He felt flushed and outside of himself. What the hell was wrong with him? Hadn’t he learned to be on guard at all times? The elevator operated almost silently, true, but what had happened to his instincts?

Without instincts, in a combat situation, a man could be dead in the blink of an eye.

A rush of adrenaline exacerbated the pounding of Frank’s heart. It pounded so loud the sound filled his ears. Surely they could all hear it. He glanced around the table, but no one was paying him any mind.

Daniel and Kyle were focused on the FBI man, who took the end seat as far from them all as he could. Only then did he remove the sunglasses to reveal cold gray eyes. If he and Kyle didn’t welcome Brody…well, the feeling was too obviously returned.

“Welcome to Montana Confidential.”

Daniel returned to his seat and made formal introductions. “Court Brody, special agent, FBI. Frank Connolly, pilot and ex-military man. Kyle Foster, chemist and former member of the L.A. bomb squad.” He took a big breath and paused, but no one else spoke. “Well, I hope you’re all ready to get to work.”

“Horses or otherwise?”

Court drawled. Daniel smiled in the face of the man’s tightly held hostility. “This morning I received information that members of a terrorist group called the Black Order have been slipping into Montana via the Canadian border.”

Court appeared skeptical. “To what end?”

“Rumor says they want to get their hands on a new biological weapon—D-5, a water-borne virus.”

“To what end?” Court asked again.

“We don’t know yet, but if they succeed and get it into a major water supply, it could mean big trouble for a lot of folks.”

Frank jumped in before Court could hold center stage. “D-5?” He’d heard about the virus. As far as he knew, “big trouble” spelled death. “Where?”

“The Quinlan Research Institute. Scientists there are working on an antidote, so they have a quantity of the virus, of course.”

“And without the D-5 at the lab, there will be no antidote,” Kyle said. “How close are they to developing one?”

“Not even in the ballpark. That’s why we’re bringing in British scientist C. J. Birch from the National Center for Aquatic Research.” Daniel turned his gaze to Frank. “Rather, you are as soon as we’re finished here. The ranch plane is online, waiting for you at the Boulder Municipal Airport.”

“What about a first officer?” Frank asked. The plane was a twin-engine DC-3, requiring two in the cockpit.

“Rent-a-pilot by the name of John Vasquez. He’ll meet you at the field tomorrow morning. Your cover is that you’re picking up some prize quarter horse mares for the ranch’s breeding program. But your real mission is getting C. J. Birch to the Quinlan Research Institute tomorrow, safely and without drawing too much attention.”

Frank didn’t voice the opinion that flying in horses would raise more than a few eyebrows. Normally the only horses transported by air rather than truck were Thoroughbreds being ferried from Europe or Japan or the Middle East, or across country to big-money races.

But rather than a fancy jet, they would use a reconditioned pre-World War II DC-3. The old tail-draggers were workhorses—no pun intended—usually put to use these days hauling cargo that didn’t move around, hence the need to palletize the horses.

The plane itself wouldn’t draw too much attention, especially since it would land on a runway already laid out on Lonesome Pony land. Lots of the bigger ranches had their own planes, Frank knew, if normally single-prop jobs. And he guessed if the locals heard about the horses, that would merely serve as proof of Daniel Austin’s madness in setting up what was sure to be a money-losing breeding ranch.

But back to the operation and the reason the scientist needed to be brought in undercover. “You’re expecting trouble?” Sweat trickled down Frank’s spine at the thought.

“Hopefully not, but just in case, I want Birch protected by the best.”

Which wasn’t necessarily him, Frank feared, though he kept his mouth shut on that score. Too late to raise questions about his capabilities at this point. He’d already committed himself.

But question himself he did as Daniel wrapped up the meeting and sent him off to pack an overnight bag before being driven to the Bozeman airport, where a charter would get him to Boulder before dark. Was he ready to be responsible for another’s life? Or had he been a fool to let Daniel sweet-talk him into Montana Confidential?

Truth was…he just didn’t know.

He only knew he had to prove himself. To make up for what he’d been unable to stop from happening…to make amends, somehow.

Maybe then the nightmares would quit him.

