Claimed by the Secret Agent
March 2009 ~ Special Ops
Silhouette Romantic Suspense

Excerpt

Germany — July 15

Marie Beauclair focused on the narrow field of vision beneath the blindfold. Not a big room, low ceiling, high, narrow window. The air was cave cold, not the result of air-conditioning. It chilled her all over.

The first thing she'd realized when she'd come to was that she was nearly naked. Her wrists and ankles were tied with cord, and she lay on a cot that smelled musty. Her next stage of awareness was absolute fury. She was mad as hell at the jerk who had done this and almost as mad at herself for letting him. How had it happened?

She couldn't remember a thing after coming home from work on Monday, changing out of her work clothes, pulling on a tank top and going to the fridge for a glass of orange juice. Nothing else, not even falling as she passed out. Drugged, of course, with something really fast acting. Then she dimly recalled someone lifting her head, urging her to drink more. How long had she been here, and how many times had she drank the stuff?

Her head wasn't clear even now, but she was conscious and thinking. Deep breathing helped shake off the lethargy. She flexed her muscles and stretched her neck as best she could to work out the kinks. Her stomach rumbled, and her mouth felt as dry as dust.

Marie listened to the rising voice in the next room, a one-sided conversation in accented Dutch, obviously a phone call. She recorded the content, storing each word as she tried to work her wrists out of the cord that bound her.

Essentially he was discussing where he should dump her if the ransom wasn't paid. And it wouldn't be; Marie knew that much. This had to be the Embassy Kidnapper, and his demand was exorbitant.

She couldn't lie here and wait for a rescue that might not happen.

When the voice stopped, so did she, knowing it was imperative that she remain motionless except for slow, even breathing and feign unconsciousness. If he knew she was awake, he'dhave to deal with her. She was pretty sure who had grabbed her and what the end result would be.

The door creaked open and she sensed him approach. He poked her sharply in the ribs. She didn't react. He checked her bonds, grunted with satisfaction, then paused as he turned to leave, as if he were thinking about what to do next.

Through the crack in the blindfold, Marie caught a good view of his profile—dark complexion, black hair and full lips. She glimpsed a raised scar on the back of his wrist when he raked a hand through his hair. He looked Middle Eastern, but the accent she had heard didn't bear that out.

He paced for a moment, then cursed under his breath and left the room. She heard the door click shut and a dead bolt turn, then his footsteps. Another door slammed shut. She listened for further sounds from the next room and heard nothing.

Here was her chance, and it might be the only one she got. Furiously, she worked the cords, curling her thumbs into her palms until one hand slipped free, and then she tore at the cords that bound her ankles.

He had locked the door. No point in bothering with that. She headed straight for the window. It wasn't barred, only painted black. And painted shut, Marie discovered when she stood on a chair to open it. Quickly, she jumped down, picked up the chair and used it to break the panes.

Great. She couldn't go through that jagged opening with so much skin exposed. After a quick glance around the room, she grabbed the only fabric she could find, the moth-eaten blanket that had covered the cot.

She padded her hand with the threadbare wool and broke out all the glass she could, then draped the ragged thing over the bottom of the window frame. It took her nearly five minutes, by her reckoning, to squeeze her body through the opening and jump down into the dark alley. Shards cut her feet when she landed, but there was no help for that.

She snatched up the old blanket and wrapped it around her. Then she ran like hell, still weaving from the aftereffects of the drug in her system.

She had no clue where she was, but anywhere was better than back there.

Her feet were bleeding and leaving a trail, but she ran on, ignoring the pain of the cuts. Desperation fueled her, but she didn't let herself panic. She needed a clear head, time to think, to find out where she was and to plan.

It was either dusk or predawn; she couldn't tell. Nearly dark, whatever the time. Warehouses. Old ones. Probably no dwellings nearby. Cobblestones. Old town. Had to have a center. She needed people. Crowds.

The end of the long alley lay just ahead. She sucked in a deep breath and slowed her pace. Suddenly a hand clapped over her mouth and a strong arm clamped her waist, yanking her backward into a hard body.

She went limp, hands behind her, and when the hold on her relaxed, she struck. Her fingers dug into his most vulnerable part, twisting as hard as she could.

