by Rebecca York
Johnson had started with the direct approach—an armed strike force. Only luck—in the form of a freak March snowstorm—had defeated him in his first attempt to break through the Castle Phoenix security perimeter. His subsequent gambits had been more subtle. Johnson had fronted a drug company willing to invest in Bridgman Enterprises. Glenn had put Hal to work, researching the deal. It had taken him six weeks, but he’d finally exposed the scam. Undaunted, the Jackal had switched tactics and sent a representative from a multinational cartel willing to finance one of Glenn’s wilderness expeditions.
With the patience of a military surgeon digging hidden shrapnel out of a wound, Hal had unmasked that scheme, as well.
“He could have men on the cliff above the road,” Blake pointed out. “He could have men in the woods. The car could be wired to explode when the door is opened. Or—”
Glenn waved him to silence. “I appreciate the insights, but we’ll find out soon enough.”
“I wish you’d carry a weapon.”
“We’ve been through that,” Glenn growled. “I’ve already killed and disabled enough people.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You didn’t kill anybody.”
“That depends on your point of view.”
“You—”
“Drop it,” Glenn warned. “Just drop it.”
The security chief nodded tightly. They were friends—or as close to being friends as Glenn had permitted. But there was an invisible line neither one of them had ever crossed.
For the remainder of the drive through the midnight landscape, they rode in silence. Finally the beams of the headlights collided with a boulder lying in the middle of the road. Beyond it, metal gleamed in the murky darkness. A car.
Glenn eased to a controlled halt. Behind him, doors were already opening as armed men, some wearing night-vision scopes, hit the pavement. You’d think they were making a raid into hostile territory, Glenn reflected with a sigh as he grabbed his bag.
After medical school, Glenn had gone into research and hadn’t worked much with patients until he’d come to Castle Phoenix. But now he was ministering to the security force part-time and making regular health assessments of the men from Operation Clean Sweep while he tried to repair the damage he’d left in his wake.
Blake was moving toward the silent car, the beam of his flashlight playing over the rocks in their path. Glenn switched on his own light as he caught up and passed the other man, picking his way carefully through the debris.
He’d sensed that something was going to happen tonight. Now he felt as if some unseen force had guided him to this place for a crucial meeting with his destiny. Blake caught up with him. “Stay away from the car until I give you the all clear.”
“It’s not wired,” Glenn said, making an effort to shake off the strange mood that gripped him as he took another step toward the disabled vehicle.
“Now you’re a mind reader?” came the sarcastic reply.
“Look at it this way—the Jackal would be pretty stupid to blow me up. He’d be killing the goose that lays the golden eggs.”
Blake grunted in reluctant agreement, then barked orders to several men from one of the other jeeps.
Nothing moved in the woods, on the road, or in the vehicle. It was a dark-colored Volvo sedan, as sturdy as a military tank, yet the rockslide had knocked it catawampus halfway across the road and onto the shoulder. The front bumper was wrapped around a large boulder, the windshield was shattered, and an oil slick spread outward from beneath the chassis. The majority of the damage appeared to be on the other side—the driver’s side. Blake lifted his flashlight and trained it on the front seat. There appeared to be only one occupant, slumped across the wheel. All Glenn could see in the beam of light was a wild tumble of long golden hair that might have looked sexy, if it hadn’t been smeared with blood.
“A woman,” Blake muttered. “I don’t like it.”
“A woman is worse than a man?”
“Depends on her training.”
“Let’s assume she’s a geologist trained to study rock formations.” Setting his bag on the bumper, he cupped his hands around his mouth to project the sound. “Can you hear me?”
She didn’t answer, didn’t move.
“We’d better get the door open,” he said, inspecting the large chunk of rock crumpling the side of the car and blocking the exit. It had cracked the window, turning the glass into a misshapen spiderweb of destruction. Both men took an automatic step forward and began to push against the barrier. They might as well have been trying to move the cliff that towered over the road.
After several minutes of frustration, Glenn swore and went to the other side of the vehicle. It was also blocked—by a tree trunk. But he figured there was room enough to squeeze past if he sucked in his middle. Opening the door, he emptied his lungs and wormed his way though the narrow opening.
One of the men was holding a light so that he could see what he was doing. He was vaguely aware that several others were trying to move the boulder. Then he lost track of what was happening outside the car as he slid across the console and reached out to touch the shoulder of the small figure slumped over the wheel.
“Are you all right?” he asked urgently, unnerved by her silence.
Odds were, he didn’t know this woman, yet he felt the weight of responsibility hanging over him as he gently slipped his arm under her chest and leaned her back against the seat. Holding her upright, he felt for a pulse in her neck and let out a sigh of relief as he felt the warmth of her skin and the artery beating shallowly but steadily against his fingertips.
Opening his bag, he took out a stethoscope and blood-pressure cuff. Pressure and heart rate were normal, but she didn’t stir as he opened the top button of her blouse and pressed the cold metal disk to the creamy skin above her bra. Next he moved his hands quickly over her arms and legs, checking for broken bones, keeping his touch deliberately impersonal.