As the agents left the house, a dark green SUV pulled up with a screech of tires. A woman with red-gold hair slid out from behind the wheel. The moment her high-heel-clad feet touched the gravel, Frank recognized Whitney MacNair.

She pushed down her designer sunglasses and murmured, “Just what I need, some hunky men.”

Opening the back of the SUV, she revealed a pile of designer luggage. She turned her gaze on Frank.

“Sorry, ma’am, I already have an assignment.”

Undaunted, she walked right up to Court and slipped a hand around one arm. “Ooh, so strong,” she cooed. “And I can tell you’re a real gentleman.”

Frank kept going, glancing over his shoulder to watch the show. It did his heart good to see a scowling Court Brody be forced to haul the woman’s luggage inside.

Frank’s log cabin was the farthest from the swimming pool. The most isolated, the reason he’d chosen it. The living area, bedroom and bath all had been decorated by the same hand as had done the main house. Some would consider these to be small quarters, but after the hellhole that had been home for five months, Frank considered them palatial.

Quickly gathering a few articles of clothing and throwing them into an overnight bag, he set it next to the rucksack he never traveled without. Then he grabbed his Stetson, left the cabin and wended his way around the swimming pool. Waiting next to the ranch truck, Patrick McMurty was talking to Daniel and Kyle.

As he caught up to the men, Whitney stuck her head out a second-floor window. “Excuse me, but I’m desperate. I need some more muscle up here…to move the furniture around. If I’m going to be happy living here, then I need to mix things up a little.”

Frank figured she was going to mix things up a lot.

“Damn, we don’t have time for such nonsense,” Daniel muttered.

As if she expected the objection, Whitney pulled a helpless expression. “Pretty please.”

Kyle muttered, “She doesn’t seem like the kind to give up.”

“Yeah, yeah. And we wouldn’t want her to be unhappy.” Daniel held his hand out to Frank for a brisk shake. “Good luck. We’ll see you and Birch tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Frank echoed as Daniel and Kyle rushed off.

Glad for his excuse to get out of dancing to the woman’s tune, Frank shook his head and climbed into the passenger seat.

Already behind the wheel, Patrick started the truck. “That one’s gonna be something else.”

“Daniel can handle her.”

Patrick shot the truck down the driveway, spewing gravel in all directions. Frank felt himself hurtling toward a situation that could too easily spin out of his control.

Suddenly, getting to know the lovely, if spoiled, Whitney MacNair seemed far more appealing than going after some nerdy little man who could be a powder keg in disguise.

CECILIA JANE BIRCH wasn’t thrilled to be leaving for the wilds of Montana at the crack of dawn the next morning. Having lived her entire thirty years in ultra-civilized England but for the past few months, she considered Boulder, Colorado, as uncivilized as she cared to get. All those mountains in the distance…all that open sky…all those snakes, one of them with her name, she was certain.

She shivered at the thought.

But her work was her life, after all, and the Quinlan Research Institute needed her expertise, so she had no choice, really.

And how much less civilized could things get, anyway?

At least that’s what she decided to believe as she left her colleagues to their drinks at the outdoor table of the Brickwalk Café, where they’d had a dinner meeting to catch up loose threads. Not knowing how long she might be gone, she’d turned over her files to her assistant Len Miller, who would take over the project she’d been heading—for good if he had anything to say about it, she assumed.

Well, it just couldn’t be helped.

Dusk had fallen over the Pearl Street Mall, the red-bricked pedestrian-only heart and soul of the city. The area around the restaurant was sparsely populated since an outdoor concert with Cowboy Sam and the Spurs had lured university students to the other end of the mall. Now, if only they knew some civilized tunes. C.J. had always preferred the classics.

She did enjoy the short walk along historic buildings housing numerous shops, galleries, offices and sidewalk cafés—not that it could compete with London, of course. All summer, entertainers had abounded, including the Zip Code Man, who could identify towns and sometimes even describe building styles in neighborhoods, based on a visitor’s zip code. Then there was the sword swallower, contortionist, juggler and professional accordionist—all buskers who played for the hat.