He let go and she took off, seeking the faint light of the street, praying there would be help there.

But he snatched her again, this time by her upper arms, and dragged her back. "Dammit! Don't fight me! I'm here to help!"

It took a few seconds for his words to register. His lack of accent. His Americaness. "Thank God," she muttered, and collapsed.

"Wake up, Beauclair!" She heard the command before her eyes opened and groaned her assent. He had her sitting on his lap against the wall of the alley and was tapping her face with his hand.

She reached up, batted it away and struggled to get up. "Who sent you?"

He stood, lifting her with him as he did. "Later. Right now, we should get out of here before he realizes you're gone."

"Aren't you armed?" she demanded, reaching for the blanket that had slipped away. Modesty was not her primary concern at the moment, but she was cold.

"Yeah, but I need to get you safely situated before I go after him." He put his palm on her waist.

She knocked his hand away. "Like hell. I want a piece of that—"

"Whoa, tiger!" She heard his chuckle. "Serve him right if I did turn you loose on him. You nearly killed me."

"Sorry. Sneak up on a girl, expect that."

"Makes me wonder how he grabbed you in the first place."

"Drugged me," she explained defensively as she tucked the blanket snugly around her like a sarong. "He's the Embassy Kidnapper, right?"

"The M.O. sure fits. The car's half a block down. Can you walk?" He held out a hand to assist, but she avoided it.

"I can run if I have to. I just did."

"Good for you. Let me check the street first. Watch the alley behind us."

Dawn had broken now. The street was deserted except for the two of them hurriedly making their way to his vehicle.

As soon as she was inside, Marie leaned her head back on the headrest and released a heavy sigh of relief.

When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her. "You okay?" he asked, real concern in his voice. "He didn't—"

Marie interrupted the question and met his worried gaze dead on. "I heard him talking in the next room when I woke up. He's not working this alone."

"I didn't see him leave, but there's a door at the front of the building, too."

He started the car, and soon they were bumping down a narrow street. The ancient structures that abutted it were shuttered and looked abandoned. She fiddled with the seat belt and finally got it fastened. "Where are we and what time is it?"

"A little village, Bad Nutzbach or something. It's barely 5:00 a.m. and it's Sunday, in case you don't know."

"Thanks. Now who the hell are you, and where are we going?"

He made a right turn and sped up. "Grant Tyndal. I'm with COMPASS. You familiar with it?"

She nodded but didn't elaborate. So the Company hadn't seen fit to come after her. She hadn't expected her family to do anything to help her, even if they had been rolling in money, but she had thought the CIA might. Instead this guy shows up from the antiterrorist team that had recently offered her a position. "Am I supposed to feel obligated now to accept the job offer?"

He glanced at her and smiled. "Of course. This is how we always recruit. As to your other question, we're going to the hospital in Landstuhl and get you checked out. You'll be flying stateside before you know it."

"I'm not leaving until I catch him."

Tyndal's laugh annoyed her. "Don't think so. I work alone." His words annoyed her even more.

"Go to work, then. Just don't get in my way."

"Not exactly dressed for action, are you?" He had them flying down the autobahn by this time, doing at least ninety.

Marie pulled the blanket closer around her neck. She reluctantly admitted to herself that she needed his help. He wouldn't take her to her apartment. That was probably a designated crime scene by now.

She didn't have her creds or her weapon or any pockets to put them in. He could get all that for her if she played her cards right. And he surely had more information on the abductions than she could get on her own. She'd have to make it worth his while to partner up on this.

"Tell you what," she said, abandoning her defensive attitude for a conciliatory tone. "I can pull my weight. Let me in on this, and maybe I'll come on board with COMPASS when we're done. I have information you can use. Get me something to wear, a gun and I.D., and let's go after him together. Now."

She wasn't above using coercion. She put a tentative hand on his arm and squeezed. "Please?"

He glanced at her hand and then at her smile. But he didn't look as if he'd give an inch. "You're going to the hospital, Beauclair. You need an exam, a drug test and a rape kit."

