A Dell Book
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Wyoming
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Author’s Note
Preview for Code Name: Princess
About the Author
Also by Christina Skye
Copyright Page
To C. and C.
Thanks for all the happy trails. . . .
prologue
The house was bare, white wall to white wall. Naked windows opened onto cold, rain-swept hills. Noises echoed, jarring in the empty space.
A young girl with brown hair walked through the silent rooms, her back ramrod straight. There was no reason to cry, Summer Mulcahey told herself. It was just a house now, not their house. The new family would be here any minute, backing up the drive in a shiny red station wagon packed with noise and children and dogs.
No, she wouldn’t stay, not to watch strangers take over these rooms, trampling on her memories.
Shoulders rigid, Summer sat down on her battered suitcase, letting her mind touch the walls, searching through fifteen years of memories. She wanted the past carved into her mind, so she could always find it because the past would make her hard and strong.
She needed to be strong now.
There was a thump down the hall. Behind her the door swung open. “Aunt Sarah’s down in the car.” Her sister gestured impatiently, a brighter, rounder, more graceful version of Summer. “I want to go now.”
“In a minute.”
“You said you were ready.” Jess’s voice was strained. “You said you hated it here, Sum.”
There was no fooling her twin, Summer thought ruefully. They had always read each other too well. “I do. But before I go, I want to remember the good parts.” She took a deep breath. “Sneaking pancakes when Mom wasn’t looking. Dad building our tree house.” Her voice wavered. “You dancing in your red sneakers on that ugly picnic table that always rocked.”
“I remember.” Jess rubbed her cheeks sharply. “But they’re gone now. Mom was . . . strange for a long time, if you ask me.”
Both girls had suffered because of it, but neither mentioned that.
Summer’s eyes stung, but no tears fell. “She couldn’t forget Dad, Jess. She always called him her hero and said he would take care of her, no matter what.” Summer glared out at the lawn sloping down to the river. “No man is ever going to take care of me. It’s stupid to let anyone make you weak like that.”
Jess hugged her arms to her chest. “How do you know? You’re only fifteen.”
“I just know.” Summer leaned out the open window, the cold wind on her face. “Dad shouldn’t have died, Jess. He wasn’t even on duty. He was just going down the damned street for some damned milk.”
Jess Mulcahey hated it when her twin cursed. Frowning, she crossed the bare floor and took her sister’s hand. “I miss him, too. Sometimes I think I hear the front door open. I keep waiting for him to walk in, whistling Nat King Cole.” Jess swallowed hard. “‘Unforgettable.’ You know, the one he always sang to us at bedtime.”
“I remember.” God help me, I’ll always remember, Summer thought. But I’ll be smart and I’ll stay strong as the big trees along the river. No man is ever going to sweep me onto a white horse to make me feel safe. Summer scowled at the room, repeating her silent vow. “Just remember, the world isn’t safe, Jess. And no matter what they say, there aren’t any more heroes.”
“Maybe there are.”
“Trust me, we wouldn’t be here alone if I were wrong.”
Silence fell. Down the lane the wind shook the poplars and the world seemed to condense, pressing down on Summer with iron fingers. The room was choked with the smell of loneliness.
First they had lost their father, then their mother. Now the two girls only had each other.
Jess broke the spell first, opening her neat blue coat and pulling out a fluffy white cat. Summer pressed the small, wriggling body to her cheek and felt as if she were waiting for something important to happen, some sign that it was over, finished, and they could finally leave.
But no sign came.
There should have been something more, Summer thought angrily. There should have been a chance for explanations and good-byes. Already her parents felt distant and unreal.
Jess pressed her lips together hard, trying not to cry. “Look, Zza-Zza’s ready to leave, and Aunt Sarah is waiting. She says we’re going to get our own room with pink curtains.”
Summer didn’t answer. The woman downstairs wasn’t their aunt, just a family friend, and the arrangement was temporary, but Summer wasn’t cruel enough to point that out to her grieving sister. Jess wasn’t strong like Summer was, and she needed to be protected from some things.
“I want to go, Sum.” Jess’s lips quivered. “Everything’s sad and awful here now.”
Things wouldn’t ever be the same, Summer thought. No amount of pink curtains could change that. Her childhood was over, and she had to be strong now. For Jess and for herself.
Maybe for her dad, too.
Summer took a last look out the window. An old-fashioned wooden swing hugged the grassy slope to the river beside a crooked picnic table. Once there had been long walks and days of laughter here. There had been water fights and double dare and wild laughter.
Gone now. Almost forgotten, in fact. Two shattering deaths in the last year had done that, leaving the bone-deep emptiness that gripped Summer now.
A man from the Navy had come to the house one night. He had sat in the living room, speaking quietly, with care and concern. At first the two girls thought there had to be a mistake. They were certain their adored father would be coming back any second, whistling one of his favorite Nat King Cole songs.
