by Gayle Wilson
“I want the truth,” he said softly. “Which you never told me. Not last night. And not before.”
Letter to Reader
Title Page
Dedication
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Teaser chapter
Copyright
“I want the truth,” he said softly. “Which you never told me. Not last night. And not before.”
“The truth?” Claire repeated. Hearing the tone of accusation, she thought of the long lie Griff had lived this past year. Whatever he meant, he didn’t have much room to chide her about truth. “The truth about what?”
“Just why do they think I’d be willing to do anything in order to get your daughter back?”
His voice was soft. And reasonable. But she didn’t like what she heard there, underlying those surface qualities.
“What do they want you to do?” she asked.
“She’s mine, isn’t she, Claire?” he asked, ignoring her question. “That’s why these people are so certain they can call the tune, and I’ll have to dance to it. She’s my daughter. And you never told me.”
Dear Reader,
The most frequently asked question an author hears is, “Where do you get your ideas?” For this trilogy, that spark was wondering what would happen to our secret warriors now that the Cold War has ended.
What if a highly specialized black ops team is considered by the CIA to be obsolete in today’s New World order? What if the men who had spent their lives carrying out incredibly dangerous missions around the globe are now an embarrassment to their own government? What if the agency that created them wants to destroy their identities, so that even if the operations they took part in come to light, they could never be traced back to their superiors?
In this trilogy, three men, all members of the CIA’s elite External Security Team, are in such a position. Their identities destroyed, but with all the deadly skills they have been taught still intact, these men embark on private missions that will test not only their expertise in dealing with danger, but also their hearts. And the skills they once used to guard their country will now be employed to protect those they love.
Please watch for all the stories in this new MEN OF MYSTERY series from Harlequin Intrigue: The Bride’s Protector (April 1999), The Stranger She Knew (May 1999), and Her Baby, His Secret (June 1999). Enjoy!
Love,
Gayle Wilson
Her Baby, His Secret
Gayle Wilson
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
For my friend Shirley—
another dedication to add to your collection—
with my love and great affection
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Claire Heywood—Someone has stolen her baby...and the ransom they want isn’t something within her power to give them.
Griff Cabot—The daughter he never knew he had has brought him back from the dead. But are her kidnappers asking the impossible?
Carl Steiner—Griff’s replacement in the CIA. Is he friend or foe? Or simply a man trying to do a thankless job?
Jake Holt—The team’s computer expert. It’s up to Jake to provide them with the information they’ll need to carry out their final mission.
Jordan Cross—He owes Claire Heywood for more than one favor.
Hawk—Griff Cabot’s closest friend. But does Lucas Hawkins have an agenda of his own?
Monty Gardner—Claire’s grandfather and a former director of the CIA.
Prologue
It was always night in the dream. And she was running. It felt as if she were running away from someone, but she knew that couldn’t be right. At least at some point in the sequence she knew that.
Running. And the maze of rose bushes that surrounded her tore at her arms and her face as she ran. The light ahead was so dim and distant, but she knew she had to reach it in order to be safe. If she could only reach the light...
And then the house would materialize in front of her, looming up out of the gray netherworld of the dream. She always stopped when that happened, her feet suddenly reluctant, her passage through the maze and the darkness slowed by an unbearable pressure she didn’t understand.
If she could only reach the house... She knew that she’d be safe there, and yet invariably her footsteps slowed until she was walking, the sound of her shoes on the gravel path disturbing the soft, surrounding stillness of the night.
She would climb the steps, and as she neared the door, the scent of roses from the maze she had escaped would pervade the air. She knew that their fragrance meant something, but she could never decide exactly what, or how she felt about it. Her emotions about the roses were as confusing, as nebulous and unformed, as her reluctance to approach the door.
She always raised her hand to knock, but the sound she made, if there were one, was muffled by the darkness and the now-overpowering scent of the roses. Then the door silently opened anyway. And behind the man who stood within its frame was the light she had been running toward.
It was only after she put her cold, trembling fingers into the hand he held out to her that she could see his face, materializing before her, just as the house always did. His eyes were dark and compassionate, and although she expected him to, he never seemed to judge what she had done.
As soon as she looked into his eyes, all the doubt and reluctance vanished. Spiraled away in the darkness, to leave only the feel of his hand. Warm and so strong. Strong enough to pull her out of the maze in which she had been lost, and into the light. Strong enough to keep her safe.
Then he was leading her up the staircase, although she could never remember crossing the threshold. And because she knew so well what lay at the top of the stairs they were climbing, anticipation increased with each step.
Ascending together. Hand in hand. Somewhere in her heart she knew that this was the way it was supposed to be, and that this place was where she was supposed to be.