Yes, well, there was that. She had bruises in all the right places, and that made her even madder. That bastard had raped the victim he'd killed. Not the others, though. If the reports could be believed.

She didn't think she'd been raped, but the fact that she'd been drugged, manhandled and made helpless was reason enough to want her kidnapper's head on a plate. Right along with whoever was giving him orders. She quickly dismissed that line of thinking so she wouldn't give herself away to Tyndal.

"After the exam?" she asked.

"I'll officially debrief you and call in the results. Then you go home."

From the book
CLAIMED BY THE SECRET AGENT by Lyn Stone
Publisher: Silhouette; Line: Romantic Suspense
Series: Special Ops
Publication Date: March 2009
ISBN: 0373276222

For more romance information surf to:
http://www.eharlequin.com

Click to Order a Copy of CLAIMED BY THE SECRET AGENT by Lyn Stone

The Doctor's Mission
October 2008
Silhouette Romantic Suspense

Excerpt

Martigny Hospital, Valais, Switzerland—November 27th

Nick Sandro swore under his breath. He knew what he had to do. His parents had put it to him like an order. Look after Cate. Friendship demanded it. He had no excuse not to. He had done it reluctantly during the greater parts of their childhood and adolescence. He would have to do it now.

Bracing himself, he pushed open the door of her hospital room. "Hi, Catie," he said softly. "You awake?"

Her smile looked as forced as his felt. "Hey, Nick. They told me you were here. It was good of you to come."

"Glad to," he said with a shrug. "Besides, Mom and Dad would have my head if I didn't come and see about you."

"Like old times, huh? Trying to match us up." Tears leaked from her right eye, but the smile stayed in place.

She looked frail. Her long, straight hair had been snipped close to her scalp in the area around her incision. The rest lay lank and lifeless around her pale, striking features. She had wide, dark-lashed eyes of the deepest blue imaginable, a straight no-nonsense nose and a luscious mouth that begged kissing. Even after all this time, he could still recall the feel of those lips and the taste of her as she'd kissed him. The sensation still raised guilt. He had been twenty. She had been jailbait.

"How are they?" she asked.

"Fine," he said, keeping his voice bright. "Dad's in London at a seminar. Mom went along. They'll stay for a vacation and return home in a few weeks."

"Yeah, they sent me a card. Picture of the horse guards," Cate said with a chuckle. "Inside, it said Giddyup."

Nick laughed with her, losing a little of the wariness he felt. "Serious get-well wish."

"Karen? How's she?"

"Pregnant. Divorced again. She should have known better than to marry another doctor." He grimaced automatically, but added a small laugh to show he wasn't carrying a torch for his ex-wife.

Cate smiled at him. "She's a real dunce, that girl."

He nodded, smiling. "It was a mistake. We're both wiser."

She sighed heavily. Her smile remained, wistful but sincere. Nick wondered if Cate ever regretted passing on marriage. As far as he knew she had never shown the slightest interest in it. He had kept pretty close tabs over the years through their parents. "How about this Austrian you were with on the slopes? Important?"

The smile crooked a bit. "Mostly to himself. But he did save my bacon when he called for the rescue."

"But the bastard didn't try to dig you out. I'd like to break his neck."

"Judging by the tracks, they think he did try after he called in. One of his skis was found near where I was buried. Apparently, he fell on the way or was caught in a secondary slide. They probably won't find him until spring thaw."

"So he wasn't involved in trying to kill you."

"Somebody probably paid him to ski that particular slope. He was pretty insistent we do that one. Jack said Werner made a cash deposit in his account the day before, but it wasn't enough to hire someone to conspire in a murder. True, Werner was a little vain, but I know he was no killer."

Nick saw a tear trickle down her cheek, but she didn't seem to be really grieving over the man, just sad that he'd been lost.

Even without makeup, hair a mess and dressed in a wrinkled, faded hospital gown, Cate was the most beautiful woman he knew. She was tall, nearly six feet; her body was angular, yet very graceful. He noted her nails were clipped to the quick with no polish, making her supple, long-fingered hands look smaller than he remembered.

