скачать книгу бесплатно
Safe Passage
Loreth Anne White
Wounded government agent Scott Armstrong hated his newest assignment–baby-sitting beautiful scientist Dr. Skye Van Rijn. He missed the excitement of working in the field, his only salvation from the tragedy that haunted his dreams. But the mission turned dangerous when he discovered an evil terrorist was also after the mysterious doctor.
Skye was a genius at developing biological antidotes to new diseases. Her tender touch and warm body soon began to heal Scott's battered heart, but the deadly secrets she hid put them both at risk, forcing them to run for their lives. As their enemy closed in, Scott had to choose between his loyalties to his job and his passion for the woman who'd saved his soul.
She was a suspected terrorist. Brilliant—perhaps even dangerous.
And he was a government agent.
They had no business even entertaining the notion of a future together. But at the same time, the fact it had even entered his head shook Scott Armstrong to the core. He had not thought about the future this way for the past nine years. Not since his wife and child were killed by his enemy, the Plague Doctor.
The acrid and familiar anger seeped into his throat.
Was this woman sleeping in his arms allied with a dangerous criminal mastermind on par with the Plague Doctor?
Skye murmured in her sleep. He turned, stroked her face. And deep down, a part of him prayed to God he’d find Skye Van Rijn innocent.
Safe Passage
Loreth Anne White
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
LORETH ANNE WHITE
As a child in Africa, when asked what she wanted to be when she grew up, Loreth said a spy…or a psychologist, or maybe a marine biologist, archaeologist or lawyer. Instead she fell in love, traveled the world and had a baby. When she looked up again she was back in Africa, writing and editing news and features for a large chain of community newspapers. But those childhood dreams never died. It took another decade, another baby and a move across continents before the lightbulb finally went on. She didn’t have to grow up, She could be them all—the spy, the psychologist and all the rest—through her characters. She sat down to pen her first novel…and fell in love.
She currently lives with her husband, two daughters and their cats in a ski resort in the rugged Coast Mountains of British Columbia, where there is no shortage of inspiration for larger-than-life characters and adventure.
To JoJo, Pavlo and Marlin
for being my sounding boards.
To Mu for believing.
And to Susan for keeping the bar raised.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 1
Scott Armstrong drove off the ferry ramp with a clunk. He felt like he’d just been spat from the belly of a vibrating metal beast.
He was back on Canadian soil. A bloody island of it—trapped on all sides by the placid, steely waters of the Pacific Northwest. He couldn’t feel more claustrophobic if he tried.
He glanced at the golden-haired dog at his side as he maneuvered the truck through congested ferry traffic. The retriever grinned foolishly at him with a lolling tongue, thunking its tail on the seat.
What in hell had Rex been thinking, giving him a dog as part of his cover? He didn’t need the stupid hound any more than he needed this lame-duck mission. He was being put out to pasture and he damn well knew it. Scott clenched his teeth. He’d bloody well show them he still had what it took, blown-out knee and all.
He tightened his hand on the wheel, shifted gears sharply, wincing as an all-too-familiar shaft of pain shot up his leg. He swore, turned onto the coast road and followed the exit signs to Haven.
The sun was dipping behind the mountains of Vancouver Island, throwing farmland into evening shadow. Beyond the fields the sea shimmered like beaten silver. The bright light made his head hurt.
Scott wound down the window, letting the crisp spring wind whip at his hair, clear the fog in his brain. Honey wriggled closer toward him along the cab seat, chomping her jaws, testing the breeze, dribbling with excitement.
“At least one of us is happy,” he muttered, elbowing the dog back over to the passenger side.
Honey’s tail stilled for an instant. Scott felt a pang of guilt. “It’s okay, girl,” he muttered. “You do what you gotta do.” The wriggling and rhythmic thunking resumed. A warm splotch of drool seeped through the denim of his jeans. Scott sucked air deliberately, deeply, into his lungs, straining for an elusive sense of calm. This might just end up testing him to his limit. And Lord knew, he was pretty much out of tolerance for life in general.
He ignored the wet drool on his thigh and tried to focus on the task ahead. Apart from skimming the facts and checking for directions to his rental house, Scott hadn’t had the time or the privacy on the ferry to study the dossier Bellona Channel boss Rex Logan had handed him the second his plane had touched down in Vancouver.
All Scott knew was that he had to watch Dr. Skye Van Rijn. Some brilliant entomologist geek with possible bio-criminal or terrorist links to a disease devastating the cattle industry south of the border, one that was rapidly spreading to humans. But the link between Dr. Skye Van Rijn and the Rift Valley Fever currently sweeping the Southwest corner of the United States was tenuous at best. Even Rex had admitted that the bug doctor had pretty much checked out.
Yeah. Lame-duck mission if he ever saw one. He should be where the action is, not in some bucolic village on a vague fishing expedition for a possible bit player in a game that had snared global headlines and rocked stock markets.
Scott hit the wheel, swore again.
Surveillance was a junior agent’s beat.
His beat was out there, in the international field, in the wilds of the Borneo jungle, under the relentless sun of India’s Thar desert, in the hot red sands of Namibia. Not here. Not in the stifling, dripping, cool, gray stillness of a place he’d once called home.
He didn’t have a home. Not anymore. But right now he had no choice. He’d almost lost his leg.
And his mind.
It was this, or a desk job, while he recuperated. And he’d rather die than push a pen behind a desk.
He snorted at the irony of his situation. Because his cover was that of a full-time paper-shuffler and pen-pusher. He was to be Scott McIntyre. A writer. A futurist. It would put him at liberty, Rex had said, to ask questions, to get the doctor’s views on things like macroeconomics, social trends, globalization, American imperialism.
