LITMIR.BIZ

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suspicion. The reply was too amiable, too quick.

      “Let me rephrase that. I don’t want you in my life, period.”

      “Too late for that,” he said reasonably. “I’m here. You’re here. We’ll be working together for the next four days.”

      “Then I want your agreement that’s all we’ll do,” she stated emphatically. “Work.”

      The clam made another slow swirl. He contemplated its dark trail for a few seconds before lifting those russet-ringed eyes to hers.

      “I can’t promise you that. Who’s to say the heat that flared between us back in Millburn won’t ignite again? But I can promise this,” he added as she went as stiff as a board, “I won’t make the same mistakes I made then. And I won’t make any moves you don’t want me to. You’re safe with me, Caroline. I swear it.”

      “Yeah, right,” she muttered. “Isn’t that what the big, bad wolf said to Little Red Riding Hood?”

      He grinned then, looking so much like the cocky kid she’d mooned over all those years ago that her heart knocked against her ribs.

      “Pretty much,” he agreed.

      Three

      Caroline was up at six-thirty the next morning. Since most of the GSI attendees were coming in from the field, their CEO had specified casual attire. Caro had to walk a fine line as the event coordinator, however. Jeans and jungle boots wouldn’t hack it for her.

      She settled instead on dove-gray slacks and a wide-sleeved cotton tunic in warm tangerine paired with the colorful espadrilles she’d picked up in Tossa de Mar’s open-air market. Winding her hair up into its usual neat twist at the back of her head, she anchored it with a clip. A few swipes of blush and a quick pass with lip gloss and she was done.

      She rechecked her zippered conference file for the fifth or sixth time. Satisfied she had everything she needed, she hit the door. With the conference set to kick off at eleven, she’d arranged a breakfast meeting with her GSI focal point to go over last-minute details. Caro and Harry Martin had exchanged dozens of e-mails over the past two months. She’d kept hers brisk and businesslike. His had been so succinct as to be almost indecipherable. A man of few words, Harry Martin.

      And, according to Rory’s startling revelations yesterday, he was the man who’d hauled a smart-mouthed kid into an Army recruiter’s office all those years ago and put his life back on track. After what Rory had told her about his senior VP of operations, Caro expected a big, grizzled retired cop.

      Martin was definitely big. Six-three or -four at least. He had to stoop to avoid brushing the grapevines that dangled from the arbor leading to the terrace restaurant. Grizzled, he wasn’t. Sleek Ray-Bans shielded his eyes above chiseled cheeks and a serious, unsmiling mouth. His khakis sported a knife-blade crease, and his sky-blue polo shirt stretched across a frame that looked fit and trim. His salt-and-pepper buzz cut gave the only clue to his age.

      “Ms. Walters?” He set a notebook on the table and folded her hand in a tough, callused palm. “Harry Martin.”

      “Good to finally meet you, Mr. Martin.”

      “Harry,” he corrected as he seated himself at the umbrella-shielded table. “Caroline okay with you?”

      “Of course. How was your flight from Casablanca?”

      She knew he’d flown into Morocco two days ago and from there to Barcelona late last night.

      “Fine.”

      He helped himself to coffee from a stainless-steel carafe and proceeded to dump five heaping spoonfuls of sugar into his cup. Wondering how the heck he managed to stay so trim, Caro watched with some fascination as he stirred the syrupy goo.

      “Sweet tooth,” he said when he caught her gaze.

      He downed a long swallow, replaced the cup on the saucer and slid his Ray-Bans down on his nose. There weren’t more than a half dozen other people eating breakfast on the terrace. The faint clink of their silverware and the occasional murmured comment barely carried over the sound of the waves hitting the shore. Still, either from habit or instinct, Martin lowered his voice.

      “I talked to Rory when I got in last night.”

      Caro felt her spine stiffen and her smile slip a notch or two. Martin noticed both reactions with a flicker of interest but didn’t comment on either.

      “Rory says you have everything well in hand.”

      She relaxed infinitesimally. “I hope so.”

      “I hope so, too. We hate pulling over a hundred of our operatives out of the field at one time, but the world situation is so volatile right now that we had no choice. They need to know what’s going on around them. So we need to make every minute of this conference count.”

      “You’ve certainly packed the agenda.”

      “It’s about to get more packed.”

      Nudging aside his cup, he flipped open his notebook and pulled out a heavily marked-up copy of the schedule. Caro’s heart sank at all the insertions and bold black arrows indicating changes.

      “Rory and I went over this again last night. He called in some favors and we now have an expert on Africa flying in to brief us on the situation in Zimbabwe. We want to put him on here, right before the update on Tiblesi.”

      “Okay.”

      “And we’ve added two additional SITREPS on the latest developments in Tibet and Venezuela. We can squeeze them in before the live fire demo tomorrow. I’m thinking we’ll do one early, during breakfast, and the other at lunch. Make both meals working sessions.”

      Caro gulped as her meticulously coordinated meal plans fell apart. She’d have to get with the resort’s caterer—and fast-to make the requested changes. Masking any sign of dismay, she nodded.

      “No problem.”

      “And speaking of the live fire demo…”

      Martin flipped to the agreement signed by Captain Antonio Medina, the officer in charge of the policìa nacional armory in Girona. Acting as a go-between for GSI and Captain Medina, Caro had put hours into translating, compiling and forwarding the necessary forms. GSI’s senior VP of operations now handed her two more.

      “See if you can get Medina’s chop on these additions to the demo.”

      “Ice shield?” she read. “Paraclete vest? What are they?”

      “The first is a negative energy defense system. We’re looking at it for possible deployment to protect high-vis clients when they have to get out among a crowd. The second is a new-generation vest designed to stop armor-piercing bullets. I’ve tracked down a source here in Spain for both and can have them delivered in time for the demo tomorrow.”

      He downed a swallow of his syrupy coffee and eyed her over the rims of his Ray-Bans.

      “Think you can handle the changes?”

      Like she had a choice? Tapping two fingers to her temple, she gave him a brisk salute. “Yes, sir!”

      A faint smile softened Martin’s chiseled features. “I have to admit I had my doubts when Rory told me he wanted European Business Services, Incorporated, to handle this conference. I didn’t think your company had the resources or the experience to pull it together on such short notice. So far, you’ve proved me wrong.”

      Caro shifted a little in her seat. She couldn’t deny this job would rake in a fat profit for EBS. Still, she resented the way Burke had used it as a pretext to stage a reunion she’d neither anticipated nor wanted.

      “Judging by the little exposure I’ve had to your boss,” she said, working hard to keep the acid out of her reply, “I’d say he’s used to getting his way.”

      “Well,

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