Читать книгу: «The Colonel's Widow?»

Mallory Kane credits her love of books to her mother, a librarian, who taught her that books are a precious resource and should be treated with loving respect. Her father and grandfather were steeped in the Southern tradition of oral history and could hold an audience spellbound for hours with their storytelling skills. Mallory aspires to be as good a storyteller as her father.

Mallory lives in Mississippi with her computer-genius husband, their two fascinating cats and, at current count, seven computers. She loves to hear from readers. You can write to her at mallory@mallorykane.com

For Daddy, a hero by any definition.

Chapter One

Moonlight sprinkled pale silver across Rook Castle’s bare back, buttocks and thighs. His muscles tensed and rippled as he thrust once, twice, again and again, filling her with familiar, exquisite heat.

Irina’s fingers slid through her husband’s softly waving hair. She arched upward, pressing her breasts against his hot chest, demanding more.

He lifted himself, his biceps straining, glistening with sweat and moondust. He gave her more—gave her everything she craved. His deep, green stare mesmerized her.

“Rook,” she whispered. “Why did you marry me?”

He went still. The moonlight no longer shimmered along his flanks and shoulders.

When would she learn to keep her mouth shut?

His arms quivered with effort as he held himself suspended above her. His arousal pulsed inside her.

“Rina—” he muttered, something between a warning and an endearment. Dipping his head, he sought her mouth.

She longed to kiss him, to surround herself with his powerful body, to feel him in her and around her as she had so many times before.

But her hands acted against her will and pushed at his chest. Resisting. She struggled to maintain eye contact. “Why?” she repeated.

“You know why,” he whispered, his breath tickling her eyelashes.

“Tell me.”

He kissed her eyelids, her cheek, the sweet spot below her earlobe. Then he moved, rocking her with a slow rhythm born of trust and familiarity. His chest rumbled with languid laughter when she gasped.

“Shh,” he whispered. “Come with me.”

She tasted sweat on his neck—salty, delicious. “Rook, please?”

With a frustrated sigh, he lifted his head. A jagged shadow defined his rigid jaw.

“I had to marry you,” he said. “It was the only way I could protect you.”

“But what about love?” Dear God, she was pathetic.

“Love? Rina, don’t—” His voice rasped.

Then blood blossomed on his chest.

“No!” She reached for him, but her fingers slipped in the hot, sticky liquid.

“Rook!” she shrieked. “No! Help! Somebody help!”

He clutched at his chest.

She screamed.

His eyes met hers and he whispered something—she couldn’t tell what.

She grabbed his arm, but he was too heavy. She couldn’t hold on to him.

The last thing she saw was his beautiful face distorted by the bloodstained waters of the Mediterranean as he sank beneath its waves.

Irina Castle bolted upright, gasping for breath.

“No!” The word rasped past her constricted throat, pulling her out of the dream.

She wasn’t on their yacht. She was at Castle Ranch, alone. She kicked the covers away and gulped in air. The taste of his sweat stung her tongue.

No. Not his sweat. Her tears.

Harsh moonlight glinted like a knife blade on every surface. She covered her face with her hands, trying to block it out.

She hated moonlight. Hated night. Darkness brought the fear, and moonlight brought the dream.

Every night she promised herself that next time she wouldn’t ask him. Next time, she’d take all the dream would give and hold out for more. After all, her memories were all she had left.

But every night she asked.

Sliding out of bed, she reached to close the drapes and shut out the moon’s light. But her skin burned and perspiration prickled the nape of her neck, so instead she flung open the French doors.

Cold air sent shivers crawling down her spine. She took another deep breath, hoping the sharp April chill would chase away the tattered remnants of her nightmare.

No such luck. Her body still quivered with unquenched desire. The empty place inside her still ached with grief.

In the distance, the Black Hills of Wyoming loomed in magnificent desolation. Rook had loved the mountains. He’d drawn strength and purpose from them. And like the Black Hills fed him, his strength, his dedication, his larger-than-life presence had fed her.

Then he’d been shot. His body was never recovered. So for the past two years, she’d poured money into looking for him.

Two weeks ago, her accountant had issued an ultimatum—stop her unending search for Rook, or dissolve Black Hills Search and Rescue, the legacy he’d devoted his life to.

She stopped the search. How could she have known that her decision would set events in motion that would nearly destroy his two closest friends?

HE COULDN’T SLEEP. Hadn’t been able to since he’d been released from the hospital. The idea that he’d been shot—shot—still spooked him. He was lucky to be alive.

So he sat up, looking out the window toward the ranch house. Toward Irina’s bedroom. One of his favorite pastimes was watching her bedroom at night. She rarely closed the drapes.