She didn’t understand how she could have gotten so lost. So lost in the maze. In the clawing pain of its thorns. She had been so alone.
Never again, she thought. Not as long as she held on to his hand. Then, even as the thought formed, it was all gone. His hand. The staircase. The house.
And once more she was running through the maze, in the cold, dark sickness of her grief and despair, toward a light she knew she would never be able to reach again.
Chapter One
Claire Heywood opened her eyes slowly, climbing out of sleep as if it were a pit. Too little sleep, she diagnosed groggily, automatically analyzing the weak winter sunlight that was filtering into the room.
It was too early to think about getting up, but there had been something... She listened to the dawn stillness that surrounded her, waiting for whatever had disturbed it to be repeated. When it wasn’t, her eyelids dropped downward again, her body returning to that blessed state of relaxation possible only when she knew everything was right within her small world.
Nothing alarming had intruded into its safe and well-kept familiarity. Nothing was here that shouldn’t be. Only the accustomed quietness
of the exclusive Georgetown neighborhood where she lived. Peaceful, apparently, even on New Year’s Day.
Because of the holiday, Claire had been up much later than usual last night. At least later than was now the norm. She had let her sister goad her into attending one of the embassy parties. Of course, no one could provoke Claire like Maddy could. In her anger over her sister’s repeated accusations that she was turning into a hermit, Claire had also agreed to the oh-so-eligible escort her sister’s husband had casually suggested.
The two of them had ridden over to the embassy with Maddy and Charles, but still, Claire acknowledged, there was no way around the awkward reality. She had had a blind date, more commonly known now as a fix-up. And even if she argued that last night hadn’t technically been a date, it was still as near to one as she had come in a long time.
And in all honesty, the experience had been relatively painless. And relatively meaningless as well, of course.
Claire rolled restlessly onto her side, pushing her pillow into a more comfortable shape under her cheek. For some reason, despite the lateness of the hour when she’d gone to bed, she didn’t seem able to slip back into sleep this morning, as much as she wanted to.
Too much champagne? she wondered. A little hung over? She must have been the slightest bit tipsy when she’d gotten home last night. Giddy enough to let John Amerson kiss her at the door, she remembered with a pang of remorse and embarrassment. She hadn’t meant for that to happen, but in all honesty she couldn’t say that the kiss had been unpleasant. Actually, there had been nothing about the whole evening that had been unpleasant.
She opened her eyes again, studying the familiar pattern of light that the rising sun, reflecting off the carpet of her bedroom, threw against the wall. White wool had not been a practical choice for carpeting, she supposed. When she had decorated the house, however, not only had practicality not been a priority, it had not even been much of a consideration.
Now, of course, it was both. Another aspect of her life that had drastically changed in the course of the last year. More than enough changes, she thought, her lips tightening reflexively.
She lay, watching the spill of sunshine and willing her mind to disengage from that familiar litany of regret. There was nothing she could do about any of it. Nothing she could change. And of course, there were a great many things about the last twelve months that she wouldn’t change, even if she could.
Her lips relaxed into a smile, envisioning the room next door. Its occupant was apparently still sleeping, cuddled under the heavy warmth of the quilt her Great-grandmother Heywood had hand-stitched to celebrate her birth. It would be stretched tightly over a small, rounded bottom that at this time of the morning was usually sticking straight up in the air.
And that air, Claire realized, despite the normal efficiency of the central heating unit, was decidedly chilly. She pulled the covers up over her exposed shoulder, trying to relax again into the peaceful cocoon of oblivion. Trying not to think about last night. Or about New Year’s Eves past. Trying not to think about anything.
After a few minutes devoted to that fruitless endeavor, she determinedly directed her thoughts back to the nursery next door. Gardner was a distraction from regret that almost always worked, except on those rare occasions when Claire let herself acknowledge how much her daughter looked like her father.
But this wasn’t going to be one of those times, she decided doggedly. Not after last night. Her first date, she thought again, almost amused by the phrase.
Maddy, as usual, had been right. It hadn’t killed her to go out with John Amerson. Her lips tilted at the memory of her sister’s familiar arguments. And Maddy would, of course, be calling this morning for a report.
“Yes, I survived. Yes, he seems to be very nice.” A firm “It’s none of your business” to the rest.
And for herself? she wondered. An acknowledgment, maybe, that although he wasn’t Griff...
But then, no one else ever will be Griff, she thought. And here I am, right back where I was determined not to be. Especially not today, the beginning of a brand-new year.
Disgusted, she pushed the covers off and sat up on the side of the bed. If she wasn’t going back to sleep, she might as well get up and get some work done before Gardner woke and began demanding attention.
