Читать книгу: «Secret Passage»
She was there. The woman who had haunted Zac’s sleep for so long.
Zac had a sense of having been injured, and her voice was like a siren’s song with the power to lead him from the darkness. Or lure him more deeply into it.
“Who did this to you? Who would want to kill you? I know how much is at stake, yet when I thought you were dead…” she whispered.
For a split second Zac could have sworn he felt her lips against his.
“Why did you come? Why did it have to be you?” She spoke once more.
She paused again, and Zac could hear the pounding of her heart. Or was that his own?
“I can’t let any of that matter,” she said harshly. “You can’t die on me, Zac. I have a job to do. I have to find out why you’re here, so I need you alive….”
Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,
As you make travel plans for the summer, don’t forget to pack along this month’s exciting new Harlequin Intrigue books!
The notion of being able to rewrite history has always been fascinating, so be sure to check out Secret Passage by Amanda Stevens. In this wildly innovative third installment in QUANTUM MEN, supersoldier Zac Riley must complete a vital mission, but his long-lost love is on a crucial mission of her own! Opposites combust in Wanted Woman by B.J. Daniels, which pits a beautiful daredevil on the run against a fiercely protective deputy sheriff—the next book in CASCADES CONCEALED.
Julie Miller revisits THE TAYLOR CLAN when one of Kansas City’s finest infiltrates a crime boss’s compound and finds himself under the dangerous spell of an aristocratic beauty. Will he be the Last Man Standing? And in Legally Binding by Ann Voss Peterson—the second sizzling story in our female-driven in-line continuity SHOTGUN SALLYS—a reformed bad boy rancher needs the help of the best female legal eagle in Texas to clear him of murder!
Who can resist those COWBOY COPS? In our latest offering in our Western-themed promotion, Adrianne Lee tantalizes with Denim Detective. This gripping family-in-jeopardy tale has a small-town sheriff riding to the rescue, but he’s about to learn one doozy of a secret…. And finally this month you are cordially invited to partake in Her Royal Bodyguard by Joyce Sullivan, an enchanting mystery about a commoner who discovers she’s a betrothed princess and teams up with an enigmatic bodyguard who vows to protect her from evildoers.
Enjoy our fabulous lineup this month!
Sincerely,
Denise O’Sullivan
Senior Editor, Harlequin Intrigue
Secret Passage
Amanda Stevens
MILLS & BOON
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Amanda Stevens is the bestselling author of over thirty novels of romantic suspense. In addition to being a Romance Writers of America RITA® Award finalist, she is also the recipient of awards in Career Achievement in Romantic/Mystery and Career Achievement in Romantic/Suspense from Romantic Times magazine. She currently resides in Texas. To find out more about past, present and future projects, please visit her Web site at www.amandastevens.com.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Camille Somersby—She will do anything to protect her grandfather—and the future—even if it means deceiving the only man she’s ever loved.
Zac Riley—A supersoldier who will go to extraordinary lengths to carry out his mission.
Dr. Von Meter—A megalomaniac who has destroyed lives for over sixty years.
Dr. Kessler—The only one standing in Von Meter’s way.
Roth Vogel—A supersoldier with his own agenda.
Alice Nichols—A woman who knows how to get what she wants.
Special Agent Talbott—Is the FBI agent a pawn in a deadly game or a man who is willing to betray his own country?
Betty Wilson—A nurse who has more than a professional interest in Zac.
Daniel Clutter—A widower who becomes all too susceptible to Alice Nichols’s charms.
Adam—Can the memory of his five-year-old son save Zac?
Contents
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
Prologue
The Secret City,
1943
Her cover was blown. She had no proof, of course, only a nagging suspicion that she was being watched.
Sliding her hand inside her purse, Camille Somersby let the cool, deadly feel of the Colt .45 bolster her courage as she hurried out to her car. Climbing inside, she slammed the door, started the engine and then struggled with the gears for a moment before easing the Studebaker from the muddy parking area onto the street.
As she made the first corner, she glanced in the rearview mirror. She didn’t think she’d picked up a tail, but she couldn’t be sure. In wartime, spies were everywhere. Especially here, in a place the locals called the Secret City.