He saw movement. Irina stepped out onto her patio with the red gown on—his favorite. She couldn’t sleep, either. He watched her for a while, noticing that the pain from his gunshot wound wasn’t so bad while he watched her.

Then he saw something—someone—inside the bedroom.

“Irina, don’t tell me you’ve got a man in there,” he whispered.

A cloud drifted by and the moonlight got brighter. He could see the man’s face clearly. Cunningham. He’d know that hard face anywhere. What the hell was he doing in Irina’s suite? At midnight?

He stood carefully, groaning with pain and dizziness, and got his shaving kit. Inside, hidden with the rest of his stash of goodies, was a LoJack.

It didn’t matter what Cunningham was doing in Irina’s suite. What mattered was that he had a window of opportunity to keep up with his every move.

He sighed and clenched his teeth against the throbbing pain. He didn’t want to go out there. He wanted to take another painkiller and go to bed. But he had a feeling this late-night meeting between Irina and Deke was no lovers’ assignation.

From the way Irina was acting, she didn’t know Cunningham was there.

Was this the night Cunningham would lead them to Rook Castle?

Pulling on a jacket, he stuck the LoJack in a pocket and took one more longing look at the bottle of painkillers on his bathroom sink. He needed one—bad. But he had to take care of business first.

Novus Ordo was willing to spend millions to find and capture his nemesis, Rook Castle.

He wanted at least one of those millions as a finder’s fee.

BLACK HILLS SEARCH and Rescue specialist Deke Cunningham moved silently through the east wing of the sprawling ranch house. Behind him, beyond the enclosed courtyard, past the living room and kitchen, was the west wing, home of the offices of Black Hills Search and Rescue. The building to the south housed the staff quarters.

Hard to believe it had only been two weeks since Irina had called Matt Parker back from overseas.

A lot had happened, not the least of which was that he’d become a father.

Unbelievable. And thrilling. An involuntary grin stretched his mouth as he thought of Mindy and his newborn son.

On the heels of his grin came a wince. His tongue sought the cut on his lip that matched the one over his eye as he stopped in front of the door to Irina’s suite.

Damn, he didn’t want to be here. He wanted to be at the hospital with Mindy and their baby. He wanted to be planning their future together as a family.

But even more, he wanted to be in a different world. A world where his best friend hadn’t had to die in order to save his wife. A world where a terrorist hadn’t made it his mission to kill Rook Castle and everyone close to him.

But that world didn’t exist. So he had to do his best to clean up this one—to make it safe for the people he loved. And one of those people was Irina Castle, Rook’s widow.

He took a deep breath and glanced up and down the hall. There were four suites in the east wing. Irina’s, of course. Next to hers was the one he’d lived in until he’d left on a mission to rescue his ex-wife, Mindy.

The suite directly across from his belonged to Rook’s baby sister, Jennie. For the past two years, she’d been living in Texas with a family friend and attending graduate school. The fourth suite, opposite Irina’s rooms, was empty.

Satisfied that there was no one around, Deke gripped the door handle. He’d waited until two o’clock in the morning for a reason. If he’d ever been on a stealth mission in his life, this was it.

The door was unlocked. “Dammit, Irina,” he whispered. “You know the danger.”

He eased open the door and peeked around it. Moonlight angled across the rumpled bed.

The rumpled, empty bed.

Instantly on alert, he drew his weapon as he slipped inside and closed the door. A movement caught his eye. Curtains ruffling in the breeze. The French doors were open.

His unease ratcheted up a notch. Dan Taylor had assured him that there wasn’t a chance in hell anyone could sneak past the Secret Service’s perimeter onto the ranch. But Dan didn’t know Novus Ordo.

Deke did.

He’d experienced firsthand what the internationally famous terrorist Novus was capable of. Twice. So it would take more than the word of a young hotshot with lots of civilian training and zero field experience to put him at ease.

Deke moved silently across the room, trying to position himself to see the entire patio without stepping out of the shadows. The French doors faced south, which meant she could be seen from the guesthouse, where the three specialists lived. If she was out there, they could see her—and him if he wasn’t careful.

He knew from the gate guard that all three were there. And he had a very good reason for not wanting any of the three to know he was here.

He took another step, craning his neck to see the southwest corner. Finally, he saw a flash of red. There she was, in a red gown and robe, bathed in moonlight. She had her arms wrapped around herself, and her head was bowed.

He blew out his breath in relief and frustration. She was all right. But she was exposed. He sank back against the wall.

Now what?

He had to get her out of here and on the road. Every second increased the danger that he’d be spotted.

He thought about calling out to her, but if someone was watching, her reaction would alert them.