As she stopped to pull a chocolate bar from her pocket, a sudden goosey feeling along her neck gave her pause. Surreptitiously, she looked around.

From a few feet away, a bronzed statue seemed to be watching her.

C.J. blinked. Not a statue, but another busker, skin and clothing like painted bronze. He leaned on his closed umbrella, his hat upended at his feet. Then he deliberately changed positions to a new pose and froze.

Performance art such as this she would never understand, C.J. thought, caught by the statue’s steady gaze on her as she backed off.

For some reason her mouth went dry and she realized she was holding her breath.

Suddenly the statue lunged for her, grabbed her arm so that she dropped her candy bar, and whirled her from the walkway toward a side street. Not knowing whether to laugh or to express outrage, C.J. attempted to be good-natured about the situation…until she realized the man wasn’t letting up.

“I say, you may stop now!”

But he didn’t.

Heart fluttering, C.J. dug in her heels and attempted to pry the man’s fingers from her arm. “Sir! What do you think you’re about?”

He wasn’t letting her go, that was for certain. Not even looking at her, he was inching her into the shadows, away from any conceivable assistance.

“Stop!” she yelled, attempting to hit at him.

Her fist glanced off his arm, not deterring him in the least, so C.J. did the only thing she could think of—she opened her mouth and screamed. Quite loudly. Before she could see if anyone noticed, her attacker jerked her and knocked the breath from her. She threw herself to the ground. He barely paused before continuing to drag her.

“Stop, please!” she gasped out as her hip hit a bump in the walkway. “Take my wallet and leave me be.”

He didn’t so much as pause.

Frantic now—what did he want if not her money and credit cards?—C.J. tried grabbing on to a litter can, but she couldn’t get ahold before he jerked her along. Her shoulder burned viciously. She cried out again, but had little hope that anyone would hear.

“What is it that you want?” she cried, fearing the worst.

Her very life?

Chapter Two

Wondering if she would be alive to see the sunrise, C.J. was amazed when a man hurtled past her and tackled the busker so hard the force almost ripped her arm from its socket before the knave finally freed her.

A panting, hurting, horribly frightened C.J. tried to make out the identity of her rescuer, but it was nearly dark now. All she could see was a tangle of limbs as the men did a bizarre dance away from her seemingly in slow motion. Punches were traded, though in such close quarters, she suspected neither man had enough leverage to do harm. Suddenly, her attacker forced the other man away from him, kicked out and connected with the man’s knee, then ran, so the incident was over nearly as quickly as it had begun.

Her rescuer caught himself and appeared ready to follow the blackguard, but then he stopped and limped back to where she still sat in a dazed puddle.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes—at least I think so.” Testing her limbs, she winced when she stretched out her abused arm. “Bruises and strains, I suspect, but I shall live. Thanks to you.”

“Let me help you up.”

The touch of his strong hands at her waist shot a foreign sensation through C.J. He helped her to her feet and continued to steady her. Inches from her attractive dark-haired savior—she could see that much, at least—she felt her throat clog. That darned tongue of hers must have swollen to twice its size as it often did around interesting men. And when he reached out to right her glasses, which sat crookedly on her nose, her knees weakened.

“Can you walk?” he asked.

Glad for the excuse to put some distance between them, she nodded her head and demonstrated. The joints wobbled but worked. Well, perhaps it was more of a teeter than a true walk, but she managed.

When a few yards separated them, she choked out, “You see? All better.”

“But I can’t just leave you here.” He looked past her. “Think you can make another half block?” He indicated the hotel ahead. “I can get you there, make sure you’re safe until someone can come for you.”

She nodded, not bothering to protest that there would be no one to fetch her. No husband. No suitor. Not even a female friend, since she hadn’t been in the country long enough to bond with anyone. But a respite in soothing surroundings was the very thing, she decided. He took her arm in a gentlemanly fashion and let her set the pace.

Realizing that he was still limping slightly, she said, “Perhaps it’s you who is hurt.”

“Nah, just an old war injury kicking up.”

Humor? she wondered. At a time like this? How curious. As they approached the old hotel that had been restored to its former elegance, his stride evened out, so she didn’t think more of it.

