Rebecca York (5 page)

Her arms came up to circle his neck; her cheek settled against his shoulder as he pulled her close, held her fast. Then one long-fingered hand wove into her hair while the other caressed a hot, erotic path down her back to the base of her spine.

"Yes. Oh, yes." The words sighed from her lips. She had never felt anything so sensual. And she knew she had longed for his touch all her life. Needed it. And never found it.

She moved urgently against him, the hard points of her nipples pressing against his chest, increasing her arousal— and his. Liquid heat invaded her body. It was good. So good. More than she could ever have imagined.

Then all at once it was too much. The pleasure was so intense it hurt. Prickles of pain danced across her skin, sending sharp, probing darts into her mind. Gasping, she pushed against his chest and tried to wrench away.

He clasped her by the shoulders. "Don't fight me. It won't work if you fight me."

"What's happening to us?" she begged for an answer.

Instead of speaking, he lowered his head to hers, his lips a bare whisper from her mouth. In that charged moment she knew that if he kissed her, there was no going back. Her body would flow into his. Her mind would ...

There were no words for the mixture of deep longing and primal fear that welled up from the depth of her soul. The fear was stronger, and she brought her hands up, pushing frantically against his chest.

"No. Please don't."

All at once, she was alone. Her mother's house had vanished, and she was sitting up in bed, her skin covered with perspiration, her heart threatening to pound itself though the wall of her chest. Her hands clutched at the tangled bedclothes as she fought to anchor herself to reality. To her bedroom.

She was awake, but the dream still held her in its power. Closing her eyes, she touched her own body, intensifying the erotic sensations from the dream. Her past experiences with men had been lukewarm at best. Yet here she was— turned on past endurance and building a white-hot fantasy about a man she didn't even like.

"Jordan Walker." She whispered his name into the darkness, then pressed her palms against the mattress.

Taking several shallow breaths, she tried to bring her body and her emotions under control. It was just a dream, she told herself. It didn't mean anything. It hadn't meant anything when he'd touched her at the party, either.

Deep down she knew she was lying to herself, but she wasn't ready to deal with the experience.

Sighing, she glanced at the clock. Five a.m. She could have used another hour's sleep. But she didn't want to risk a repetition of the dream, didn't want to face the hot, sexual intensity or the fear.

Instead of remaining in bed, she swung her legs over the side and headed for a cold shower. As long as she was up, she could use her home computer to start digging into the Navy equipment records that Senator Bridgewater had requested in an e-mail from Florida. Apparently, he'd talked to a constituent who was concerned about accidents on aircraft carriers.

After dressing and fixing a cup of instant coffee, she sat down at the computer in the spare bedroom and pulled up the Navy record.

Bridgewater had said he wanted the report as soon as he got back, and she'd thought there was no way she could meet that deadline, given the other research projects already on her desk. But maybe she'd manage it after all.

She paused for a moment, thinking about her boss. He'd been on edge about this trip. And usually he shared his itinerary with the office.

But the schedule he'd distributed left out several blocks of time. Which could mean one of several things.

Maybe he was seeing a woman, and he didn't want it splashed all over the tabloids. Or maybe he was on a fishing expedition for campaign money, and when he came back, he'd be closer to announcing a run for the presidency.

After noting research sources, she sent the list of URLs to her office address and turned off the computer.

She was just about to leave her apartment when a knock at the door made her freeze—suddenly caught in a swirl of emotions that she'd suppressed while she was working.

Was that Jordan Walker? Would he have the nerve to come here? Did he know she'd dreamed of him?

No. He couldn't! Yet she didn't believe the reassurance.

On legs that didn't feel entirely steady, she walked to the door. But when she looked through the spy lens into the hallway, she was surprised, relieved, and disappointed to see Sid Becker standing in the hallway.

"Sid?"

"Can I come in?"

Puzzled, she opened the door. Last night at Senator Con-roy's party, Sid had looked like something heavy was weighing on his mind—although he'd denied it. This morning he looked several degrees more upset. There were dark circles under his eyes. And his lips were set in a grim line.

Stepping back, she ushered him into her apartment, then closed the door and turned back to him.

"What is it? Are you in trouble?"

Instead of answering, he walked to the window and looked out at the little patch of woods that shaded the apartment.

"Nice view."

"You didn't come to talk about the scenery."

"Probably I shouldn't have come at all."

"Why don't you sit down and tell me what's going on," she said gently.

He hesitated for a moment, then walked to one of her wingback chairs and sat down, his back Marine straight as always.

"How can I help you?"

He dragged in a breath and let it out before saying, "Lindsay, I think of you as a friend."

"Yes."

"I want to ask a favor. My cousin Mark Greenwood lived with us from the time he was ten—after his mother died of encephalitis and his dad started drinking. Mark is like a younger brother to me. We kept in touch until a couple of weeks ago. Now I can't get him on the phone. Every time I call, they tell me he's not available."

"Where do I fit in to this?"

"He's a security guard at..." He stopped and grimaced. "T guess I have to tell you the name. A facility called Maple Creek. It's supposed to be an agricultural testing station. But nobody would have a squad of armed men guarding string beans."

"Why do you think I can help?"

"You and I exchange information because Senator Bridgewater heads the Armed Services Committee.

He might be able to find out if anything strange is going on at Maple Creek."

"What do you suspect?"

His expression hardened. "I suspect that they're testing biological agents out there—and something deadly got loose. I suspect that Mark's sick or dead, and they're saying he's unavailable because they're trying

to keep a lid on the situation. Like—you know—when China tried to hide its avian flu epidemic."

Alarm leaped in her throat. "You ... mean hundreds of people died?"