And once they were alerted, it wouldn’t take them long to figure out that there was only one reason he’d be spiriting Irina away from Castle Ranch—the one place on earth she should be safe—in the middle of the night. And right now he couldn’t risk anyone knowing where he was taking her. Not even his fellow BHSAR specialists.

Gritting his teeth, he waited, absently rubbing at the bandage on his right forearm. The surgeon had done a great job of stitching up his arm—thirty-two stitches—but the deep slash itched and hurt like a sonofabitch, courtesy of the weasel who’d called himself Frank James.

He’d like to have five minutes alone with James. Hell, three minutes would be plenty. But that was impossible. The dynamite he’d set off in a last-ditch effort to save Mindy and their unborn son had taken care of James and Novus Ordo’s soldiers—permanently.

A rustle of silk pulled Deke’s gaze to the French doors. Irina’s shadow stretched across the bedroom floor. She was coming inside.

No matter what he did, his presence was going to scare her, so he stood still and waited until she stepped inside and closed the heavy drapes.

She headed toward the bed, reaching for the sash of the shimmery red robe. Then she stopped, her palm pressed against her midsection. She’d sensed him. Slowly, she turned her head.

“Irina,” he said softly. “Stay quiet.”

SHOCK PARALYZED Irina. She tried to suck in enough breath to scream, but her throat seized. She coughed and gasped.

“It’s Deke,” the voice said.

Deke. She shuddered as relief whooshed through her, followed by ringing alarm.

“Deke?” she said, her voice rising. “What’s wrong?”

“Be quiet. Okay?”

She nodded.

“I’m serious. Promise?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Is it Mindy? Or the baby?”

He put two fingertips against her mouth. “They’re fine. Listen. I’ve got to get you out of here.”

Fear tore through her like lightning. It had happened. Danger had penetrated her home. She’d known it would one day.

“I’ll get dressed,” she whispered.

Deke shook his head and grabbed her hand. “No. No lights. No movement. I can’t risk anyone knowing I was here.”

Nothing Deke said made sense. “But—”

“Irina, we’ve got to go now.”

IT DIDN’T TAKE Irina long to figure out where Deke was taking her. The route was familiar. They were headed to a hunting cabin Rook had acquired years ago. He’d managed to keep the title and tax papers in the name of the original owner and hadn’t told anyone about it, except Deke and Matt, his oath brothers.

He’d called it their getaway house. A place the two of them could go where no one could find them if they didn’t want to be found.

She hadn’t been there since he’d died. Their last night there had been too painful to relive. Besides, why go alone?

Irina folded her arms beneath the wool throw Deke had tossed her way when he’d gotten into the SUV. She stared at the road, not bothering to hide her annoyance. Several times, she’d tried to engage him in conversation, to no avail.

He acted as if he were too busy making sure they weren’t being followed. Rook’s best friend had always treated her with loving respect, but for whatever reason, tonight he wasn’t answering any questions.

So she clamped her mouth shut and snuggled deeper under the throw. Her flimsy silk robe offered little protection against the late April chill. She shuddered. Nothing short of a direct and imminent threat would have made Deke ignore her comfort or dignity. Fortunately, she had clothes at the cabin.

Once they reached the hunting camp and Deke was satisfied that she was safe, she’d unload on him. She didn’t get angry often—temper rarely helped any situation—but she didn’t like being bullied. Not even by the man who’d appointed himself her protector after her husband’s death, and not even if it was supposedly for her own good.

Deke spoke only once during the hour’s drive, and then not even to her. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a pre-programmed number. He listened for a few seconds.

“Dammit,” he muttered. After another couple of seconds, he hung up and glanced at the tiny screen, as if to check the number he’d dialed. Then he shot her an awkward glance and turned his attention back to his driving.

Irina bit her tongue to stop herself from asking who he was trying to reach. He’d tell her when he felt like it.

The road ended a quarter mile from the camp, but Deke barely slowed down. He circled around and drove up behind the cabin, where he parked and shut off the engine of the large SUV.

Irina reached for the door handle.

“Wait,” he snapped.

He retrieved his phone and pressed the redial button, hissing in frustration through clenched teeth.

After a few seconds, he sucked in a sharp breath. “Where have you been?” he growled.

Irina held her breath and listened, but she couldn’t hear the person on the other end of the line.

“You could have waited. I was afraid you—” he stopped. “Yeah, okay. We’re here. I’ll bring her inside, then put the car in the barn.” He paused, listening.

“Nope,” he snapped. “No way. You’re on your own this time. I’m going to take a look around. I’ll be in later.” He hung up and got out of the car.