The need to hold and reassure her hit him like a fist every time he looked at her. He hadn't worried enough about his own reactions before taking this on. Maybe he should have examined his reasons a little more carefully. No way could he let them seclude her in some safe house without the kind of help she would need, though, no matter how hard this got for him. The government might furnish doctors to check on her, but who was to say what sort and whether they would be concerned about anything other than her vital signs.

Cate was observing him closely. "You're looking good, Nick. Still plundering around in people's gray matter?" she asked as a brave attempt at being chipper.

He looked away from her direct blue gaze. "I'm taking some time off."

"Knocking around Florence, Jack says. Working vacation?"

"Sort of. I came over a few months ago. Attending some seminars at the Johns Hopkins campus there."

"Teaching them how to cut?" she asked, blunt as ever.

"No, not teaching." So she didn't know what had happened. Hadn't heard. What had proved a life-changing event for him hadn't even warranted a paragraph in the local paper. No one had died, after all. He hadn't really been on duty when it had happened, just in the wrong place at the wrong time. His parents would not have mentioned the incident to her except to relate how lucky he was to have escaped death.

No, he was the only one who felt the full impact of his injury. He could no longer operate. His career was over.

No reason Cate should have heard about it. Oddly enough, she was probably the only one who would fully understand. Eventually she would, but he couldn't dump that on her now. She had enough problems of her own.

"Odd that you'd choose Florence," she said. "I would have thought Rome. Isn't that where your grandparents were from?"

He nodded. Her parents came in just then and he turned to greet them. "See you later," he said to Cate. "I'll leave you to your visit."

Jack Mercier, Cate's boss, was waiting for Nick in the lounge across the hall. "Did you tell her?" he asked, frowning.

"Not yet," Nick said. "I'm still not sure…"

"She'll be safe with you in Florence. Safer than anywhere else she could go. I'll station eyes there in case you run into trouble."

Eyes? Agents that surveilled, no doubt. That whole business was foreign to him, the terminology as strange as medical terms would be to Cate. Yet another barrier between them. Good. He could use more of those.

Mercier headed up the elite counter-terrorist organization Cate had been working as an undercover operative for these past couple of years. Nick thought Cate had been working as an intelligence analyst at a desk somewhere in Washington. God only knew what her duties had entailed. Had being the key word. She was finished.

Mercier's voice dropped to a confidential tone. "I have to ask, Sandro. Are you physically capable of firing a weapon if you need to?" He glanced pointedly at Nick's right hand, permanently damaged in an E.R. confrontation with a crackhead nearly a year ago when he had stopped in on an informal consult. Mercier pressed. "You are left-handed, right?"

Nick flexed his fingers out of habit. "I used to shoot skeet and I could still pull a trigger, but there's no way I'm qualified to give Cate the protection you say she might need."

"I only ask as a precaution. You'll have bodyguards keeping a close watch." He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. "Take her to Florence, help with her rehab and give me an evaluation. That's all you have to do."

"That's all?" Nick gave a wry huff. "Right."

"We have a good protection program, as I told you before, but I really think she'll have a better chance of recovery with the help of someone she knows. She needs that with what she'll be facing. You spoke to Dr. Ganz. You know what she's up against. Want her to do that with strangers who are just doing their jobs?"

Every instinct of self-preservation within Nick warned against it. Not because someone might still be gunning for Cate. If anything, that was the most compelling argument Mercier had for convincing Nick to agree.

He had been living in Florence the last few months, attending the seminars. After Cate's injury, the Olins had contacted his parents and asked them to plead their case. They wanted someone they knew to see that Cate was getting the best medical help available. They had obviously spoken with Mercier, who had roped him in to helping her with therapy.

"Do you have any idea who tried to kill her?" he asked. What had happened had been no accident. Mercier had stationed guards outside her door since she'd been admitted. "What about the man she was with that day?"

"He called for rescue and was pinpointing Cate's location when he was cut off midsentence. He's still missing. He said he heard the shots that caused the avalanche. When Cate regained consciousness, she verified there was gunfire, definitely a rifle. We think maybe he was going to dig her out and got buried in a drift. One way or another, we'll find him."

"Any new suspects?"

