Mysterious Circumstances

Especially now.

She had even more reason to want the truth about the virus, even more reason to detest him and his unwillingness to cooperate.

“Listen, Horn.” Devlin cleared his throat. “I received word this morning that two scientists have died in Germany. Their deaths sound remarkably similar to Thornbird’s and our other suicide victims.”

Craig frowned. The situation was desperate. They needed some answers fast. He hoped to hell Thornbird hadn’t taken whatever information he’d learned concerning the virus to his grave.

DARKNESS SETTLED OVER Olivia’s father’s kitchen, the hushed voices and officers milling around the house echoing in the distant recesses of her mind like a TV she’d forgotten to turn off. Olivia blocked them out, unable to process the truth that her father was dead.

In her mind, she could see him standing by the scarred beige counter pouring his fifth cup of coffee into his favorite orange mug, one her mother had gotten for him in Portugal on one of her trips.

Through the back window, she watched the tire swing she used to spend hours in sway back and forth in the breeze, and the now defunct sandbox she’d played in as a child was covered with leaves and debris. The basketball hoop where she’d spent nights tossing the ball, thinking through stories she’d write for the school paper, was rusted, the net torn and ragged. Once her parents had planted flowers in that backyard, had grown herbs and roots, saying they didn’t want her harmed by the processed foods and chemicals. They’d pushed Olivia in the swing, laughed as she’d run through the sprinkler, churned homemade ice cream on the patio while she’d learned to ride a bicycle.

Then her mother had died. And everything had changed.

There’d been no more laughing. No more homemade ice cream. No more herb garden.

Olivia had needed her father then. She’d begged him to let her crawl into his lap, but he’d pushed her away, as if he wished she’d died with her mother. Finally, she’d stopped trying to win his love.

But as a rebellious teenager she’d done other things to get his attention—misbehaved in school, gotten into scraps. She’d even ended up in jail for underage drinking and vandalizing. If her high school English teacher hadn’t taken an interest in her and assigned her to the school paper, she would have ended up in the headlines more. But writing had given her a goal; a byline gained her the attention she’d been lacking.

Her stomach churned, her hands were sweating and her throat was so clogged with tears she felt as if a golf-ball had been lodged inside. Forcing herself to think rationally, like a reporter and not a grief-stricken daughter, she scanned the kitchen for clues to her father’s mental state, searching for any changes in the room that might indicate what had brought him to the point of suicide.

Three coffee cups, a stack of used plates with dried bread crumbs and a half-eaten sandwich overflowed the sink. Cigarette ashes littered the top of a soda can, the fact that her father had partaken of both a testament to how much he’d changed.

Except for his work. That, he’d never ignored.

Not as he had her.

“Olivia?” Craig’s voice made her spring back into action. She stood and walked toward him. “Was there a suicide note?”

He hesitated, then shook his head.

“I want to see his things, especially his desk.”

The detective beside him cast Craig a warning look and strode toward another crime scene tech who was bagging the gun Olivia’s father had used to shoot himself.

“Olivia, the police and FBI are working this case. Let us do our job.”

She gripped his arm. “I have to know everything he was working on. He was obsessive-compulsive and would never have left a project unfinished.”

“We’ll find the answers,” Craig said through gritted teeth. “Just give us time.”

She narrowed her eyes, battling another onslaught of tears. She didn’t want sympathy, she wanted the truth. “He died because of the work he was doing for you, didn’t he? I saw you leaving his office—”

“Yes, he was helping us.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “But that’s all I can say.”

“I saw the red welts on the other victims,” she said. “You think all the suicide victims had some kind of virus. What does it do—cause the infected people to go crazy?”

“I can’t disclose details that might jeopardize the case, Olivia. You have to understand that.”

She folded her arms, her anger rallying. “This isn’t just a case, Horn. It took my father’s life. And what about more innocent lives that might be lost if you cover this up?”

“Don’t you think I’m working my tail off to get to the truth so there won’t be any more victims?”

She bit her lip. “If my father did contract some rare virus, it wasn’t an accident. He was meticulous about safety precautions.”

Craig’s dark gray eyes met hers, silently acknowledging her declaration as he gestured around the den and kitchen. “Judging from the looks of his house, I might question that.”

“It’s usually not this bad. And he was much more precise and detailed about his work.”

“Everyone makes mistakes, Olivia. A punctured glove, a spill, if he was dealing with some unknown bacteria he didn’t recognize—”

“No,” Olivia snapped. “He never made mistakes.”

Except he hadn’t pushed the government for the truth about her mother. When Olivia had gotten older and questioned him about her mother’s death, he’d refused to answer. She’d realized then that he’d allowed the government to get away with their cover-up.

That was the reason she’d gone into journalism. Someone had buried the truth about her mother’s death, and one day she hoped to uncover it. She sure as hell wouldn’t let them bury the story about her father’s death now, too.

“If my father contracted this virus,” she said in a cold voice, “someone infected him.”

Craig grimaced. “You’re suggesting murder?”