Irina didn’t bother to ask who’d been on the phone. Judging by the brevity of the conversation, she figured it was probably Brock, the oldest and most experienced of the Black Hills Search and Rescue specialists. Brock O’Neill’s conversational style was terse at best.

As soon as she entered the rustic kitchen, she saw dim light coming from the front room. “Is that a fire? Or is the generator running?” she asked.

He didn’t answer.

“Deke, stop acting like a secret agent and tell me what is going on! Who’s here? Is it Brock?”

He set down his black duffel bag. “I’m not playing. Don’t worry, you’re safe. I’m going to hide the car. Irina—” He laid a hand on her arm, as if about to say something else.

She waited, apprehension crawling up her throat.

“Just remember that all this—was for you.” He turned and went out the door, locking it behind him.

Irina stared at the door for a few seconds, as Deke’s words replayed over and over in her head.

All this was for you.

“All of what?” she whispered. Shaking her head, she stepped through the dining room and into the front room. One lamp shone dimly, competing with the fireplace for the privilege of staving off the darkness. The only sound she heard was the crackling of the flames.

But she knew she wasn’t alone.

Her breath hitched. Deke had promised her she was safe, she reminded herself. He’d promised her, ever since Rook’s death, that he’d take care of her, and he had.

“Hello? Brock?” She spoke softly. “Is that you?”

No answer. Yet she felt a presence.

“Who’s here?” she asked sharply.

Did she only imagine she heard breathing? She squinted, trying to see past the shadows. From the corner of her eye she recognized the old bookshelf to her right. It was on the wall opposite the fireplace. It was one of many places in the cabin where Rook had hidden loaded guns.

She’d never liked all the weapons. He’d turned their secret getaway into a secret arsenal. She’d complained a million times that she’d seen all the guns she ever wanted to see during her childhood in Russia. Still, she couldn’t deny that right now she was glad to have a loaded weapon within reach. If she remembered correctly, this one was a Glock. She took a step toward the bookcase.

“Hello, Rina.”

She whirled, startled. Nobody called her Rina—not anymore.

A lone figure stood to one side of the fireplace. All she could see was a silhouette.

“Who—?” Before she could gather breath to say more, the person took a step forward. When the light hit his face, a giant fist grabbed her insides and wrung them tight—so tight she couldn’t breathe.

“What’s going on?” she gasped, gulping in air and casting about, as if an explanation lurked somewhere in the room.

“It’s okay.” A whisper. The figure held up a hand. “Irina…it’s me.”

A sharp ache burned through her chest. An ache of loss, of grief. Of denial.

“No,” she breathed, shaking her head. Whoever was standing there, whatever was going on, she knew one thing for certain. His words were a lie. It wasn’t him.

It couldn’t be. He was dead.

She took a shuddering breath. “I—I don’t understand—”

“I know you don’t.”

The sound of the man’s voice sheared her breath and spasmed her throat. The words were tentative, the voice was hoarse and hesitant, but she knew it. Just like she knew the broad shoulders, the long powerful legs, the rugged profile outlined by the flickering firelight.

Knew them, yes. But believe what she heard and saw? No way.

It was impossible.

She clapped her hands over her mouth as her brain denied what her eyes saw. Was this another, more astounding dream? A dream she’d never—even in sleep—dared to contemplate?

Her hands slid down to cover her pounding heart. “Who are you?” she asked. “Where’s Brock?”

He took another step forward.

She instinctively stepped backward, maintaining the distance between them. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Her throat closed up. Her whole body contracted, as if turning inward in an effort to protect her.

For an instant, her panicked brain considered running. Deke was in the barn. But she’d have to go past—

Her breath hitched.

His brows drew down and he took a step closer.

She stiffened, and he stopped.

She couldn’t take her eyes off his face. His cheeks were leaner, his hair was all wrong—long and shaggy and damp, as if he’d just gotten out of a shower—and his eyes were haunted and sad. He was wearing dress pants without a belt, and a dress shirt that hung unbut-toned and untucked over the pants. And he was barefoot.

It was him.

Or a dream of him.

Darkness gathered at the edge of her vision, like a fade to black.

Like a dream. That had to be it. It was the only explanation that made sense.

She hadn’t eaten dinner, and she’d drunk a glass of wine. Maybe she’d never woken up at all. She was still in bed, immersed in dreams. She pinched her arm, feeling silly.

Nothing changed.

The man standing in front of her lowered his gaze to the floor, then raised it again. When he did, a burning log collapsed, sending more light splashing across his face.

His face. The last time she’d seen those lean cheeks, that long straight nose, that wide sexy mouth, they had been horribly distorted by the dark Mediterranean waters.

“Go away,” she cried. “Why are you doing this to me? You can’t be here, Rook. You cannot. You are dead.”