Jack nodded. "Yes. Two of our operatives coordinating with the Police Nationale have someone under surveillance now, a known assassin who was spotted in the area. It's a matter of time before they make an arrest, maybe only hours. But even if he is our shooter, somebody hired him for it. I'd like to have Cate stashed somewhere she can't be found."

"Why would someone want to kill her? And why that way?"

"We'll have some answers soon. Sam Jakes, a freelance reporter from D.C., blew her cover the week before this happened. He must have had an inside track at the White House. That was a very private ceremony with only our teams, the president and a couple of staff present. Jakes reported the commendation she received and explained her part in the investigation. Unfortunately, he gave her name, a recent photo and some background material on her."

"So she was outed and you think some wacko read that and is after her? Did you arrest the bastard who did the article?"

"Of course. The point is, that put Cate at great risk."

"So she would no longer be good for covert work anyway?"

"I'd planned to have her doing backup or mop up, not as primary. At least not for a while. Now, because of this injury, any type of field work is out of the question. Whatever she does for us, we'll have to keep her under wraps. She's made enemies. We'll get whoever is after her. In the meantime, all you need to do is keep her with you and take care of her health."

"And have a gun handy, of course," Nick added...

From the book
THE DOCTOR'S MISSION by Lyn Stone
Publisher: Silhouette; Line: Romantic Suspense
Series: Special Ops
Publication Date: October 2008
ISBN: 0373276222

For more romance information surf to:
http://www.eharlequin.com

Click to Order a Copy of THE DOCTOR'S MISSION by Lyn Stone

Kiss or Kill
November 2007 ~ Mission: Impassioned
Silhouette Romantic Suspense #1488

Excerpt

Paris—Present Day

Mark felt pretty naked without his favorite sidearm, especially when everyone else he'd met was sporting fully automatics. He was seriously underdressed for the occasion.

"Sonny is making a few calls," the woman at his side told him. "If you check out, we can use you, Alexander. If not…well, let us say you need not worry about future employment," she added with a catlike smile.

His cover was solid thanks to Corbett Lazlo, Mark's mentor and employer. He understood why the woman didn't trust him. Hell, she had excellent reasons, better ones than she knew.

He had wormed his way into this nest of snakes with a few phone calls and by dropping the names of a couple of very recently deceased criminals who were probably well known to her and thought to still be alive. Identity theft in its highest form worked wonders, or so he hoped.

"Come along, darling. You might as well meet the rest of the merry band while we wait," the woman said, ushering him up the steps ahead of her. She wore unrelieved black. Probably matched the loaded accessory she carried in her pocket with her finger on its trigger.

This infiltration seemed the best method of discovering the whereabouts of the man who had murdered Mark's father sixteen years ago, an assassin called Trip. Mark's job, as well as his lifelong ambition, was to capture Trip and determine who had hired him. The killer's trail—an exhaustive list of murders stretching over almost two decades using the same MO— had led Mark to this woman's address.

Something about Deborah Martine seemed familiar to Mark. Not so much her looks as her mannerisms, the way she moved, a fleeting expression.

Something. Martine was not her real name, he was sure. But none of that mattered at the moment. This fortyish, unnatural blonde with bedroom eyes, a commanding attitude and an evil sense of humor, was his ticket in. Sooner or later, she would lead him to Trip.

She could use more hands and another gun, she had told him when he introduced himself earlier that afternoon.Apparently she was also looking for someone adept at bypassing the newer security systems on the market. He couldn't believe his luck there. He assured her he'd been sent by a trusted mutual acquaintance. The woman was no fool. She had verified his identity. No problem. Lazlo had expected he would be checked out and had prepared for it.

At the top of the stairs, she reached past him, opened a door and entered, standing aside for him to follow. Mark glanced around the dimly lit room. They were in an office in the upstairs of a run-down warehouse south of Paris near the Seine. He could smell the river, feel its dampness, even inside the building. Two men were seated on the dusty chairs and a woman stood against the wall in the shadows.

She looked up as he approached the table. The dim glow of the lamp illuminated her face. Mark's heart nearly stopped. There was not merely something familiar about this woman. He knew her! Worse than that, she knew him. One word from her about their former connection and he'd be dead in the water. Literally. His body adding to the river's pollution.