And Honey, he’d added, would help break the ice.
Yeah. Right.
It was almost dark by the time he found the narrow farm road, picked out the house number on a faded green mailbox. Grass and weeds grew up between the rutted tire tracks that constituted the driveway. The truck jounced up to the front porch. Honey yipped with glee.
“Oh, shut up, dog!” She made him feel like a redneck arriving on the farm in his beater. All he needed was a shotgun behind the seat and load of beer cans in the back.
Scott pulled to a stop, threw open his door. Honey dug claws into his thighs and scrambled over him, promptly relieving herself in the grass. Scott scratched his head. “Okay. Sorry, pooch. Guess you gonna want food, too, huh? Let’s see what Rex has packed for supplies.”
He grabbed his old, gnarled walking stick, hesitated, fingering the ancient knots in the smooth, durable wood as if they’d somehow yield an answer. A reason for it all.
The dog yipped again, jerking him back to the present. Scott shrugged off the sensation of buried memories scratching at locked mental doors, climbed out of the truck and tentatively tested his leg on the ground. It felt okay. Better than it had in weeks. He could almost put all his weight on it. “Small mercies,” he muttered as he limped up the porch steps, pushed open the front door.
He flipped on the lights.
Honey’s paws skittered over wooden floors as she explored the premises, butt wiggling in a crazy hula of excitement.
Scott checked out the rooms. More than he’d ever need. The kitchen was big and airy. And the windows looked out onto Dr. Van Rijn’s neighboring property.
“Sweet,” he told Honey. “I can wash the dishes and watch the Bug Lady at the same time. Ain’t life grand. Come, let’s see if we can find you some doggy chow before it gets too dark out.”
Scott counted five large cardboard boxes in the back of the truck. One was marked Computer, another Books. Yet another was marked Kitchen. He sliced the tape on the kitchen box with his army knife and tore back the cardboard. In the fading light he could make out a box of cereal, some tins, and a humungous bag of dog kibble.
Then he cursed Rex.
How in hell was he supposed to carry all this crap with a walking stick in one hand?
His buddy had probably done this on purpose. Just to make sure he turned to someone for help. Just to make sure he met some locals.
“There’s no way I’m going to be reduced to begging someone to help me carry a couple of boxes,” he mumbled. Honey circled his feet with excitement.
Scott dropped the tailgate with a clunk, maneuvered the kitchen box to the end. Dropping his cane, he used both hands to grab the box. He flexed his knees, slowly lifted the box, trying to transfer most of the weight through to his core ab muscles, shoulders and thighs and onto his good leg. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and took a few steps toward the porch.
Pain sparked out from his knee, seared down his calf, shot up his thigh. He swallowed it. Jaw clenched, he made his way, step by painful baby step. And in his mind he heard the heavily accented voice of Dr. Ranjit Singh from the Mumbai hospital, rattling off dire warnings about what could go wrong with his leg if he didn’t follow the recuperation procedure, if he didn’t keep his weight off his new, fake knee. Pain, swelling, slippage, infection. He could cope with those. It was the risk of breaking the bone below the new joint on which his knee was anchored that concerned him most. Or the threat of a blood clot.
But it was not enough to stop him from carrying the box. Minute beads of perspiration pricked through the skin of his forehead as he stepped through the front door. He made it a few more paces and slumped to his haunches with a grunt of pain.
He hunched over the box, rested his forehead on the cardboard, letting wave after nauseating wave of pain flow over him. His heart thumped against his chest from the exertion. “Oh, sweet Mother Mary,” he whispered to no one in particular.
But Honey heard. She quivered, licked his face, sat beside him, watching, her liquid brown puppy eyes almost level with his.
“You know, Honey, you actually look like you understand. What is it about dogs that—” He saw the change in Honey.
She stiffened. The fur on her neck rose.
It stopped him dead.
Scott was so used to living in the wild he’d almost developed an animal’s sense of a presence himself. He could feel the hair on his own neck prickle with that awareness now.
“You drop this?”
He swiveled the instant he heard the voice.
His hand shot instinctively for the knife at his ankle. In another heartbeat he’d have thrown it.
But he froze at the sight in front of him.
The most striking woman he’d ever seen. At his door.
He swallowed.
Her stance was wide, her muscles tensed, knees flexed. She held his wooden cane across her body, one end in each hand, as if to deflect the knife he held in midair.
As reflexive as his reaction had been, hers had been more so.
Scott stared, realized he had his knife aimed at her heart.
Shaken, he slowly lowered the arm that held the blade. He slipped the knife carefully back into the sheath at his ankle, his eyes never leaving hers.
Honey snarled, head low, hackles raised.
But the woman didn’t flinch. Not even blink. Her jaw remained clenched. She stared straight at him with penetrating silver eyes.
Scott could almost see her mind computing, trying to second guess, to figure out what had just happened. Lord knew, he sure was.
She made the first move, the muscles of her shoulders visibly relaxing as he moved his hand away from the knife, safely back in its sheath.
She stepped forward, held his wooden cane out to him as if an offering of peace. “I think you dropped this.” Her voice was low, like smoke over the desert, and it came from lips that invited sin.
He stared at his cane in her hands.
Then he looked up into her eyes. They were set above strong cheekbones and they were shaped like almonds. Large and light with impossibly thick, dark lashes. There was a wildness, a recklessness, that lurked there. Something he recognized. Something that reminded him of vast spaces and untamed tribes.
The shape of her face was exotic. Foreign. Her skin was a soft olive tone. Her hair, lush and dark. It fell below her shoulders in a soft wave. The image of her burned into his brain, in the way he had trained his mind to capture the tiny details of each new face he encountered on a mission.