Nestled in a picturesque East Tennessee valley surrounded by tree-lined ridges, the city—which did not exist on any map—was isolated from the outside world, despite its proximity to Knoxville.
Complete with stores, schools, a church, hospital, newspaper and both single and multifamily dwellings, the whole community had been built practically overnight by the Army Corps of Engineers to accommodate the thousands of scientists, engineers and plant personnel employed at three top secret facilities known only by their code names—X-10, Y-12 and K-25.
Security around the perimeter of the city was tight. The borders were patrolled around the clock, and no one was allowed to enter or leave without a pass. Phone calls were monitored and mail routinely censored. In such an environment, fear and suspicion were bound to run rampant.
And maybe that was all it was, Camille decided. This feeling of being watched. It could well be nothing more than her own paranoia at work. The burden of her own secrets wearing on her nerves.
Ostensibly, she was one of hundreds of young women who’d poured into the area seeking employment on the government reservation. But, in reality, Camille had been sent to observe a smaller and even more highly classified entity known as Project Rainbow. The unit was run by Dr. Nicholas Kessler, a world-renowned scientist whose research into electromagnetic fields had attracted the military’s attention at the start of the war.
He didn’t know it yet, but Dr. Kessler’s future was irrevocably tied to Camille’s. She had been sent to protect him, but if her cover had been compromised, the whole mission could be in jeopardy. It would be difficult to insure Dr. Kessler’s safety if she ended up dead in an alley somewhere.
Grimacing at the image, she shot another glance over her shoulder as she approached the gate. Flashing her pass at the guard, she waited for him to lift the barricade, then smiled and waved as she drove through.
Outside the barbed-wire fence, she relaxed a bit as she headed north toward Ashton, a small community five miles away where she’d been fortunate enough to find a cottage for rent. The massive influx of workers to the area had quickly eaten up all the government housing so that newcomers were forced to seek accommodations outside the reservation. Those commuting back and forth not only had to contend with the resentment of the locals, but with gas rationing and long lines of traffic to and from the project.
Camille had been worried at first that living away from the city might hamper her ability to carry out her mission, but so far it had worked out rather well. Ashton was a small, close-knit community, and she knew that if anyone suspicious showed up in the vicinity asking the wrong questions, she was bound to hear about it.
She’d also quickly come to appreciate the tranquility of the cottage. The house was situated on a lake, and the breezes blowing in from the water at night reminded her of happier times. When Adam was still alive.
Even after all this time, the thought of her son still brought quick tears. He’d been gone for over a year, but the pain was still as sharp and deep as the day she’d lost him. The only thing that had changed was her anger. It seemed to grow stronger and more consuming with each passing day. Anger at herself for not being able to protect him. Anger at the person who was ultimately responsible for his death.
And anger at the one man who might have been able to prevent it.
An image of that man slipped through the walls Camille had built around her heart, and, for a moment, she remembered too much. Dark eyes and a deep voice. Strong hands and a knowing touch.
The way he’d held her in the darkness. The way he’d kissed her, caressed her, moved her in ways no man had ever moved her before.
He’d been the love of her life.
And now he no longer remembered her.
But there had to be something left of his feelings for her, Camille thought bitterly. Some buried remnant of emotion that she could use to her advantage when he showed up here.
And he would come. She knew it without a doubt. That was the reason she’d been sent here, after all. To find out what he was up to and then, if necessary, stop him at any cost.
At any cost.
Her hands gripped the wheel as she thought about what that might entail. Lies. Deception. Murder.
Camille began to tremble. Taking a life, even in wartime, wasn’t something she contemplated lightly. Taking the life of a man she’d once loved so deeply would surely earn her a very special place in hell.
So be it. He was the enemy now.
God help her—God help them all—if she forgot that fact even for a second.
Chapter One
Philadelphia,
Present Day
It was the fourth night in a row the old man had come into Blue Monday’s. Zac Riley supposed he should be grateful the club had attracted a new customer. God knows there’d been few enough of those, young or old, in recent months, and if traffic didn’t pick up, he’d soon be out of a job. Again.
Still, a guy who looked to have one foot in the grave was hardly the target clientele of a waterfront blues club. And there was something about the man, apart from his age, that gave Zac the creeps. He didn’t know why, exactly, but he figured it had something to do with the dream. The sudden reoccurrence of the nightmare coincided with the old man’s first appearance in the club. And Zac had had the dream every night since.