He saw the flicker of apprehension in her eyes. And a question. Should she take him out? She was asking herself. She was armed and it wasn't apparent that he was. But for some reason, she didn't act.

He suddenly realized she was as vulnerable as he was. If she killed him, she would have to explain why. And if she declared who he was, the others would suspect her, too. Takes one to know one, he thought with an inner grimace.

Had she turned? Her looks had changed radically. Maybe her allegiance had, too. Or had she been a subversive even when he had known her during their training op in the States? She could be working undercover, of course. God, but he wanted to believe that. He had a soft spot for her, but he couldn't let that distort his reasoning or affect his decisions.

He could kill her, right now during her hesitation. He still had his knife, which he could bury in her throat before anyone blinked. But then he would have to deal with the fallout. If he used the hidden blade, he would be weaponless except for hands-on. That would be patently ineffective against bullets.

Even in the unlikely event that he managed to kill everyone in the room and survive, his ultimate goal would be impossible. Deborah Martine was his only lead to John Trip, the assassin he had spent over half his life tracking, the man he meant to destroy no matter the cost. He might never get this close again. No, he couldn't compromise that goal as long as there was the slightest chance to see it met.

And he had to acknowledge that the woman feigning nonchalance in the shadows might possibly be here for a legitimate reason, just as he was, and didn't really deserve to die.

He had a feeling that fate had another of those unfunny life-altering jokes in store for him, like the sudden gut-twisting attraction that had driven him crazy when he had known her before. She had damn near caused him to lose control and break his steadfast rule concerning personal involvement. Even so, he had little choice now but to let fate rule in this instance. He would have to allow Renee Leblanc to live and see what happened.

Renee leaned against the rat-infested wall, one booted foot propped on an old crate. In her right hand, she held an unlit French cigarette. Her left rested on the unsnapped holster of her nine millimeter.

The man who entered the weak circle of light thrown by the antique gas lantern registered a barely discernible flicker of surprise, just as she suppressed one of her own. My God. It was Mark! What the hell was he doing here? Her heart rate doubled and her breath caught in her throat. Instant recognition promised instant death if he blew her cover.

Her fingers slid around the grip of her H&K pistol, its coolness and texture her only comfort.

"This is Mark Alexander, everyone," Deborah Martine announced as she took a seat at the head of the scarred table.

He was actually using the name she had known him by. Not a good sign that he was undercover. But then, she was using hers, too, though it was necessary in her case.

Deborah inclined her head at Renee. "Meet Renee, our explosives expert."

Deborah's lazy gaze swept on to the slender, shifty-eyed thug on her right. "Piers, provisions." Then to the beefy Neanderthal at the far end of the table. "Etienne, muscle." She offered a secret smile before turning her attention to the rest of the group. "Mark will handle the security systems for us." Her left eyebrow rose as she addressed him. "That is, if your credentials are in order."

Renee's eyes again locked on the newcomer. Her first instinct had been to shoot him where he stood before he could say a word. Protect the mission was a mantra she lived by. Self-preservation was an even stronger motive. She figured he probably entertained similar thoughts of eliminating her as a threat, but had no weapon.

Either he had flipped at some time during the past two years, or he was working an op for SIS, the old MI-6. Problem was, she knew nothing about an ongoing operation in Paris involving the Brits. However, given the dearth of official information exchanged by intel agencies who worked for the same government, it was reasonable that she'd be in the dark about a foreign one. Why would the Brits inform the U.S. when infiltrating a terrorist cell in France?

Since Alexander hadn't yet opened his mouth, she would give him the benefit of the doubt. If he revealed who she was, he would expose himself.

Same with her. She raised a brow and offered him the ghost of a smile. He returned it, just a small quirk of his lips. Nice lips they were, too. She remembered them well. Their texture. Their taste. Their hunger that had fueled her own. A spike of warmth shot through her. Make that heat.

One kiss, mind-blowing as it had been, did not provide a basis for putting her life in the man's hands. That killer body of his could be just that, the body of a killer. The memory of how her wayward mind had wandered directly to him the morning after that kiss, as she hovered between sleep and wakefulness, disturbed her even now. She had clearly visualized him, standing in the shower, soaping himself, his head thrown back, exposing his strong, corded neck as if he invited her to put her mouth there and feel his quickening pulse. Her own body had hummed.