"Yeah, like that." He pressed his knuckle against his lip. "Well, that's my worst-case scenario. Probably it's not that bad. Probably they've got it contained. Like when the Russians had that anthrax accident at one of their labs. But if you can get Bridgewater to start asking questions, maybe you'll break through the cover-up."

"I'll do what I can," Lindsay murmured. "But the senator isn't coming back from Florida until tomorrow morning, and I may not be able to speak to him about your concerns until he's settled in."

"I understand." He cleared his throat. "Maybe you can do some digging on your own."

"Maybe."

"If you find out anything, don't call me from the office."

"All right," she answered, wondering exactly what she was getting herself into.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper. "This is my cell phone number. I'll leave it on."

Lindsay nodded.

"I don't want to get you in trouble," Sid muttered. "But I need to find out about Mark."

"Of course. Can you tell me any more? Do you want a cup of tea or something?"

"No. I'm going to do some Web searching."

"Do you know who's in charge at Maple Creek?" Lindsay asked.

Sid looked like he was holding a silent debate. "I'm not sure," he finally said.

"You mean you don't want to tell me."

"Maybe it's better that way," he said as he climbed to his feet. "Thank you, Lindsay."

"I may not be able to find out anything."

'Then I'll just thank you for trying."

"And it might be something completely different from what you think," she felt compelled to add.

"I hope so."

He looked like he might be about to say something more. Instead, he turned and exited her apartment—leaving her feeling like she was standing in a frozen wasteland wearing only a thin shift.

Folding her arms, she rubbed her shoulders, trying to make the cold feeling go away.

SAXON TRINITY WALKED unannounced into his sister's boudoir. It was decorated like the princess's room in a fairy tale, with lots of purple and gold and crystal. He knew she loved the opulent setting, but he could see it gave her no pleasure this evening.

"I'm sorry, but it's almost time," he murmured.

"Okay," his twin sister Willow answered without enthusiasm.

"I wouldn't have set this up if it weren't necessary."

"I know." She gave her thick mane of platinum hair one last toss before swinging away from the mirror. In church she always wore white, in keeping with her virginal image. In the privacy of their stone fortress outside Orlando, she indulged in vibrant colors. Tonight she was dressed in a turquoise evening jumpsuit with a softly draped neckline and wide legs that swirled gracefully as she turned to her brother.

"We agreed that Bridgewater is our best option."

"Sorry. I'm just having ..."

"Your usual stage fright." He finished the sentence as he often did.

She nodded and crossed the room to clasp his hand.

His grip tightened reassuringly on hers. They had planned this evening carefully, because it was important.

Something was in the air. Neither of them knew what it was, but Sax had felt it stalking them. A new danger. An unforeseen wrinkle in the fabric of the universe that might upset the comfortable life they'd carved out for themselves.

"Bridgewater is a man of strong will. Pulling him in so quickly won't be easy."

"You'll wow him," he murmured. "We both will."

He wasn't a modest man. He knew that he and Willow gave off a sense of rock-star energy. But it wasn't mere sex appeal that had made them the leaders of a New Age movement that had grown from a tent-show novelty to a successful upscale ministry in just a few short years.

"Together, we can move mountains," he murmured. They had invented the phrase during the bad times when every new foster home had held an unknown terror. And it was still the bedrock of their relationship.

Musical chimes sounded.

"Showtime."

Leaving the bedroom, Sax made his unhurried way to the massive stone foyer of the mansion they'd purchased from an oil billionaire who'd gone back to the Middle East. The servants had been dismissed for the evening. Only the twins and their guest would be present tonight.

"Welcome to our home," Sax greeted Daniel Bridgewater. Before setting up the meeting, he'd researched the man carefully. A former trial attorney who'd made a name for himself on several high-profile cases, he'd proved that he was as effective in the political arena as he had been in the courtroom. Even in his younger days he'd boasted a head of vibrant silver hair. Now that he was in his early fifties, it only added to his mature good looks. But the senator's short stature surprised him. He'd looked taller on television.

* * *

A few years ago he wouldn't have risked any involvement with the Perfect Pair, as the press had irreverently dubbed them. But their success had made them respectable, and when they'd suggested they might make a large campaign contribution, he'd been interested. Now he needed to find out what they wanted in return.

The pair presided over a mother church in Orlando. And they staged intimate gatherings in various cities around the country. Although they'd been offered half a dozen lucrative television deals, they'd so far resisted—which made them more mysterious, as far as today's media culture was concerned.

Dan shook Saxon's well-manicured yet strongly masculine hand, then turned to his sister, who had joined him at the foot of the steps.

"Thank you for coming," she murmured, holding his hand just a few seconds longer than necessary.

'The pleasure is mine," Bridgewater replied, his gaze captured for a moment in the azure depths of her eyes.

"Let's go into the library where we can be comfortable," Sax suggested. Turning, he led the way down a hall past a spacious sitting room and a formal dining room that looked like it had been taken in its entirety from a baronial castle and relocated to Florida. The library beyond it was rich with dark wood paneling and the aroma of leather. Dan stopped for a moment to inspect the glass case near the door, which displayed an old Bible inlaid with gold leaf.

"This is a work of art," he commented.

"The only other one is in Saint John's College, Cambridge," his blond host informed him. "Perhaps you'd like to see my collection of first editions later. But make yourself at home now." Sax gestured toward one of the comfortable sofas flanking the stone fireplace, where real logs burned.

Dan and Willow took one sofa. Sax sat opposite them.

"My brother and I don't drink anything alcoholic. Can I offer you some herbal tea?" Willow suggested, nodding toward the silver tea service on the table.

"That would be fine," Bridgewater answered, although he would have preferred a martini.

They exchanged small talk while Willow served tea and almond cookies. As they sipped the pungent beverage, Sax stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles. "You know, since we became interested in the Save the Ecosphere movement, we've come to see local and national politics as an important vehicle for change."