The details never varied. He was always trapped in a cold, dark, windowless place with no way out. He could hear the clanking of metal, the steady drip of water and, in the distance, screams.
But upon awakening, what Zac always recalled most vividly about the dream was his fear. A mind-numbing terror like nothing he’d ever known before.
Afterward he would lie awake for hours, not daring to fall back asleep. But sometimes he’d drift off in spite of himself and that’s when she would come. A woman shrouded by mist. A temptress who beckoned and enticed but always remained maddeningly elusive, just out of Zac’s reach.
He had no idea if she was real or not. Maybe she was someone he’d known a long time ago—a lifetime ago—before the accident had wiped out a good portion of his memory. Or maybe she was nothing but a fantasy, a dream lover conjured out of fear and desperation.
Whoever she was, whatever she was, she’d haunted Zac’s sleep for years.
And now he had the sudden, unaccountable notion that she and the old man were somehow connected.
A chill rode up his spine as he tracked the man’s labored progress to the end of the bar where he perched, with no small effort, on a stool, then sat with arms folded, head bowed, waiting.
What’s your story? Zac wondered.
What was a guy like that doing in a place like this? The drinks were watery, the atmosphere gloomy, the location on the dark and sleazy fringes of hip and pricey South Street. There were hundreds of bars scattered all over the City of Brotherly Love. What had brought him to this one?
Zac didn’t think the old guy was homeless. He tipped too generously to be down on his luck, but he had the look of a man that time had forgotten. His heavy wool overcoat was threadbare in places, but Zac suspected it had once been quite elegant, perhaps custom-made for the man’s tall, slender physique.
Zac waited a couple of beats, then ambled to the end of the bar. Wiping off the mahogany surface, he said cheerfully, “What’ll it be tonight?”
“Whiskey,” the man muttered without looking up.
His raspy voice was like nails on a chalkboard to Zac. He poured the whiskey, then slid the drink across the bar. As the old man’s skeletal fingers closed around the glass, he glanced up. His eyes were the color of night. Dark, cold, scary.
Disconcerted by the man’s stare, Zac started to turn away, then paused. “Do I know you? Have we met before?”
The old man lifted his whiskey. “Do you think we’ve met before?”
Zac tried to laugh off his uneasiness. “Now you sound like a shrink.”
The old man lowered his empty glass. “I’m not a shrink. I’m a scientist.”
“A scientist, huh? We don’t get many of those in here.” Zac scrubbed at an invisible ring on the bar. “So what brings an educated man like yourself to a dump like this?”
“You do, Zac.”
The hair at the back of Zac’s neck rose. “How do you know my name?”
The dark eyes gleamed in the murky light. “I know a lot about you. Probably more than you know about yourself.”
“Is that right?” Zac felt the first stirrings of anger. And maybe even a touch of fear. “How do you figure that?”
“Because I’m the man who created you.”
Something tightened around Zac’s heart. Like a fist trying to squeeze the life out of him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he demanded, thoroughly unnerved now by the stranger.
The man smiled slightly as he fished a card from his coat pocket and laid it on the bar. Zac glanced down in spite of himself. Dr. Joseph Von Meter. The address was in the Chestnut Hill area, a historic neighborhood about as far removed from Blue Monday’s as one could imagine.
Zac lifted his gaze. “You’re a long way from home, old man.”
“As are you, Zac. You have no idea.”
HE CAME BACK THE NEXT NIGHT. And the next two nights after that. It was easy to avoid him on the weekend. The live music of Blue Monday’s attracted a noisy crowd—aging hippies for the most part and some suburbanites in town for a night of drinking and slumming. Zac kept his distance, allowing the new bartender to wait on the strange old man.
But the place was empty again on Sunday night, and Zac was alone behind the bar when Von Meter showed up, precisely at nine, just like the other nights.
Bored and anxious to close up, Zac had been staring out the window when the limo pulled to the curb in front of the club. A uniformed driver got out and came around to open the back door, then reached a gloved hand down to help his passenger disembark.
Definitely not homeless, Zac thought, watching the old man shuffle through the snow.