C.J. loved Hotel Boulderado with its domed, stained-glass skylight, cantilevered oak staircase and lovely period furniture. In addition to eating in the hotel’s restaurant, she often wandered through the place and sat in the lobby as if waiting for a friend, when all she wanted was to experience the pleasure of being in someplace civilized.

Upon entering, she found a chair in a corner, “Oh, yes, this is better.”

The man’s brow furrowed. “You’re a Brit. Odd…”

“Yes, I’m surprised to find myself in your Wild West, as well,” she agreed, a sense of euphoria filling her. The aftermath of the adrenaline rush of being attacked, she was certain.

“No, it’s just that I was looking for this British scientist when I saw that guy dragging you off.”

Scientist? C.J. gaped. How many British scientists could be working in Boulder, Colorado?

The man sat in a chair that brought their knees close, making her shift in her seat away from him.

“We really should report this incident to the police.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “But I need to find this guy tonight.”

“I believe you have. C. J. Birch here.” She extended her hand.

His piercing blue eyes widened on her. “You’re…?”

“Exactly. And you?”

He gave her hand a vitally American shake.

“Frank Connolly, Montana Confidential. I’m flying you out of here tomorrow.”

Noting that he hadn’t let go of her hand, C.J. murmured, “How bizarre.”

“What?”

She slipped from his grasp and stared at her fingers for a moment. Then she blinked and looked at him. “Why, the way you found me, of course.”

“I was told you would be having a dinner meeting at the Brickwalk Café. But when I got there…one of your colleagues told me you’d just set off.”

“Perfect timing, then.” As if fate had taken a hand and stepped in to protect her. Making C.J. feel a bit better about her coming circumstances. “Well, I’m settled down inside now, so perhaps we should make that report to the authorities.”

“No!” Frank followed the loud retort by scanning the lobby.

C.J. followed suit. No one seemed to have noticed.

“No authorities?” she asked. “Why not?”

“Considering who you are…who I am…it complicates matters.”

Her turn to go wide-eyed. “You think the attack had something to do with my work?”

Frank continued peering around the lobby, as if he were now looking for suspects. “Possibly.”

That thought had never entered her mind. “Then the local authorities—”

“Might delay your departure. We can’t afford that.”

“No, we can’t.” C.J. had been brought up to speed about the urgency of finding the antidote to D-5. “But what if…if the attacker indeed was after me. If he could find me on Pearl Street—”

“He’d know where you live,” Frank finished for her. “I booked a hotel room for the night, but considering what just happened, I’ll be staying at your place. Don’t worry, I won’t let you out of my sight until I get you to the Quinlan Research Institute.”

“I do hope you don’t mean that literally,” C.J. said, allowing the starch in her voice to thicken. “I do need a good night’s rest. You’ll find the couch in the next room close enough.”

TOO CLOSE, C.J. AMENDED once she was alone with Frank Connolly. He’d fetched his rental car and had driven her from the hotel to her flat near the university, a one-bedroom in a modest complex filled mostly with grad students who were considerate types. Luckily for her, the place had come furnished, so she hadn’t had to hunt for nonexistent domestic skills; rather, she’d moved right in and had gotten down to her work at the lab immediately.

Gripping the bedding for the couch to her chest, she entered the living room, thinking how odd a man’s presence in her place seemed.

“I really couldn’t tell what he looked like under all that paint, Daniel,” Frank was telling his supervisor. “He was a fraction taller than me—probably an even six feet. And he was more muscular.”

C.J. gave Frank a surprised once-over. Clothed only in a pair of jeans and a soft, sleeveless white T-shirt, he appeared muscular enough. As a matter of fact, she considered him to be quite perfect.

“Yeah, all right. Tomorrow, then.”

Flushing at her uncalled-for thoughts, C.J. quickly turned away and spread a bottom sheet over the couch cushions as Frank hung up. Before she knew what he was about, he was far too close.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do,” she said, keeping focused on the sheet rather than the man. “You’re a hero. You deserve a civilized bed…even if it’s not really a bed.”

“Trust me, I’ve slept in worse. Much worse.”