“I’m suggesting this is some kind of germ or chemical warfare, and you’re trying to keep it under wraps from the public.” She ignored the flare of heat in his eyes. “But trust me, Agent Horn, I refuse to let my father’s death go until I discover the truth.”

“Trust you?” His voice dripped sarcasm. “I learned a long time ago not to trust reporters.” His unwavering glare slid over Olivia. “I feel for you, Olivia, I honestly do. But I’m warning you—don’t get in the way of this investigation.”

Olivia shot him an equally menacing look. She’d be damned if she’d let him intimidate her.

They were both after the truth.

Unfortunately, they were on opposite sides.

CRAIG WAS ON THE VERGE of suggesting someone drive Olivia home when Dr. Ian Hall, the director of CIRP, rushed inside, accompanied by Detective Clayton Fox.

“I came as soon as I heard.”

Hall’s face looked ruddy with emotions, his tie hanging askew as if he’d been twisting it in the car. The sweltering summer heat drifting through the door also marked his skin with perspiration. “What happened?” Hall asked.

Craig gestured toward Olivia before explaining. “Dr. Hall, this is Olivia Thornbird, Dr. Thornbird’s—”

“I know who she is.” Hall’s look bordered between a scowl and regret. “Miss Thornbird has been to my office several times in the past few months.”

Craig nodded. “Of course.” She would have been looking for a story. Or maybe she’d covered some of the disreputable events that had occurred at the research park already. He made a mental note to check the newspaper archives.

“It appears that my father killed himself,” Olivia said before he could finish, “because of some research he was doing regarding the Savannah Suicides.”

Hall’s face blanched. “How do you know it had something to do with his work?”

“We don’t,” Craig said, vying for damage control. “The medical examiner will have to determine cause of death, and if Dr. Thornbird was suffering from any other medical problems.” Craig indicated Thornbird’s computer and the cluttered oak desk. “We are confiscating all of his research notes and hope you’ll provide us with a liaison to interpret them.”

Hall scraped a hand over his forehead. “Certainly. We’ll do whatever we can to expedite the investigation.”

Craig grunted. CIRP had a reputation for keeping certain projects classified, even from the feds. With the current state of the world and constant threat of terrorism, studying biological and chemical warfare had to rank at the top of their priorities. The security they enforced upon the employees and their research projects at Nighthawk Island was cutting-edge, but their secrecy suspicious.

Hall offered Olivia a conciliatory smile. “Miss Thornbird, please allow CIRP to pay the expenses for your father’s burial. He was a valued employee of the scientific community and will be sorely missed.”

Olivia’s face paled at the mention of a funeral, and Craig was tempted to reach out and offer her a comforting hand, but she stiffened perceptibly when he stepped closer. “How valuable was he to you, Dr. Hall?” she asked.

Hall’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not certain what you mean.”

Olivia squared her shoulders. “I’ve heard about your community and the founders of CIRP. They actually killed two of their scientists for nearly exposing secretive work you were conducting. Perhaps that’s what happened to my father.”

Hall squared his shoulders. “Any disreputable activities that occurred in the past are to be left there,” he said curtly. “Since I assumed leadership of CIRP, things have changed. Recently one of our psychiatrists, Claire Kos, was instrumental in helping catch the serial killer stalking Savannah.”

“But it’s awfully coincidental that Savannah is suddenly stricken with something that might be a dangerous unknown virus when your team is conducting secretive research on Nighthawk Island.” Olivia’s voice held an undercurrent of accusations. “Perhaps my father discovered the truth about the rash these suicide victims had contracted. What if his findings lead back to CIRP? And you had him killed to keep him quiet?”

“You’re letting your grief make you irrational.” Hall’s eyes flickered with anger. “And I wouldn’t print false accusations like that in the paper, Miss Thornbird.”

“Oh, I’ll find proof to substantiate it before I print it.”

A vein in Hall’s forehead throbbed. “Your father shot himself, didn’t he?”

“That is the apparent cause of death,” Craig answered, in an attempt to defuse the volatile situation before it spiraled completely out of hand.

Olivia had a point, but so did Hall.

In fact, it had also occurred to him that Hall and the other scientists at CIRP might hurt Thornbird to keep him from discovering the truth about the virus.

Olivia’s words rushed back to haunt him.

My father was meticulous about safety precautions. If he was infected, it wasn’t accidental.

Could she be right? Could someone have infected Thornbird? If so, his suicide would be murder. And he had just asked Hall for a liaison to interpret the results…

Could Craig trust Hall and the next scientist, or would they alter results to cover for CIRP?

And what about Olivia—if she kept tossing out accusations, would she put herself in danger?

“OLIVIA, I’M GOING TO drive you home.”

Olivia shook her head. “I’d like to stay here a while longer.”

Craig’s sharp gaze cataloged the chalk lines outlining the space where her father’s body had fallen. The other cops were leaving, the house dusted and tattooed with the crime scene unit’s handiwork. The spectators and reporters had given up and gone home, too. “Even if I could let you do that—and I can’t,” Craig said, “—it’s not a good idea.” He took her elbow as if to guide her to the door. “You’re wiped out and need some rest.”

