LITMIR.BIZ

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Thank God he’d made the choice never to marry.

      Most people didn’t understand the covert operations so necessary in today’s world. How could they? Most of the top-secret surveillance equipment he’d designed was unknown to the general public. Information technology was of prime importance to military power, and working for agencies like TALON-6 provided him the opportunity to do what he did best. But Stewart had understood.

      Liam’s stomach clenched like a fist as the memory of that Colombian night four years ago slammed into his brain. As though it were yesterday, he could still feel the sweat drip down his body, smell the rotting, fecund earth and hear the screeching of monkeys in the treetops as the TALON-6 team slipped silently through the dark, wet jungle toward the guerilla camp of the National Liberation Army, or ELN.

      In record time, they’d wended their way past sleeping and half-drunken guards, to rescue the DEA agent held prisoner. Once they had cut the man loose from his cage, they’d carried him back, retracing their path through the mountains.

      Like clockwork, the night op had gone successfully, according to plan. Too successfully, they’d soon discovered. As the team had crisscrossed the jungle on ancient footpaths, an ambush was waiting. Stewart, in rear guard position, his .308 Remington 700 sniper rifle held to his shoulder, had shuffle-stepped backward, waiting to draw a bead on the first ELN guerilla who showed himself. For an exceptionally large man—six foot five and two hundred eighty pounds of muscle—he’d moved deceptively fast.

      Within three hundred yards of where their Blackhawk helicopter waited, a Russian B-40 rocket had sailed overhead and, with an earth-shattering blast, made a direct hit on the tree beside Stewart. Wood splinters and shrapnel had sliced the predawn air in a bloody dance of death. Moments earlier, Liam would have taken the hit.

      He had made the first move, opening fire with a steady hail of bullets from his M-60. “We’ve got to get Stewart,” he had screamed as strong arms dragged him aboard the copter.

      “He’s gone, Liam,” the team officer, Mike Landis, had said.”

      “No, we’ve got to bring him back.” Liam had turned to leap out of the open hatch just as the copter lifted and swerved, narrowly missing another rocket.

      The explosion had lit up the ground, revealing scores of guerillas in camouflage fatigues swarming from the jungle. Gunfire had strafed the gray dawn as the Blackhawk pulled away from what was now a burning inferno.

      Their mission had been successful. The TALON-6 team had rescued the DEA agent from ELN.

      Liam closed his eyes. Four years. He’d thought he’d gotten past the haunting memories that were burned into his soul. Maybe he never would.

      Was Stewart a junkie who’d needed an even higher dose of adrenaline to keep feeling good? Or had he taken on the dangerous jobs and fed off the danger to get the job done? And would a real adrenaline addict be able to tell the difference?

      WHEN LIAM RETURNED to the living room awhile later, the collie was stretched out on the couch, ears pointed, claiming his territory. “Okay, Bounder. Get up. You’re sleeping on the porch.”

      The dog studied him as Liam walked to the porch doorway and pointed to the stuffed rattan settee. The collie bounded playfully on the couch, as if enjoying the game.

      Liam’s gaze dropped to the scuffed running shoes lying on the mat. Her shoes. He picked up the right sneaker and examined it. A small pocket, fastened with Velcro, ran along the top of the padded tongue. He ripped open the fastener. There, inside, was a key with a tag. His curiosity rose a notch as he moved toward the living room light and peered at the tag. Sand Dune Motel, 26.

      So the mystery lady was staying at the only motel open this time of year in Bellwood. He slid the key into his hip pocket as he strode toward the telephone directory in the hall desk drawer.

      Chapter Two

      She opened her eyes and stared at the white ceiling. Far off, birds were chirping. She turned her head toward the sound. Tie-back white curtains fluttered at the slightly opened window. The air felt cold and smelled of the sea. She tried to sit up, but when the pounding in her head got worse, she dropped back on the starched pillowcase.

      Her hand flew to her forehead, and she was surprised to find a bandage covering a lump on her temple. Her legs ached and she noticed her hands were bandaged, too. Her heart hammered as panic exploded inside her.

      Where was she? Why couldn’t she remember how she’d gotten here? Worse, who was she? She raked her mind for answers but found nothing. She stared around the room for clues. Model airplanes hung from the ceiling. Posters of rock stars covered one wall. Black hockey skates and a West Point sports jacket hung from a peg.

      What was she doing in a man’s room? The ghostly image of a tall, dark-haired stranger shattered the cobwebs of her mind. He wasn’t a ghost but a real man, the man who had rescued her in the fog. His voice had been low and gentle. I want to help you. Yes, she remembered his voice, deep yet kind. Was this his room?

      Why couldn’t she remember anything else? Had she driven here? She couldn’t recall if she owned a car. Another wave of panic shook her and she forced herself to think, but her mind roared like a hollow drum. Uncertainty combated with instinct. Somehow she felt safe here, yet at the same time she knew she was in danger. Until she knew what was going on, how could she trust anyone? She had to get away. She had to run.

      She bolted from the bed, almost tripping on the long nightgown she wore. Flannel. Nothing she recognized. On the top of the oak dresser were a pair of jeans, a yellow T-shirt and underwear, all neatly folded. Were they hers? If not, then whose? They didn’t look familiar, but, then, nothing did.

      Slowly, she forced her feet to move, not wanting to repeat the thunderbolt of pain through her skull. When her toes reached the hooked rug in the middle of the room, she noticed the mirror over the dresser. Carefully, she inched forward until she could see into the looking glass.

      She gave a sharp intake of breath as she stared at herself. Beneath her bandaged forehead, wide green eyes gazed back at her. Long, tangled red hair hung down her shoulders. Despite her scratches and bruises, she didn’t think she was seriously hurt, except for her pounding head. And the panic that she was a virtual stranger!

      Who am I? I must have a name! “My name is…” Seconds ticked into minutes as she struggled to remember. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to focus. Tears sprang to her eyes as she fought off the panic.

      From nowhere came the sharp image of a flash of white light, with the sound of screaming…a woman’s screams.

      Danger exploded through her veins. She tasted the metallic fear in her mouth as she remembered the feeling of terror. Run! Run! Run for your life!

      She had to get away! Her fingers shook as she jerked the nightgown over her head. Her bandaged hands trembled as she tore into the pile of neatly folded clothing. The fresh smell of laundry soap rushed at her as she yanked the T-shirt over her head and dressed hurriedly in the jeans. Blessedly, they fit. When she’d finished, she pulled her hair back from her face and turned around, searching for her shoes. The sudden movement brought her stomach jumping into her throat. She grabbed on to the side of the dresser until the room stopped spinning. She had to get away before they—before they…what? Who was she afraid of?

      Unable to find her shoes, she made her way barefoot to the door. Twisting the knob slowly, she quietly pulled it open and peered up and down the wallpapered corridor. The stairway was a few feet to the left. Listening, she heard nothing except the tick-tick of the grandfather clock at the end of the hallway.

      Was she alone in the house? She couldn’t take the chance of being seen. Somehow, she knew that much. She tiptoed toward the stairs. The smooth wood felt cold beneath her tender feet. As she crept downstairs, the third step creaked loudly. She paused, then glanced behind her.

      When no one appeared, she continued until she reached the bottom step. Only then did she dare glance around. The living room was to the right; straight ahead was the front

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