When he tipped her face up, though, his breath involuntarily caught in his throat. Her skin was like fine porcelain, and her eyes were closed, the lashes several shades darker than the golden hair he’d first seen. Mesmerized, he studied her pale features. They were delicate and feminine, with perfectly arched brows that matched her lashes, a small straight nose, and beautifully shaped lips, the fullness of the lower one hinting at sensuality.
It was a face to stir a man’s fantasies. His fantasies. And yet, the sensual effect was marred by a half-hidden wound at her hairline. It looked as if she’d been knocked around when the rocks had hit the car. Hopefully, her seat belt had kept the damage to a minimum. But he’d be happier if she woke up.
Something tugged at his memory as he stared down into her still face—a spark of recognition that made him wonder for a moment if they’d crossed paths before.
“So where did we meet—the senior prom?” he asked wryly.
She didn’t answer. And he dismissed his speculations, certain that if he had met this woman, he would have a vivid recollection of the occasion, whenever it was.
Opening one of her lids and then the other, he was startled by the vivid green of her eyes, then remembered what he was supposed to be doing—checking her pupillary reflex. He was relieved to see that the pupils were the same size and that they contracted in response to the flashlight.
A wrenching sound to his left made his head jerk up as the driver’s door eased open. Blake leaned into the car, shone the light around the interior, and picked up a pocketbook from where it had fallen under the dashboard.
The security chief pulled out a wallet, extracted a driver’s license and examined it under the light. “Issued in Maryland. She’s a long way from home. This says she’s Meg Wexler. Twenty-eight years old. One hundred and twenty pounds. Five-six. Green eyes and blond hair.”
Green. Emerald green.
“The description fits,” Blake mused aloud, his voice speculative—and hard.
“You sound like you don’t believe the face goes with the name,”
Glenn observed.
“I’ll believe it when I get some verification—and hear her pretty little story about what she’s doing in the middle of nowhere on a night that would warm the heart of the devil himself.”
Chapter Two
Two men arrived with a stretcher from the van, which was equipped like a small ambulance—one of the expensive pieces of equipment that had sucked up the monetary resources of Bridgman Enterprises.
Accompanying them was Dylan Ryder, who ran the medical center. Like Blake, he had been with Glenn since before Operation Clean Sweep.
In low voices, they discussed the woman’s medical condition and the steps that needed to be taken.
“She’s concussed and there’s a head wound,” Glenn told the other physician. “If she doesn’t come around in the next hour, we’ll do a series of skull X rays and a CAT scan.”
He lifted her wrists to check whether she was wearing a Medic Alert bracelet warning of some underlying condition that might affect her treatment—or could have caused unconsciousness. If she had any health problems, she wasn’t advertising them.
Ryder nodded as the men wheeled the stretcher toward the van, opened the back door, and slid the unconscious woman inside.
“I want to talk to her as soon as possible,” Blake said, interrupting the conversation.
“She can’t talk to you now,” Glenn answered over his shoulder as he climbed into the vehicle.
“Until she proves otherwise, we have to assume she’s an enemy agent.”
Glenn turned to face the security chief. “Maybe, but we also have to give her responsible medical treatment. And every moment we delay could be critical.”
There was a two-second hesitation. “Yes, sir.” Blake turned on his heel and moved toward another group of men.
Glenn sighed. The former Captain Claymore tended to see the world in black-and-white terms—which was the kind of mentality that had gotten them jammed up with Operation Clean Sweep in the first place. Carry out the main mission, and damn the human cost.
He could hear Blake ordering the car to be towed to the compound. Then he heard him curse loudly when he was informed that the tow truck would be delayed due to a flat tire.
“The equipment is supposed to be maintained on a ready-to-go basis,” he bellowed.
“It was, sir. We checked every system thoroughly last week. The tire blew as they were backing onto the road.”
“Not an acceptable excuse,” the security chief snapped.
Glenn closed the door to the van, making a mental note to ask Blake not to ride the guys so hard.
They reached the main gate quickly. Through the mist and rain, Glenn stared at the bulky shape of the stone castle that commanded the top of the hill, amazed anew that he lived in such a place. It wasn’t just that his home was a fortress. It was literally and figuratively a long way from Omaha, Nebraska, where he’d grown up. The main structure had been built during the roaring twenties by an eccentric millionaire who had wanted to raise his family of ten children away from corrupting modern influences.
In the mid-twentieth century, the building had been renovated for use as a health spa. After Hal had bought it, there had been still more modifications—chiefly the addition of various specialized facilities like the communications center, the labs, and the medical wing packed with equipment worthy of a small hospital.
Once inside the emergency room, Glenn and Dylan worked as an efficient team, doing many of the routine jobs that would have been assigned to less highly trained individuals in a big-city hospital.
An hour later they’d ruled out immediate evidence of skull fracture, internal bleeding and brain swelling and had cleaned Meg Wexler’s head wound and stitched the cut that disappeared into her blond hair.
Twice as they’d worked over her, Glenn had thought she was struggling toward consciousness. She’d become restless and momentarily opened her eyes. Each time, he’d leaned over her, called her name, clasped her hand, trying to get her to waken more fully.