But he hadn’t come back, and they hadn’t seen his body even at the funeral. Jess had cried for three straight days, but Summer couldn’t seem to shed a tear.
No more laughter.
No more Nat King Cole.
No more touch football by the river.
One week ago their mother had stopped her constant coughing and slipped away. The doctors had called it pneumonia and complications, but Summer thought it was too many memories and a heart that just stopped trying.
Summer wished she could cry, but she couldn’t. Maybe her heart was frozen, and it had just stopped trying, too. If so, she was glad. That would make her strong, and she didn’t want to feel things.
Her sister shifted impatiently from foot to foot. “It’s too quiet here. It’s creepy, Sum. Let’s just go.”
“I’m ready.” Summer tried to smile, holding out the struggli
ng cat. “You take Zza-Zza while I get our suitcases.”
Jess stuck out her lower lip. “No way. I’m going to carry my own stuff. You don’t have to help me all the time.”
“I’ll do it, Jess. I’m stronger. Besides, you’re better with Zza-Zza.” Jess had always been the soft one, the easy communicator. Summer was all spunk and grit, the one who held off the bullies after school and fought the monsters hiding under their bed at night.
Since their father died, there had been too many monsters to count, and their mother hadn’t seemed to notice.
Summer glanced at the window seat where she and Jess had dreamed about pirate ships and desert islands. Now the window looked small, and there were no dreams left.
Down below the house the river raced on, carrying leaves and small branches that bobbed and twisted in the fast currents. Her mother had always warned them not to get too close or they’d get carried away.
Instead she’d been the one carried off.
Summer shoved away the memories. She wasn’t going to get all stupid and blubbery. Things changed, and you had to change with them. Besides, Jess needed her.
“You’re right,” she said ruthlessly. “Let’s go. There’s nothing here, anyway. This room is dumb. So is this house.”
A bird sailed low over the cold river where December trees guarded a slate-gray sky. More leaves floated past, brown and twisted, long since dead.
Summer grabbed both suitcases. When she walked outside, she didn’t look back.
chapter 1
Carmel, California
Summer wasn’t frightened. Not exactly.
Anxious, maybe. Determined.
Okay, just a little frightened. Being around rich people always left her on edge, and these people were very rich.
She saw the house first, huge with gray stone walls and a broad wooden porch. An immaculate swath of grass sloped down to rugged boulders above a restless sea. As the taxi rounded the drive, Summer sat up straighter, feeling light-years away from the cement and sprawl of Philadelphia. She’d spent most of the last five years within fifteen miles of the Liberty Bell, but it was clear that Carmel was going to be a whole new planet.
The driver eyed her in the mirror. “Haven’t seen you before.”
Summer made a noncommittal sound, rolling down her window and nudging off one black high heel, which was pinching her toes badly.
“Got a nice family up there.” The driver nodded up the cobblestone drive toward the big house. “Lookers, all of ’em. Even the little one, odd as she is.”
Summer frowned at him. “‘Odd’ how?”
“Guess you’ll find out soon enough.” His head swung around. “What are you, family, friend, or CNN bureau chief?”
“So you get a lot of reporters down here?”
“Buckets full all summer. Had that woman, Diane Sawyer, a few days back. Skinnier than she is on TV. Guess they all are.” The driver’s eyes narrowed. “Notice you didn’t answer my question.”
“That’s right, I didn’t.” Summer looked away, mindful of the assignment that brought her here. Her carefully constructed story seemed almost real to her after the month of preparation she’d endured back in Philadelphia. The fact was, this was no vacation, and Summer was neither family nor friend. This was work with a capital W—FBI fieldwork.
She’d had tough assignments before, but never so close to big money and Washington power politics, and the situation left her edgy.
Do the job, she told herself sternly. Forget about the nerves.
The driver pulled to a halt near a wall of bougainvillaea flaming crimson against fieldstone walls. “Lotta people sniffing around lately. Brought up a bunch of Hol-ly-wood types last week.” The man sniffed with disgust. “All Bel Air this and Ro-de-o Drive that.” He stopped the taxi and twisted around to face Summer. “Outsiders. You can spot them a mile away.”
Summer glanced at the meter and counted out the hefty fare, then added a fair tip. “Movie stars, you mean?”
“Those, too. Senator Winslow was here to meet them once or twice. Him, I’d recognize anywhere. A popular man with the ladies, and easy to see why, with that calm grin and the way he looks at you like he’s really listening. Probably all a big act. The way I see it, most politicians are rats looking for a hole.” He took the money Summer held out. “You don’t look like you’re from Hol-ly-wood, though.” As before, he tore the word into three disparaging syllables. “Don’t sound much like one of those airheads from Washington, D.C., either. Too normal for a damned reporter.” He studied her some more, putting some thought into it. “Odd thing is, I can’t say what you look like.”
