be a long night.
Later, curled in a deep chair beside the sofa, her hands warmed by a mug of hot coffee, she studied Stephen as he slept. He hadn’t changed. His hair was cropped a bit shorter, in the conservative style male agents were encouraged to adhere to, but otherwise, he looked the same.
Square, determined jaw.
High, sculpted cheekbones and broad, intelligent forehead.
Thick dark eyelashes any woman would kill for.
But there was nothing effeminate about Stephen Chandler. Even in repose, his rugged strength was evident, despite his pallor from loss of blood.
The last time she’d watched him sleeping had been the morning after his going-away party. If it hadn’t been for too much champagne...
In spite of the success of the party and the intensity of the revelry, she had been stricken with a mindnumbing sadness. Until that night, she hadn’t really grasped the fact that Stephen would no longer be a fixture in her life. She wouldn’t wake up every morning knowing that the next eight to twelve hours, and often more, would be spent in the pleasure of his company. Days, weeks, months without Stephen had stretched before her like a deep, yawning abyss.
Figuring the champagne was making her maudlin, she shook her head, trying to dispel her gloomy thoughts. After all, he was only a friend—a great friend, but just a buddy, nonetheless. And she had plenty of other friends to fill the gap when Stephen left the following day.
When all the guests departed, she had stayed behind to wash glasses and clean up from the party so his apartment would be ready for the movers when they came to pack the next day. After the last goodbye, Stephen had discovered her weeping into the dishwater.
“Hey, Doc, great party.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she said with an audible sniff.
“You okay?”
She had hastily wiped away her tears, leaving a trail of soapsuds across her cheeks. “I should never drink champagne. It makes me weepy every time,” she lied.
With a tenderness that only increased her sadness, he drew her into his arms and cleaned the suds from her cheeks with gentle fingers. “Are you sure it’s the bubbly making you teary?”
“Don’t be silly. What else would it be?”
“Aren’t you just a little bit sad I’m leaving?”
His warm breath caressed her face, and she had to fight the urge to meld her body against his.
“Of course I’m sad,” she admitted. “You’re the best partner I’ve ever had.”
“You could come with me.”
“I didn’t get a promotion.”
He ran his fingers along the line of her jaw, sending shivers of pleasure racing across her skin. “You could request a transfer.”
“The Bureau might frown on that.”
“Then hang the Bureau and marry me.”
“Be serious.”
“What makes you think I’m not?” His eyes gleamed with a fierce light in the dim kitchen.
“Because you’ve asked me a dozen times before, and you’ve never been serious.”
“Doc—”
“We’re friends, Stephen. That’s all.”
His proximity was making breathing difficult. She attempted to wriggle from his arms, but he held her fast.
“I have to finish washing—”
His lips cut off her words, and she yielded to the warmth of his kiss before her befuddled brain sent her paralyzed muscles into action. She pushed away and plunged her hands back into the tepid dishwater, but Stephen wasn’t deterred.
He moved behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and pulled her against the hard, taut muscles of his torso. “Stop fighting this. I know you feel something for me.”
“All I feel,” she said breathlessly, hoping by taking the offensive to protect herself from her own dangerous impulses, “is that uncomfortable bulge in your jeans. Admit it, you’ve had too much to drink. You’re not thinking with your head.”
He whipped her around to face him, appar
ently oblivious of her dripping hands against his shirt, and drew her close, so close she could feel the pounding of his heart.
Or was that her own?
“You’d feel it, too, Doc, if you’d break through that damned wall you’ve built around yourself. Get over it. Brad was almost five years ago. This is now.”
“You’re not being fair.”
He cocked a finger beneath her chin and tilted her head until she was gazing straight into his eyes. “What’s not fair is your wasting the rest of your life because some creep didn’t know a prize when he had her.”
His words stunned her. “You think I’m a prize?”
“Haven’t I always said so?”
He had her dazed, confused, overcome with emotions so alien, she couldn’t tell if they were real. She raised anger as a shield. “I’m not some trophy, a notch you can add to your belt of conquests—”
“From the first day you walked into the Savannah office, I’ve been crazy about you.”
“You’re crazy, all right.” She shook her head. “You’ve had too much to drink, and you’re confusing things.”
“Things?”
“Confusing me.”
“I know what I’m saying. I don’t want to go to Atlanta without you.”
He kissed her again, slowly, gently. The taste of him ignited a fire in her blood, and before she could stop herself, she was opening her lips to him and wrapping her arms around his neck.
The heat of his kiss burned away the last of her inhibitions, and when he lifted her in his arms and carried her toward the bedroom, she didn’t protest.
The rest of the night passed like a dream, hazy images she wasn’t sure she could trust when she awakened the next morning at dawn. Had Stephen really shattered her self-imposed reserve, swept her to the heights of passion she’d never known, vowed his love for her?
She glanced at him, sleeping naked beside her, his magnificent body half-covered by a sheet, one tanned, muscled arm draped across her bare breasts.
Undercover Dad Page 4
