by Rachel Grant
Copyright © 2016 Rachel Grant
All rights reserved.
ISBN-10: 1-944571-03-5
ISBN-13: 978-1-944571-03-0
Cover art and design by Naomi Ruth Raine
Copyediting by Linda Ingmanson
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in encouraging piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Poison Evidence
It was supposed to be paradise….
Ivy MacLeod has the perfect opportunity to test her advanced remote sensing technology: mapping a World War II battle site in the islands of Palau. The project is more than an all-expenses-paid trip to paradise. It’s also an opportunity to distance her reputation from her traitorous ex-husband.
But foreign intelligence agencies will kill to possess her invention, and paradise turns deadly when her ex-husband’s vicious allies attack. In desperation, she turns to Air Force pilot Jack Keaton. But is he the bigger threat? Jack might be protecting her as he claims...or he could be a foreign agent. Her compass is skewed by his magnetic pull and further thrown off when she learns her own government has betrayed her.
Stranded on a tropical island with a man whose motives remain a mystery, Ivy must decide who is the spy, who is the protector, and who is the ultimate villain. She longs to trust the man who rescued her, but she’s risking more than her heart. Choose right, and she saves her country’s secrets—and her life. Choose wrong—and she risks nothing short of all-out war.
Bonus content for Poison Evidence is posted on my website, where you can find information on all the Evidence Series books and sign up for my mailing list.
Table of Contents
Dedication
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
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Tinderbox (Flashpoint #1) Excerpt
Acknowledgments
Books By Rachel Grant
About the Author
This one is for all the brainy girls who struggle to fit in.
Chapter One
Babeldaob Island, Republic of Palau
April
Age: early thirties. Accent: American, Boston—Southie, not Harvard, and trying to hide it. Looks: handsome but forgettable. Attitude: smug. The man fixed Ivy MacLeod with what he must believe was a charming smile, when in fact everything about him spoke of condescension. “If you find the Palauan president intimidating, just remember that the country only has a population of twenty thousand. He’s more like the mayor of a small suburb.”
Ivy didn’t let her party smile slip as she glanced over his shoulder, scanning the packed ballroom for an escape. Mark Frost seemed to think he was clever, when in fact he was merely smarmy, and she would bet her next paycheck that he hadn’t crossed the packed ballroom because he wanted to give her unsolicited advice on how best to deal with Palauan politicians.
He canted his head. “But then, look who I’m talking to. Your cousin is a US senator and your husband is…was…” His voice trailed off, then he cleared his throat as if embarrassed.
That confirmed it. He’d cornered her at the edge of the room because he wanted the ugly details of Patrick’s upcoming trial.
“Ex-husband,” she said, her jaw tight, then berated herself for responding at all. She took a sip of the drink she’d just gotten from the open bar and looked longingly toward the open door to the garden, which she’d been heading toward when Frost pinned her.
Ivy felt some relief when the governor of Melekeok nudged Frost to the side and held out a hand to indicate the Asian man at his side. “Ms. MacLeod, I wish to introduce you to Shiro Kimura, from the Japanese embassy.”
She flashed a smile as she extended her right hand. “Mr. Kimura, it’s good to meet you.” She knew her effort to appear unfazed fell short. It was a shame it was necessary here, but three days ago, that damn news article had outed her. Half a world away in a tiny country in Micronesia, and her ex-husband’s infamy had followed her thanks to the Internet. “I understand you have questions about my mapping of Peleliu and whether there will be any disturbance to the World War II battle site that holds wreckage and remains from both our countries.”
Frost jumped into the conversation before Kimura had a chance to answer. “Tonight is for celebrating. Save the work talk for later.”
She frowned at the man. He was wrong about the purpose for the evening. While the gala event was a celebration of another milestone achieved by the Compact of Free Association between the US and Palau, it was work for Ivy, her chance to connect with government officials, ease concerns, and stroke egos. And even though, as Frost had pointed out, the country was tiny, the largest employer in the Micronesian island nation was the government. Everyone who was anyone in Palau politics was in the ballroom.
She didn’t doubt that they all wanted to know the sordid details of her ex-husband’s arrest and upcoming trial. But that was just too damn bad. She didn’t speak about Patrick to anyone except the US attorney who was personally handling his prosecution.