The driver waited until his charge was at the door, then he got back in the car and drove off.
A blast of cold air followed Von Meter into the club. He wore the same rumpled suit under the same shabby overcoat with the same hat pulled low over his eyes. He hobbled to the end of the bar and took his usual seat even though the stools closer to the door were unoccupied. Folding his arms on the bar, he bowed his head and waited.
Zac’s nerve endings tingled in apprehension as he studied the old man’s profile, what he could see of it, and he berated himself for not closing up earlier. He hadn’t had a customer all night. The snowstorm had kept everyone home, which was where he should have been hours ago. Had he subconsciously been waiting for Von Meter to show up?
“I know a lot about you. Probably more than you know about yourself.”
“I’m the man who created you.”
Telling himself he should throw the old goat out and be done with it, Zac walked slowly down the bar until he stood in front of Von Meter. “What’ll it be tonight?”
“Whiskey,” the old man rasped.
Zac poured the drink, then slid it across the bar. As the man’s wasted fingers closed around the glass, a feeling of déjà vu crept over Zac. They’d played this scene too many times before.
“How long do you plan on keeping this up?” he asked abruptly.
The old man set the empty glass on the table and lifted his gaze to Zac’s. His eyes were darker than Zac remembered. Dark and cold and…somehow timeless. “Until you ask the right question.”
Zac lifted an eyebrow. “Then why don’t you save us both a lot of trouble and tell me what the right question is?”
The old man licked his lips, as if savoring the taste of the whiskey. “You don’t remember much about your past, do you?”
“I don’t remember you,” Zac said. “But I get the impression you think we know each other. How did you put it? Oh, yeah. You’re the man who created me. Next thing I know, you’ll be telling me you’re my long-lost father or something.”
The dark eyes held Zac’s gaze. “I’m not your father. But we are connected.”
“How?”
He didn’t answer immediately, but instead slid his glass across the counter for a refill. When Zac complied, the old man’s gaze turned enigmatic. “Shall I tell you about the woman?”
Zac’s blood froze and, for a moment, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even breathe. Then he said angrily, “What woman? What the hell are you talking about?”
“The woman you dream about. She’s lovely, isn’t she? Ethereal. Ghostlike. Too beautiful to be real.”
Enough, Zac thought. Von Meter wasn’t just creeping him out now. He was starting to scare him. And, apart from the nightmares, Zac didn’t scare easily. “How do you know about her?”
The old man leaned across the bar. “I created her. I put her in your head. She was my gift to you.”
“You created her, you created me. Who are you, God?”
Von Meter merely smiled at Zac’s sarcasm and fished another card from his pocket. He laid it on the bar, faceup, and rose shakily to his feet. “Memories are a funny thing, Zac. In the right hands, they can be manipulated, suppressed, planted. How can you know what’s real? And do you really want to know?”
“Look,” Zac said angrily. “I don’t know what kind of head games you’re trying to play here, but I want no part of it. You come in here again, I’ll throw you out. You understand?”
“I understand everything. And soon you will, too.” With that, the old man shambled across the room to the front door and drew it open. Through the eddying snow, Zac caught a glimpse of the limo gliding to the curb, as if the driver had been summoned by a telepathic command. A moment later, they were gone.
FOR THE REST OF THE EVENING, Zac tried to ignore the warning bells clanging inside his head, the gnawing sensation in his gut that told him disaster lurked around the corner. As he got ready to close up, he tried to convince himself that Von Meter was just some weird old guy getting off by messing with his head.
But as the night wore on, so did Zac’s uneasiness.
Locking up, he grabbed his coat, then paused on his way out as his gaze lit on the card still lying faceup on the bar. His first instinct was to toss it the way he had the other one, but, changing his mind, he grabbed it and stuffed it into his coat pocket as he headed out the door.
The snow was coming down harder now. Shivering in his lightweight jacket, Zac paused in front of the tattoo parlor next door to watch. Even in the garish lights, the flakes were beautiful. White. Crystalline. Dreamlike. Their delicate beauty reminded him of something…someone…
“I created her. I put her in your head. She was my gift to you.”
Zac tried to conjure an image of the woman now, but suddenly she was more elusive than ever.