She wondered what “worse” meant. A seedy motel, perhaps?

“Here, let me do that.”

He took the top sheet from her hands. At the unexpected touch, she sprang back and watched him work. His precise movements. The strength apparent in the contracting muscles of his arms. The way the trim cut of his short dark brown hair threaded with silver perfectly suited his high forehead and broad cheekbones. He reminded her a little of that actor—George Clooney—only sexier.

“Daniel’s putting out feelers on your attacker.”

He took the blanket from her and snapped it open over the couch. “Gonna try to ID him.”

“But without a true description,” C.J. mused, “where would he even begin?”

“The MO—uh, modus operandi. This guy was a pro, but pros normally try to blend in, a little hard to do covered in bronze paint. So this one’s somewhat unique. Might be easier to tag him than if he’d played it like Joe Regular.”

“I see what you mean.” She dropped the pillows at one end. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“I’ll be fine. Get some rest. We’ll be up at the crack of dawn.”

“Yes. Thank you.” She started for her bedroom door, then hesitated. She turned to find him staring at her. Something about his expression made her falter. Then she moistened her lips and said, “I mean that, Frank Connolly. The ‘thank you’ part. You really are a hero.”

With that she slipped into her bedroom, closed the door, then leaned against the wall, trembling. She lived such a quiet, ordinary life. The last few hours—being attacked and rescued, having a man more handsome than George Clooney not only in her apartment but sleeping on her couch—were sure to stand out in her mind forever.

Quickly she stripped out of the trousers and summer sweater that required a trip to the cleaners. Not until she returned to Boulder, whenever that might be. She passed her already packed medium-size suitcase and shoulder bag on the way to the bathroom.

Standing under the shower longer than she normally would, C.J. hoped the pounding hot water would relieve some of the ache of being dragged by her arm, of having her hip make more contact with the ground than was comfortable. She also hoped the water would relax her enough so that she could fall asleep.

But freshly scrubbed and encased in her favorite satiny pajamas, she still found sleep to be an elusive creature. Thoughts continued to roil through her head as she lay in the silent dark.

The burden of finding an antidote before a water supply could be contaminated with D-5.

The horror of having been attacked.

The discomfort of having her too appealing rescuer mere feet away, separated from her merely by a flimsy—and unlocked—door.

HE WAS HIT.

“Get out! Get out!”

No time to think…eject.

A plume of smoke surrounded him, choking him. The crippled jet veered off, nose down, spinning, its death scream sounding in his head.

Explosion…his ears imploded.

He flew down, wingless, through a momentarily silent world.

A world of jagged peaks and valleys coming closer fast.

The chute shot open behind him. He jerked back. Stomach lurched. Then all righted.

He was coming down…but to what?

The ravaged earth met his feet. The stink of fire burned his nostrils. Folds of material enveloped him, taking him prisoner.

He fought, knowing his very life depended on it….

THUMPING…POUNDING…groaning…

Terrifying noises awakened C.J. from an already restless sleep. Heart lurching, pulse pounding, she sat straight up in bed. An intruder? She groped for the telephone, had the slender receiver in hand before remembering.

Frank Connolly.

Her heart thudded. What was going on in her living room? Was Frank fighting off the intruder once more? Half asleep, he would be vulnerable. He could be dead by the time the authorities arrived.

Dropping the phone and grabbing an empty vase, she flung open the door. Barely able to make out thrashing on the couch in the dark, she yelled, “Stop that!” and flew across the room.

“Huh? What’s going on?”

The deep-throated grumble replaced the more threatening noises and stopped C.J. dead in her tracks. Closer now, she realized Frank was alone. And asleep. At least he had been until she’d come charging in.

A lamp clicked on. C.J. blinked at the magnificent display of Frank’s naked torso, cast in gold from the lamplight. The very breath caught in her throat as she allowed her gaze to explore the planes and angles, the muscular perfection that begged to be touched….

“I must have been dreaming,” he mumbled, shifting on the couch so that the sheet dropped lower.

Not seeing a band of white—or any other color—along his hip, she wasn’t certain he wore anything beneath.

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