Kimura cast a glare at Frost before facing Ivy. His handshake had been stiff, and while he was clearly irritated with Frost, she wouldn’t be surprised if some of his hostility was directed at her. Most people greeted her with hostility once they learned her ex had been an arms trafficker who bought weapons from Russian mafiosi and sold them to Islamist terrorist groups.
She could see the accusatory question in Shiro Kimura’s eyes: How could you not have known what your husband was? But all he said was, “How long will it take you to map the site, Ms. MacLeod?”
She took a sip of her sweet tropical drink. Passion fruit. Guava. Probably three types of rum, at least one of them coconut. Not bad. She’d have to ask the bartender what it was called again. She smiled warmly at Kimura. Or at least hoped it came out warm. Easy-breezy just like the drink. “The battle site is vast, but data collection is going well so far. I expect another week to ten days until I’ve mapped both the land and water wreckage.”
Even now she was itching to be back in the seaplane. She was
a beauty, an old de Havilland Beaver, piloted by a Palauan who never made snide comments when they were in the air. When flying with Ulai at the controls, Ivy could get lost in her work. Data points and markers. Infrared readings layered with Lidar. The colors, lines, and numbers that filled her computer screen were even more beautiful than the incredible tropical landscape they flew over. This first field test of CAM’s abilities was exceeding her wildest dreams.
“I do have concerns, Ms. MacLeod,” Kimura said. “I find it hard to believe you can map the ocean bottom from the air.”
The damn article that mentioned her disastrous marriage had ostensibly been about the Lidar-radar interface others had theorized but she’d managed to create. Maybe Kimura hadn’t read the exposé.
“I won’t bore you with the technical details, Mr. Kimura. Suffice to say I’ve developed a system that is capable of seeing through both jungle canopy and water.”
The official gave her a tight smile. “Won’t bore me? Or is that a way of covering that it wasn’t your invention and you don’t really know how it works?” His English was very good—on par with her Spanish and better than her Japanese—but he’d had enough to drink that it showed at the edges of his speech, and now he was saying things she had to wonder if he’d utter when completely sober. Not that he wouldn’t think them, just that he wouldn’t say them.
It was clear he’d read the article about CAM after all, but he believed her job at MacLeod-Hill had been a token gesture, in deference to her family tree and marriage to Patrick. She’d heard the rumors: she’d claimed invention credit to keep the patent out of government hands.
In truth, she’d spent five years developing CAM at the MacLeod-Hill Exploration Institute, the organization her Grandpa Cam had founded decades prior. Her father may have had the poor judgment to invite Patrick Hill to join the institute, but she was the fool who’d married the bastard.
When Patrick was arrested for treason and the government dismantled the institute she’d been born to run, she’d dusted herself off and brought her technological baby to Mara Garrett at Naval History and Heritage Command. So the argument that she’d lied to keep her patent out of government hands was ridiculous.
“Do you have great interest in learning about how lasers can be used to transport radio signals through water?” she asked. “Because I’m more than happy to get technical. Because light waves are packed more tightly, they outperform radio waves in their ability to transmit information. They’re faster, can carry more data, and even have stronger signal. For this reason, several labs have been attempting to embed radio waves into light waves, and with CAM, I have succeeded—are you following, or should I switch to Japanese?” She then repeated herself in his native language, to prove that she could. But instead of feeling satisfaction, she was irked with herself for rising to his bait. Kimura had been drinking too much, and she clearly hadn’t been drinking enough.
Next to him, Mark Frost grinned, and his eyes lit with respect. Maybe Frost wasn’t such a bad guy after all.
She took another sip. Coconut rum. Really, she should buy a bottle for an after-work cocktail now and then. Even snide comments were more tolerable when served with coconut.
“Dr. Patrick Hill is as likely to have developed CAM as you, Shiro,” a man behind her said. “And you still get lost in Koror with GPS.”
Kimura’s face reddened, yet he hadn’t flushed at Ivy’s take down.
She turned to see who’d managed that feat, and a frisson of recognition ran through her. She didn’t know him, but she’d seen him at the marina where Ulai and his floatplane lived. This man lived aboard a big yacht moored two slips away from Ulai’s hangar and living quarters.
A sign on the dock indicated the man’s boat, Liberty, was available for charter, but she’d ruled out hiring him for portions of the water survey because the gorgeous yacht would no doubt exceed her government budget.
Of course, she’d noticed the man as much as she noticed the yacht. While Liberty was sleek and luxurious, her captain was hot. Death-Valley-in-July hot. And it’d been forever since Ivy had thought along those lines about any man.