The whole wonderful day lay before them. A rare one that they could spend totally together. Claire had a couple of things to take care of, but she didn’t have to go into the office, of course. She had given the nanny the long holiday weekend off, so it would be just the two of them.
She slid her feet into her mules, standing up and stretching out the kinks. Her watch confirmed her guess that it was early—only a little after six. Considering the time she’d crawled into bed last night, it was no wonder she was feeling rocky. Not the champagne, she decided. Just lack of sleep.
Shivering, she crossed the expanse of thick white carpet, rubbing her palms up and down the sleeves of her pajamas. Maybe the baby-sitter had turned down the heat last night and forgotten to mention it before she left.
Claire always kept the house warm because of the baby. Mrs. Crutchen, the nanny, was cold-natured, so she never complained, but maybe Beth, being younger, had decided it was too hot. In any case, Claire was glad she’d gotten up. If Gardner had managed to kick her covers off, she was probably freezing her sweet little tush by now.
Claire opened the nursery door and was met by a damp coldness that sent a frisson of alarm through her. If her room had seemed chilled, then this one...
The damn window was open, she realized, hurrying across to pull down the sash and lock it. Why in the world would Beth, the most reliable sitter in existence, despite her age, leave the window open in the baby’s room? It made no sense. Not in the dead of winter. Not in this freezing cold. It was a miracle that Gardner wasn’t screaming her head off....
Claire’s gaze automatically found the crib. There was no rounded bulge of baby bottom visible. Gardner had probably retreated from the cold, burrowing deeper into the warmth of the covers.
Claire took the three or four steps that separated her from the baby bed and looked in. That was when her heart stopped, congealed by a cold that owed nothing to the temperature of the room. In spite of the evidence of her eyes, she frantically pulled the covers back, flinging them to the end of the bed. And then she jerked them up, ripping them loose from the mattress and throwing them to the floor.
Which didn’t change the harsh reality. There was no baby in the crib. Knees trembling, Claire bent, crawling under the bed, as if she thought her six-month-old daughter might suddenly have mastered the art of climbing out over the rails.
Still on her hands and knees, she picked up the wadded quilt and sheet, knowing immediately by their weight that there was nothing else in the pile. When she had physically confirmed that face by pawing through them again, she dropped them, her eyes searching every corner of the room.
Shock and disbelief clashed with acceptance of the unacceptable, so her mind sought another explanation. Any other explanation. Maybe Beth had taken Gardner home with her for some reason. But Claire had seen the sitter out last night, locking the door behind her. And there had been no one else in the house. No one...
Her gaze flew again to the window. Which had been open on this bitterly cold night. A window that shouldn’t have been left open, unless...
No note, she told herself, scrambling up and running her hands over the mattress. She picked up the sheet and quilt again, shaking them, almost relieved when nothing fell out. She examined the top of the chest and then the changing table, but there was nothing on either of them.
If someone had taken the baby, she assured herself, they would have left a note. So Gardner had to be here. She had to be here.
Claire ran across to the closet and opened the door, as if she believed Gardner might be playing some macabre game of hide and seek. With trembling fingers, Claire pushed aside the hangers that held exquisite, doll-size dresses, her m
ind denying what her heart had already been forced to acknowledge.
The closet, too, was empty. As empty as the room. As empty as her life had been before her daughter had been born. Gardner, Claire thought, the images of the short months since her birth flying through her head like a video tape on fast forward.
But if someone had taken her daughter, then surely... Surely, dear God, they would have told her what to do to get her back. They would have told her where to go. What they wanted. They wouldn’t take her baby and leave nothing behind, not even a threat, a demand for ransom, a stereotypical warning about not calling in the authorities. Surely they hadn’t taken her baby and left her nothing.
And yet, as she stood trembling in the center of the room, surrounded by its joyfully chosen furnishings and toys, Claire Heywood realized that that was exactly what they had done. Someone had opened the nursery window last night and had taken Gardner away from her. And had given her no idea of what she should do to get her back.
“MY NIECE,” he said, smiling as he carefully placed the sleeping baby into her arms. “I’m afraid my sister is having some...problems,” he said hesitantly. “Nothing serious, I think, but caring for Karen right now is proving to be...difficult. A little...more than she’s up to handling at the moment. I think that’s not uncommon for first-time mothers,” he added, his eyes seeking her assurance that that was so.
Poor man, Rose Connor thought, holding the baby he had given her cuddled against her ample bosom. He sounds as if he’s afraid I’m going to judge. And Rose Connor judges no one. I’ve enough sins on me own head.
“Oh, not uncommon at all,” she said aloud, eagerly turning back the blanket in which the baby was wrapped to look down at her face. She seemed to be sleeping very soundly, but then it was morning nap time.