Which is part of the reason I’m so good at my job, Summer thought. She opened her door and hefted her suitcase, which was full of navy suits and dark shoes just like the ones she was wearing. In her particular line of work, plain and inconspicuous were definite job assets.
She decided a little gossip wouldn’t hurt her assignment. Bending close to the window, she nodded at the driver. “Sharp eyes.”
“So what are you?”
Summer tucked her briefcase under her arm and smiled. “I’m the new nanny.”
As she rolled her suitcase along the perfectly cut lawn, Summer scanned her base of operations for the next month. Her host, Cara O’Connor, wasn’t on hand to greet her, but that had been expected since Cara was currently hard at work in San Francisco, where she was the city’s youngest female assistant DA.
Summer quickly learned from a chatty housekeeper named Imelda that her two charges were upstairs finishing their homework over lemon bars and fruit drinks, awaiting her arrival. Praying she wouldn’t be called to explain verb tenses or non-Euclidean geometry, Summer followed the housekeeper out to a Spanish-style guesthouse nearly hidden by towering oleander bushes. Imelda left so Summer could unpack and change before going to meet Cara O’Connor’s two daughters.
Wiggling her feet, she kicked off her shoes and dropped her suitcase on the sofa, which was covered with fluffy pillows. Fresh roses filled the air with lush perfume. Summer trailed one finger along the wall of solid fieldstone that led to a six-foot fireplace.
Some digs. Not that she was going to get tied up in knots about it. No, she was going to treat the O’Connors like any other assignment.
Summer was about to start undressing when she heard a sound down the hall. Crossing the room quietly, she peered around a corner.
There was a naked man in her shower.
Six foot four inches of naked man, judging by the view she had from her location near the living room.
Summer took a sharp breath and forced herself to be calm. Granted, she had just staggered off two back-to-back flights and her eyes were burning with exhaustion, but that was definitely the outline of a male body behind the tall glass shower enclosure. She was pretty sure that ringing sound was water running, while that other sound, low and rumbling, was a dark male groan of satisfaction.
Her stomach clenched. Either there was a big mistake or this was another trick. She had suffered constant hazing on the job over the last months, from little things like papers taken off her desk to coffee spilled inside her locker. As the junior field officer, Summer had been prepared for a certain amount of hazing.
But this crossed the line.
She glared at the broad shoulders moving back and forth beneath a stream of hot water. No doubt this little surprise came courtesy of her fellow agents back in Philadelphia. With a few well-chosen questions, any one of them could have pinpointed her newest assignment.
Not all of them hated her, but most of them did, and words weren’t going to change that. As Summer stood listening to the sound of the shower, something stabbed hard at the center of her chest. They wouldn’t forget. They wanted payback, any way that would hurt her most.
Well, to hell with her pals back in Philadelphia and to hell with their crude tricks. Summer was staying right where she was. They weren’t going to spook her.
Silently she checked the small
desk near the sofa. A tan envelope lay on its side next to a painted Chinese vase. Across the middle of the envelope she saw her name written in small, elegant letters.
Her name. Her rooms. No mistakes there.
Exhausted and grimy from hours of travel, she stared at the cozy fruit basket on the lacquer dresser. The lush roses in crystal vases. No way was she leaving.
Summer set her briefcase down carefully on the thick rug. Her raincoat landed on a sleek leather ottoman nearby. Fighting her anger, she scanned the room again. There were no signs of someone living here—no dirty socks on the floor, no clean shirts hanging in the closet. The bed in the adjoining room was perfectly neat, with no dents in the pillows.
Beyond the living area, water continued to strike the glass walls of the shower. As Summer glared at her intruder, the towel hanging over the door slid free. Suddenly she had an unobstructed view of a narrow waist, sculpted thighs, and a world-class naked body.
A little voice whispered a warning.
Punchy with fury, she ignored it. Squaring her shoulders, she sat down in a velvet chair at the entrance to the bathroom, where she had a full view of the sunny shower enclosure.
He was singing an old Beatles song—low and very off-key—when the water hissed off.
The shower door slid open.
Definitely a world-class body. The man had the sculpted shoulders of an athlete in superb condition and abs to bounce a dime off. As he ran his hands over his face, drops of warm water clung to the dark hair on his chest, then slowly traveled lower.
An odd tingle shot through Summer’s stomach. She hadn’t planned to look, but she found herself looking anyway. There was no avoiding the fact that the man had excellent muscles.
Especially when he turned and saw her, his body locking hard.
“Don’t tell me you’re the maid.” He had the hint of an accent, something smoky and rough that Summer couldn’t trace.
“Guest,” she countered flatly. “And unless you talk fast, you’re spending the night as a guest of the local police, pal.”
A smile played across his mouth. “Now you’re terrifying me.” The roughness was there again, but there wasn’t a hint of anxiety in his cool smile or the slow way he scooped up his towel and tossed it over his shoulder, where it concealed nothing.
Nanny Page 1