Tall and tan, with sun-kissed blond hair, he had thick brows, one of which was bisected with a scar, a wide nose, and a hard jawline. His receding hairline gave him maturity she found even more attractive. Unlike Frost, his features were distinct, imperfect, and memorable. He’d been scruffy the other day as he scrubbed his deck wearing nothing but low-slung shorts. Now he’d shaved and put on the requisite pants and shirt for this formal event. It didn’t matter; he was scorching hot either with or without a beard, dressed or half-naked.
Frankly, she preferred half-naked.
She offered her hand. “Ivy MacLeod,” she said with her first genuine smile since Frost had cornered her.
His warm blue eyes held hers as he lifted her knuckles to his lips. “Jack Keaton. It’s nice to finally meet. Ulai said you’re keeping him on his toes.”
She laughed as she extracted her fingers, feeling strangely fluttery from the press of his lips. She’d been kissed on the hand before and never thought twice about it. Perhaps Jack Keaton had the power to resuscitate her long-dead libido.
It was an intriguing thought.
“Highly unlikely. I have a hard time keeping up with him, and I’m half his age.”
It was his turn to laugh. “So do I.”
She doubted that, given what she’d viewed of his physique.
She eyed the open double doors to the garden, seeking a breeze. Despite her light silk evening gown, she sweltered in the heat of the room. The air-conditioning in the new grand resort’s ballroom couldn’t keep up with the press of bodies.
She turned toward the governor, embassy employee, and…she wasn’t sure what Frost was—he’d never offered up a reason for being in Palau or at this event. “I’m afraid I’m overheating. I’m going to escape into the garden.” She turned to Death Valley. “Join me, Mr. Keaton?”
“Jack, please,” he said and presented his arm.
She gripped his bicep, knowing it would be rock hard and thick. She’d been a shameless voyeur whenever he worked on his boat sans shirt.
The soft breeze hit her as she stepped outside, fragrant with tropical blossoms. The quiet, empty garden was a relief after the full-to-bursting ballroom.
The night was lit with tiki torches and moonlight, which reflected off the sea that stretched out beyond the low-walled garden. A mangrove swamp bordered the manicured grounds to the right, while a path to the beach curved around the garden to the left.
How tempting it would be to follow that path and escape the party. Pay homage to the turquoise Pacific that embraced the archipelago. The water here was exquisite, a scuba diver’s paradise. She’d have to ground-truth several underwater wrecks to make sure CAM was as accurate as she believed. Maybe Jack was a diver?
She discarded the ridiculous notion before it could take root. He’d done nothing more than help extract her from an awkward conversation. She’d charter a legitimate dive boat and partner when the time came.
Waves splashed below, the soothing sounds faint. She had the insane urge to lean against the stranger at her side. He was tall, slightly taller than her in her three-inch heels, and she was five-nine without them.
Between his height and broad shoulders, he made her feel downright dainty, when nothing about her was petite. She probably should stop cataloguing his attributes, but this was the most fun she’d had all night.
She’d known he was American at first glance, even though his features hinted at a northern European background. He wore his American-ness like he wore the dress shirt. His posture, the tilt of his head, even the way he smiled. He had Montana bearing—and as a cartographer and anthropologist, she fully believed there was such a thing. She was endlessly fascinated by the connection of people to place, even, at times like this, when far removed from their birthplace.
“Well, that was unpleasant,” she said, breaking the quiet.
&nbs
p; “Shiro was being a prick.”
“He’s not alone in his beliefs. He was just drunk enough to express them. A blogger for a well-known online scientific journal recently said—to my face—‘Hard to believe a woman designed something so technical by herself.’ When I complained to his boss, he all but said I was reading too much into the statement and being overly emotional. You know, because I was a woman and called the guy on his condescension.”
“If you were a man,” Death Valley said, “you’d have been called ‘forceful in your beliefs,’ and your strength in not backing down would have been lauded.”
Her grip on his bicep tightened. He smelled good and said the right things. The party was becoming less of a chore by the minute. “Exactly. The president of Harvard once made a statement that men outperform women in math and science due to biological differences. The president. Of Harvard. And he was surprised by the backlash. Sexism is rampant in the sciences. It’s not even a dirty little secret. It’s blatant.”
One reason she loved her new job with Naval History and Heritage Command: she worked with several damn smart and strong women.