“Memories are a funny thing, Zac. In the right hands, they can be manipulated, suppressed, planted. How can you know what’s real? And do you really want to know?”
Ducking his head from the cold, Zac hurried down the street. The wind blowing off the Delaware River was brutal tonight, but luckily, he didn’t have far to go. The two-room flat he rented was just at the end of the street.
He was halfway home, lost in thought, when a cab pulled to the curb beside him. As Zac strode past, he could see that the driver was alone in the car. He sat slumped in the seat, arms folded, as if waiting for a fare.
But the streets were deserted.
Except for Zac.
His hands were in his pockets and he fingered the business card he’d stuffed in there earlier. He pulled it out now and gazed at the name and address under the streetlight.
Backtracking down the sidewalk, he rapped his knuckles on the driver’s window. “Hey, you waiting for somebody?”
The driver rolled down the glass. “Just you, buddy. Where you want to go?”
“Chestnut Hill.” Zac gave the man the address, then asked about the fare. Whistling softly at the amount, he mentally counted the cash he had in his wallet. The trip would take about half of what he had on him—his life savings—but what the hell? Who needed to eat?
Climbing into the back of the cab, Zac leaned his head against the shabby upholstery, enjoying the warmth from the heater. He must have dozed off because it seemed like only moments later that the driver was rousing him.
“Hey, buddy, you awake back there?”
Zac sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, I’m awake.” But he had the disconcerting notion that he had somehow been transported to a strange, new world. The neighborhood was one of those dreamy, Christmas-card-looking places made even more surreal by the swirling snow.
“Pretty swanky address, if you don’t mind my saying so,” the driver observed.
Yeah, Zac thought. And why do I have the feeling I’m about to fall down a rabbit hole?
He paid the man, then got out and stood for a moment, gazing around. Von Meter’s place was a three-story redbrick town house segregated from the street by an ornate wrought-iron fence. The gate had been left ajar, as if in anticipation of Zac’s arrival.
He stepped into the courtyard, a frozen wonderland with icicles dripping from a fountain and stone statuary cloaked in snow. If possible the wind was harsher here than on the waterfront, and Zac hurried up the cobblestone walkway to ring the front bell. A uniformed maid promptly answered the door. “Yes?”
“My name is Zac Riley. I’m here to see Dr. Von Meter.”
He wouldn’t have been surprised if the young woman had turned him away, but instead she smiled and curtsied and beckoned him inside the warm house. “Please come in, Mr. Riley. Dr. Von Meter is expecting you.”
“He is?”
“Why, yes, of course. May I take your coat?”
“No, I think I’ll keep it if you don’t mind.” Never knew when you might need to make a speedy exit, Zac decided, his gaze taking in the luxurious surroundings.
The foyer was large and spacious with an inlaid wood floor, a magnificent, curving staircase and a domed skylight from which one could watch the clouds by day and the stars by night. Tonight, however, the etched glass was banked with snow, giving Zac a touch of claustrophobia.
The maid led him down a dim hallway to a set of ornate wooden doors, which she drew open after a discreet knock. The room inside was richly furnished in leather and tapestries and floor-to-ceiling bookcases packed with gilded tomes. It smelled of cigar smoke and old secrets.
Von Meter stood at the window, staring out.
“Mr. Riley is here to see you,” the maid announced softly.
The old man didn’t say a word, but a brief nod of his head seemed communication enough for the maid. She motioned Zac inside, then backed out of the room. Only when he heard the doors close did Von Meter finally turn.
He looked different tonight. His hair was a dingy white, like day-old snow, and his face was even leaner than Zac remembered, the frail, taut skin appearing to have the suppleness of parchment.
“This is some place,” Zac said.
Von Meter smiled faintly. “It’s old and drafty, but it suits my needs.”
Something about the comment made Zac wonder if they’d had a similar conversation before. “It beats the dump I’m staying in now,” he said with a shrug.
“Perhaps.” The old man walked over to his desk and sat down, then gestured to a chair across from him. “But your apartment has its attractions, does it not? I’m referring to the young lady in 3C, of course.”
The muscles in Zac’s stomach tightened. “How do you know about her?”
“The two of you have become quite close in recent weeks. I’m afraid that has to end. You can’t afford the distraction.”