Renee shook her head. The vision firmly engraved on her mind might have been buried, but hadn't lost its clarity.

Renee straightened and pushed off the wall, taking a seat on one of the overturned boxes that served as extra chairs. "Where are the others?" she asked, ignoring Alexander as best she could.

"Checking the perimeter. Sonny and Beguin will be up in a few moments. Tonight's the night we get down to business," Deborah announced.

Finally. Renee kept her expression bland. She knew the job, in general anyway, and hoped to find out where the strike would occur so she could get people in place to prevent it. This was yet another planning session. Deborah seemed to get off on having rendezvous in secret locations, the seedier the better.

Sonny's last job had been an attempt to abduct a U.S. senator's son. It had been foiled by the Secret Service and Renee's team, COMPASS, one of the civilian special ops teams formed under Homeland Security. The giant, more commonly known as Sonnegut, had escaped capture and fled here to France, doing a bang-up job of covering his tracks.

But Renee had located him.

Her stated mission was to identify Sonnegut's affiliation, find out who was behind the kidnapping attempt and determine what they had been after. Indications were that the motive had been political. So far, she had tailed him until she could befriend one of his cohorts and work her way into this little gang.

It was a start. Deborah Martine was Sonnegut's lover. Renee had begun to suspect she might also be the person in charge. The question was whether or not she reported to someone else, higher up. Unfortunately Renee thought she might have to abandon her primary mission in order to throw a monkey wrench into the...

From the book
KISS OR KILL by Lyn Stone
Publisher: Silhouette; Line: Romantic Suspense
Series: Mission: Impassioned
Publication Date: November 2007
ISBN: 0-373-27558-7

For more romance information surf to:
http://www.eharlequin.com

Click to Order a Copy of KISS OR KILL by Lyn Stone

Special Agent's Seduction
January 2007 ~ Romantic Suspense
Silhouette Intimate Moments #1449

Excerpt

The barrel of the weapon nudged Dani Sweet’s back. She heard the man’s satisfied grunt. No wonder he was pleased. There were only three people inside the bank. One young woman was humming along with the soft music drifting from the speakers while she added to the bins of deposit slips, forms and pamphlets at the counter in the middle of the room. One of the tellers, Dani guessed.

A skinny older man of around sixty lounged in the doorway to one of the two glass-fronted offices built within the lobby. He wore a mud brown off-the-rack suit and black patent shoes. Not exactly the type who would be meeting the public much. She would guess an accountant.

He chatted with a younger guy who stood propped against the desk. Now this one looked the part. They were both sipping from coffee cups. Smiling. Shooting the breeze.

She shifted position and even tugged a little, hoping the hand that clutched her arm would ease its grip.

“Interfere and I will shoot you first,” her captor whispered. He squeezed her arm harder, hugging her closer as he forced her farther into the lobby.

The blond turned to them, smiling. “Good morning,” she said. “What can we do for y’all?” The men across the room continued talking, drinking their coffee, offering only a cursory glance.

Suddenly, a hard twisting motion nearly cracked the bone in her arm. Dani cried out sharply, trying to jerk away, but the pain nearly sent her to her knees. She sagged against him to keep from falling and dropped her coat and purse.

At her cry, the men rushed out of the office to see what had happened and the blond hurried over ahead of them.

The gun hand flew up, the weapon near the side of her face. “Stop! Move and you die.”

They stopped in their tracks, all three now within six feet of Dani and the man who held her, well away from any alarm buttons. That was the point to the distraction, she figured.

She looked up, expecting expressions of shock. Only the younger man showed none. And no fear, either. His glare rivaled the ice on the streets outside. He looked seriously ticked off.

Don't be a hero, she prayed.

For a minute there, he looked like he might give it a shot. He and the perp were about the same size, at least six feet tall, both built like they worked out religiously. If not for the gun, a nine-millimeter she knew held fifteen rounds, they would probably be pretty evenly matched.