Instead of responding, she’d squeezed her eyes tightly shut and contorted her face under the bright overhead lights. Then she’d sunk back into unconsciousness, as if she were afraid to awaken—or were fighting to remain detached from her surroundings.
“I guess she’s not impressed by your bedside manner,” Dylan observed wryly.
Glenn gave a short laugh. “I’m out of practice.”
The conversation was interrupted by the shrill ringing of the wall phone.
Glenn snatched up the receiver. “Bridgman.”
It was Steward MacArthur, one of the men who had gone out with the midnight expedition. His voice was strained. “Sir, after you left, there was another rockslide. Swift’s got a broken leg. and there are some other injuries. We need a doc.”
Dylan glanced toward the patient, who was going to need monitoring throughout the night. “You keep tabs on our guest. I’ll go back out there.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” He was already striding toward the door. Moments later, Glenn was alone with the woman whose driver’s license said she was Meg Wexler.
Under the revealing emergency-room lights, her skin color looked better, but she lay still and silent, her lashes closed over those remarkable green eyes.
The notion stole into his head that she might be Sleeping Beauty, come to his stronghold. Except in the fairy tale, it was supposed to be the other way around. The princess was the one doomed to slumber in the castle—until a prince strong and brave enough fought his way inside to rescue her with a kiss.
He was certainly no prince, he told himself with a snort. Yet the admonition didn’t stop his gaze from lingering on the curve of her lips. He was bending at the waist when he stopped with a jolt. He’d started spinning fantasies about this woman the moment he’d set eyes on her. Fantasy was one thing, though. Taking liberties with an unconscious accident victim was quite another.
God, he must be losing it. To distract himself, he focused on the white bandage that covered her stitches. Reaching out, he lightly touched the surgical tape, then rearranged some of her long hair, smoothing it to the side, hiding the evidence of her injury. She didn’t wake, but his fingers lingered on the golden strands, feeling their silky texture.
Her lips parted slightly, giving him the uncanny feeling that she’d picked up on his thoughts of kissing her.
Pulling his hand away, he made his voice stem.
“Dylan will be back, with injured men. They were out tonight because of you,” he said, trying to remind himself why she was lying unconscious in his E.R. “Did you come here to breach my defenses?”
She didn’t enlighten him as he pushed the gurney down the hall to one of the empty patient rooms.
She was still wearing her disheveled clothing, and the collar of her blouse was stained with blood. One foot was clad in a bone-colored pump. The other shoe was missing.
“We have to get you into a hospital gown so you don’t contaminate our sterile environment. Too bad I’m the only nursing staff available,” he said, his voice too loud in the small room.
Quickly he snatched off her remaining shoe. It was the easiest part, although his hands lingered appreciatively on the delicate instep of her small foot. The toenails were cut short and straight across. No polish. No nonsense.
After tossing the pump onto the floor, he unzipped her skirt and pulled it over her hips, trying to remain impersonal as he lifted her nicely curved thighs, cradling their weight. Detachment became impossible as he rolled down her panty hose.
“Glad I don’t have to stuff my body into these things,” he muttered. “Probably Eve’s punishment for giving Adam the apple in the garden.”
And this was his punishment for his own past sins, he thought, as the sight of her long legs with their slender ankles made his stomach muscles tighten. His eyes traveled upward to silky, cream-colored panties. At the juncture of her legs he could see a triangle of blond hair.
Sucking in a breath, he held it
until his lungs began to burn. He was already way past turned-on, and he hadn’t even gotten to the hard part. Teeth clenched, he slipped her arms out of the sleeves of her ruined blouse, noting with as little emotional involvement as possible that her bra matched her panties.
Rolling her slightly to the side, he worked the clasp on her bra, wondering what would happen if she woke up now. As he removed the garment, her generous breasts spilled out, drawing a strangled exclamation from deep in his throat. God, had he ever seen such gorgeous breasts? They were creamy and coral-tipped; the sight of them made him rock hard.
He was a doctor taking care of a patient, he reminded himself sternly. He had seen plenty of women with their clothes off. But that didn’t stop him from staring appreciatively at this particular woman. She was in very good physical shape. Well muscled and centerfold gorgeous. Or maybe it had simply been too long since he’d consorted with the fairer sex. That was why she was affecting him so strongly, he told himself. Nothing personal.
His body didn’t believe that for a minute. With a low curse, he covered her provocative chest with the gown, then worked her arms through the short sleeves and tied the tapes in back. Only after he’d pulled down the hem to cover her hips did he reach underneath to grasp the elastic waistband of her panties and pull them down her legs.
He balled her clothing into a wad, and started to pitch it toward the trash, then decided that Blake or someone else might want it as evidence. So he stuffed everything inside a plastic bag.
When some of the blood in his body had worked its way back to his brain, he transferred the patient to the bed, then covered her with a sheet and a soft blanket before taking her vital signs again. Her respiration was good. So were her heart rate and her blood pressure.
As he was removing the cuff, her eyes fluttered open, and he went completely still, silently thanking God that she’d waited until he had her dressed. The thought brought a flood of heat to his face.
He cleared his throat. “Meg? Meg Wexler?”
She only stared at him, as if her vision were fuzzy. “Hmm?”