LITMIR.BIZ

      Leslie J. Wainger

      Executive Senior Editor

      Seven Days to Forever

      Ingrid Weaver

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      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.

      To Mark.

       The adventure continues….

      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

      Chapter 1

      Out of the hundreds of tourists who had passed by his post in the past hour, why should Flynn notice this one? Even if he wasn’t on duty, he shouldn’t have noticed her. Sure, she was attractive enough, in a compact, earth-mother type of way. Soft-brown hair, eyes the color of caramel, a hint of freckles on the tip of her small nose and a quick, coiled-spring energy to her movements. But she was the kind of woman who would want to meet a man’s parents. She had probably picked out a china pattern and two names for her firstborn. She was the kind of woman who usually made Sergeant First Class Flynn O’Toole of Eagle Squadron, Delta Force, break out in hives.

      A spot just under his left shoulder blade developed a sudden itch. Flynn rubbed his back against the wooden bench. “I don’t think she’s our target.”

      He barely moved his lips as he spoke. His words wouldn’t have been audible to a person sitting beside him, but the microphone under his collar had no problem picking up everything he said.

      “She would be a good decoy.” The voice of Captain Sarah Fox, Eagle Squadron’s intelligence specialist, came through the pea-size receiver in his ear. “I wouldn’t underestimate her.”

      Sarah had a point, Flynn thought. The brunette with the freckles would make an excellent decoy, since no one would suspect someone who looked that wholesome and innocent to be involved with a group of terrorists who were dedicated to the overthrow of the Ladavian government.

      Then again, no one would expect a group like the Ladavian Liberation Army to be using the National Air and Space Museum for a ransom drop in the first place.

      The woman hurried past the bench without giving Flynn a second glance. She headed straight for a pair of boys who were paused under the biplane that hung from the ceiling. For a moment all three of them craned their necks, gazing at the Wright Brothers’ 1903 Flyer with expressions of delighted awe. Then the woman herded the boys toward a group of more than a dozen chattering, fidgeting children.

      Evidently, the woman hadn’t come to the museum alone, she had brought a classroom worth of kids with her. Unless the LLA had dropped their height requirements and were recruiting fresh-scrubbed seven-year-olds now, it was unlikely that the woman was involved. She was probably exactly what she seemed, a teacher on a field trip.

      “Heads up. Vilyas just passed the front entrance.” The warning came from Flynn’s friend, Master Sergeant Rafe Marek. He was positioned outside where he could observe the approach to the building without attracting undue attention—Rafe’s scars tended to spook people who didn’t know him.

      Although his posture didn’t change, Flynn’s senses went on high alert. Ambassador Vilyas was carrying the ransom himself, as the terrorists had demanded. The man was adamant. He would do anything for the safe return of his son.

      If it had been any other case, the FBI would have handled it—Delta Force normally didn’t operate on American soil, and when they did, it was in the role of advisors to other law enforcement agencies—but this was no run-of-the-mill snatch.

      Absolute secrecy was vital. Not only was Vilyas the Ladavian ambassador, he was married to the niece of the Ladavian king. If a child with royal blood was killed here, the delicate negotiations that were already underway to bring democracy to the strategic, oil-rich Balkan nation would be derailed. And if the media caught wind of what was happening, they might as well put on their silver suits because the political powder keg of Eastern Europe would blow.

      So Ambassador Vilyas had demanded the best. He had insisted on nothing less than the legendary hostage-rescue

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