LITMIR.BIZ

      INGRID WEAVER

      admits to being a sucker for old movies and books that can make her cry. A Romance Writers of America RITA^® Award winner for Romantic Suspense and a national bestselling author, she enjoys creating stories that reflect the adventure of falling in love. When she and her husband aren’t dealing with the debatable joys of living in an old farmhouse, you’ll probably find Ingrid going on a knitting binge, rattling the windows with heavy metal or rambling through the woods in the back forty with her cats. You can visit Ingrid’s Web site at http://www.ingridweaver.com.

      This book is dedicated to Susan Litman and Kim Nadelson, two extraordinary editors who helped bring Eagle Squadron to life.

       Thank you both for sharing the adventure.

      Contents

      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

      Epilogue

      Chapter 1

      “Dr. Lemay, get down!”

      The cry was muffled by the lap of water in the canal below him and the noise of traffic at his back. Hawk couldn’t be certain he’d heard it. Curious, he pushed away from the stone wall that bordered the canal and turned around. The last rays of afternoon sunlight gilded the gabled windows and copper rooftops of Gamla Stan, Stockholm’s Old Town, but the street level was already cloaked in dusk. Headlights bored through puffs of exhaust. Against the glow of shop windows on the other side of the road, pedestrians were swiftly moving shadows, their shoulders hunched against the breeze.

      “Dr. Lemay!”

      Hawk spotted her then. A woman was running along the sidewalk. He had a quick impression of blond hair and an athlete’s stride before she disappeared behind a bus. As soon as the bus had passed, she leaped off the sidewalk and darted through the traffic toward him.

      Tires screeched as a taxi braked to avoid her. There was a thud and the crunch of metal as a boxy delivery truck plowed into the taxi. It spun into the woman’s path. Without breaking stride, she hurdled over the taxi’s hood, slid down the front fender and kept running.

      Hawk held up his palms and started forward. Was she suicidal or just plain crazy? “Stop!” he shouted. “Watch out!”

      “Get down!” she repeated. She dodged past a station wagon and reached the curb just as Hawk did. She didn’t stop. She launched herself through the air, hitting him square in the chest.

      Hawk staggered backward at the impact. She wasn’t a large woman but her momentum was too much to counteract. Off balance, he hit the sidewalk hard on his butt. His hands smacked the pavement behind him. His teeth clacked together, cutting off the oath he muttered.

      Instead of apologizing, the woman threw her weight against his shoulders to knock him flat on his back. Before he could catch his breath, she spread-eagled herself on top of him. “Stay down,” she ordered. “The shooter is on the second floor.”

      He lifted his head. “What—”

      “Building across the street.” She slapped her hand to his forehead and pushed his head back down. “The traffic will provide us some cover as long as you stay low. Keep still while I call for assistance.”

      “Ma’am—”

      “Captain Sarah Fox,” she said. “United States Army.”

      Army? Hawk twisted his head to look at her, but all he could see was her left ear and the curve of her cheek. She wasn’t wearing a uniform. She wore a black wool coat. A silk scarf in a swirl of tropical colors was knotted at her throat. The fringe brushed his nose, bringing with it an aroma reminiscent of cinnamon.

      She shifted, taking her hand from his head to reach into the pocket of her coat and withdraw a phone. With her forearm braced against his chest, she used her teeth to yank up the antenna, then thumbed a button. She spoke rapidly in what sounded like Swedish.

      As a rule, Hawk didn’t take this long to work things through. Sure, he liked to be confident of his facts before he drew any conclusions because he hated to be wrong, but he wasn’t normally at a loss. He could blame it on jet lag, or on the shock of being tackled by a strange woman…or on the sensation of warm, spicy-smelling female draped over his body and silk tickling his nose.

      With an effort he forced his brain into gear. She was an American; she said she was from the army. She knew his name. She said there was a shooter. She had spread herself over him as if she were trying to shelter him…

      Damn! She

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