Dani had decided it was best to let the scene unfold without attempting to interfere and she hoped the banker had come to the same conclusion. She could take the gunman by surprise and probably disarm him, but the situation called for prudence. She wasn’t the only one at risk here. The money was insured. Most bank robbers were caught.

She glanced up and could plainly see two cameras, so knowing what he looked like didn’t put them at further risk. There was no reason for him to kill them if they kept calm.

If she saw a really good opportunity to end this without anyone getting hurt, she would take him down, but realized her chances of doing that were not too good as things stood now.

“Where is the vault?” he demanded.

The older man pointed to the hallway around and behind the counters.

“Go there, all of you. Single file,” he demanded.

Whew, he was going to lock them in the vault, Dani thought with relief. They would sack up some money for him and he’d simply lock them inside and leave. A few hours later, they would be watching his arrest on the evening news.

He snapped out another order. “You and you, go inside!” He motioned with the weapon for the older man and the girl to enter the vault. “Lock the door,” he said to the younger guy.

The girl began to wail and plead like a four year old. The sound cut off the instant the thick steel door clicked shut. At least this narrowed the list of potential casualties. Those two should be safe enough.

Dani’s arm throbbed, still caught in a vise like grip.

“Back into your office,” the robber instructed the other man. “Remain on the front side of your desk.”

She met Hero’s gaze and raised her eyebrows. He was red in the face, his strong jaw and fists clenched. Anyone could see he was royally pissed.

Don’t try anything! Dani tried hard to communicate the thought to him. He shot her an exasperated look, exhaled sharply, then turned with military precision and led the way. Message received, she guessed, wondering if she might have latent telepathic ability.

When they reached the office, the robber forced her into the chair facing the desk, he stood behind her, placing the muzzle of the gun to her right temple.

“You, stand,” he ordered the banker. His accent became more pronounced and his breathing grew more rapid. “Keep both of your hands in my sight at all times. First, turn the monitor around so that I can see it clearly. Move the keyboard to this side,” he demanded.

That was a relatively simple procedure since it was cordless and lying on top of the mat.

“Send this fax,” he instructed, placing a paper with printed matter onto the desktop. “Be certain to dial correctly.” Dani watched the process as closely as her captor did.

When the fax machine whirred, the perp motioned for the banker to come around the desk again. He tossed an index card down in front of the keyboard. “In the left column there are account numbers. From these accounts, I wish the amounts listed transferred to the numbered account on the right.”

“To the Caymans? Are you serious?” Dani heard a barely concealed scoff in the banker's voice.

“Do it now or she dies. Then you die. Make no mistakes.”

This took a while since there were quite a few transactions involved.

The robber picked up the notes. “I wish to see confirmation when it is complete.”

The banker paused to await one of the steps of the transfer to go through. “I see you’ve kept the amounts under a hundred thousand, but the transfers will send up red flags anyway.”

“I know,” the robber said, an evil smile in his voice. “But these will be your red flags.”

Survival seemed a lot less likely now, Dani thought with a belated surge of adrenaline. There was something in the man’s voice and movements. He was building up to something, getting himself psyched.

She remained motionless except for her gaze, which settled immediately on an engraved name plate that read Benjamin J. Michaels. The name suited him. Strong, no-nonsense, bankerly.

Dani watched his long, tapered fingers fly over the keyboard and listened to the soft whir of the computer as it completed its functions. Meanwhile, she smelled the sweaty wool and scent of evil that cloaked her captor.

The cold metal of the pistol brushed against her hairline, sending chills down her spine. All her senses edged to higher alert. She tasted fear like metal on her tongue. Now this man would have to kill them both. They had seen the numbers. If he let Michaels live, the transfer could be reversed, or at the very least, reported in detail.

Dani squeezed her eyes shut and a chaotic premonition flashed through her mind, a Technicolor explosion of action, a split second portent of extreme violence.

Late warning. Maybe too late. She had to do something.

She blinked fiercely to clear her head. Benjamin Michaels' steely gaze met hers as he waited for a response from the targeted bank. She recognized his awareness. He knew, too, that they would have to die. Dani realized if she didn’t try something in the next few minutes, he would.