Zac leaped to his feet, the old man’s presumption making him suddenly furious. “What is this? How do you know about my personal life? How the hell do you know anything about me?”
Von Meter remained outwardly complacent. “Please try to calm yourself. Everything will be clear to you soon.”
He pressed a button on his desk, and, a moment later, the maid opened the door. “Yes?”
“Is Roth still here?”
“I believe he’s in the solarium, sir.”
“Would you ask him to come in?”
“Of course.”
A moment later, the door opened again, and a tall, well-dressed man with a lean, muscular build strode through. His hair, a strange silvery color, was a striking counterpoint to the black turtleneck he wore, but the most remarkable thing about his appearance was the color of his eyes—one blue, one green and both cold as ice.
As their gazes collided, a shiver went up Zac’s spine. He wasn’t one for making snap judgments, but he had an immediate aversion to the man. In spite of the expensive clothes and carefully styled hair, there was something…unseemly about his appearance. As if the man’s sinister nature lurked just beneath the surface, waiting to suck in the unsuspecting.
A nasty customer, Zac thought, and he’d met more than a few in his time.
As if reading his mind, the man smiled. “Well, well, well,” he said in a voice that might have belonged to the devil himself. It was smooth, oily, decadent. “The infamous Zac Riley.”
“You know me?” Zac said with a frown. If their paths had crossed, he was glad that memory hadn’t survived.
“Perhaps the explanations are best left to Dr. Von Meter,” the man suggested.
“Yes, perhaps they are,” Von Meter agreed. He turned back to Zac. “This is Roth Vogel, Zac. He’s here to assist in your briefing, but first, we need to get you settled. We have a room prepared for you upstairs. I’ll send someone to your apartment to pack up your things—”
“Like hell you will.” Zac shot to his feet. “I don’t know what kind of scam you’re trying to pull, old man, but I don’t want any part of it.”
He spun, but before he could cross the room, the door slammed shut, apparently of its own volition. He whipped around to find a gun pointed at his chest. His gaze lifted to Vogel’s and the man’s eyes gleamed in anticipation. Zac knew that look. He’d seen it before, on a man who’d tried to slit his throat in a dark alley one night for the twenty bucks he had in his wallet. Tried was the operative word.
“What the hell is this?” he asked through clenched teeth. “Some kind of shakedown? I hate to disappoint you, but I’ve got about ten bucks in my pocket. You think you can take it, have at it,” he challenged Vogel.
“Put that thing away,” Von Meter barked. “There is no need for violence.” When Vogel reluctantly complied, the old man said to Zac, “I apologize. You aren’t a prisoner here. You’re free to leave any time you wish.”
“In that case, hasta la vista.” He gave them both a quick salute.
A muscle twitched at the corner of Vogel’s left eye—the blue one—as if he was having a very hard time suppressing his temper. Or his trigger finger.
A nasty customer indeed, Zac thought as he strode through the doorway and down the hallway to the foyer, expecting to hear, at any moment, the sound of footsteps in hot pursuit. But no one followed him or tried to stop him as he drew open the front door and walked out.
Once on the frosty street, he hailed a taxi, climbed into the back seat, then, before they could drive off, he got out again. Ignoring the driver’s indignant curse, Zac returned to the house and rang the bell. The same maid answered the door, and this time Zac let her take his coat. When she showed him to the study, Von Meter was alone once more.
“Allow me to apologize again for Roth’s behavior.” He motioned Zac to a seat.
“What the hell was that all about?” Zac demanded.
Distaste flickered across Von Meter’s face. “You’re referring to the gun.”
“And the slamming door. How’d you manage that little trick?”
“It wasn’t a trick. Roth is a very gifted telekinetic.”
“A telekinetic, huh? And here I thought he was just your everyday asshole.”
“He is temperamental, I’ll grant you that. Impulsive. Insubordinate. Ambitious. A loose cannon, I believe is the term used these days.” Von Meter sighed. “But he has his uses.”
“Forget about Vogel,” Zac said bluntly. “What do you want from me?”
“I want to help you,” Von Meter replied. “You want to know about your past. I can supply the missing details. But first, I need to know what you do remember.”
“Why?”
“How would I know where to begin, otherwise?”
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