Emotionally drained would be the more correct assessment. Dead inside even closer.

But she’d be damned if she’d admit any weakness to the federal agent who’d made her life hell the last few weeks. Even if he did have the sexiest gray eyes she’d ever seen. And even if for a brief moment, his ironclad control had slipped and concern tinged his voice.

“I…I can’t leave,” she whispered, betraying herself as her gaze caught sight of the wedding photo of her father and mother on the end table by the couch. The realization that she was all alone in the world slammed into her with such force that the breath locked in her lungs.

“Is there someone I can call?” he asked quietly. “A family member? Friend? Boyfriend?”

“No…no one.” She swallowed back tears at how pathetic it all was. Just like her father, she’d drowned herself in work at the expense of forming close friendships. And she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a date.

Emotions suddenly choked her, and she turned away, embarrassed and determined to regain control. “You don’t have to take care of me, Agent Horn.”

“Yes, I do.”

His gruff words hung in the air, thick with concern. Whatever his intention—to spy on her or offer her a semblance of comfort—guilt also riddled his voice.

She didn’t want his guilt or pity.

“I have my car,” she said, swinging back around. “I drove myself here. I can drive myself home.”

“Miss Independent, huh? You never need anyone, right?”

“That’s right.”

His gaze locked with hers, the day’s events traipsing through her mind like a bad headline. Tomorrow, her father’s suicide would be splattered across the papers. She’d need to make plans for the funeral. Think about a burial plot. A memorial service. A casket.

That is, when the medical examiner finally released the body.

It was all too much.

Feeling weak-kneed, she scrounged in her purse for her keys, but Horn placed his hand over hers. “I’m taking you home, Olivia. No arguments. If you want to come back tomorrow, I’ll bring you to get your car. But you’re not driving right now.”

For once in her life, she was too exhausted to argue, so she nodded and followed him to his nondescript sedan. The interior was clean, cool, unwelcoming—just like the man.

She gave him directions to the apartment she rented, one half of an older house that had been converted into duplexes. The night sounds and lights of Savannah passed by in a blur. Blues music floated from Emmet Park where locals often gathered to jam, the rumble of traffic and Saturday-night partygoers and tourists flooding River Street, reminding her that, although she was grieving, life went on.

Down the street, two lovers walked hand in hand, enjoying the moonlight. Another couple laughed as they strolled with their baby.

She fumbled with her keys and climbed out, ignoring Horn when he followed her onto the stoop. Her hand trembled as she inserted the key and opened the door, a well of darkness greeting her from the inside, the happy couples a reminder of a life she might never have.

Craig Horn’s gruff voice broke the quiet. “Olivia, are you going to be all right?”

The heat from the apartment felt like a sweltering oven, the bleak emptiness threatening to swallow her whole.

No, she’d never be okay again.

But she nodded anyway. Just as she started to step inside, Craig caught her arm. She glanced at his fingers where they were pressed into her bare skin, the brief contact sending a tingling up her body that stirred another kind of heat.

God, she was hurting tonight. And she was so alone.

His arms would be so strong around her. If just for the night.

For a brief moment, they simply stood there, the anguish and horror of her father’s suicide a link between them, the guilt and nature of their jobs a barrier that stood in the way.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said in a strained voice.

She swallowed, unable to reply or to force herself inside just yet. He traced his finger down her arm, over the top of her hand. Her breath caught at the tenderness. She nearly opened her fingers and laced them with his to pull him into the darkness with her, to ask him to take away the pain.

Instead, she remained still, her emotions waging a silent battle. She couldn’t get hurt if she didn’t get involved. And she couldn’t ask for help or comfort…

He suddenly released her as if he’d felt the connection and didn’t like it, either. With a grim expression, he reached inside his pocket and withdrew a business card. The Iceman had returned.

“This is my work number, and here’s my home number and cell. Call me if you need anything.” His gaze locked with hers again, his voice husky. “I mean it, Olivia. Any time, day or night.”

She accepted the card, their fingers touching briefly, tempting her again. His masculine scent wafted toward her, teasing, erotic, eliciting images of hands and bodies touching.

But she summoned her courage and walked inside without bothering to reply. After all, they both knew that she wouldn’t call.

Olivia Thornbird couldn’t lean on anyone.

Especially Craig Horn, the man who’d gotten her father killed.

Chapter Three

The anguish in Olivia’s eyes haunted Craig while he drove to the cabin he’d rented on Skidaway Island. He’d wanted to go inside, to hold her, to kiss her, to soothe her pain.

But he couldn’t take advantage of her grief.

Then he’d be an even worse kind of bastard than he already was.

After all, he was responsible for her father’s death.

Frustrated at his weakness for the sexy woman, he opened the windows, welcoming the heat. When Devlin had first asked him to relocate to Savannah a few weeks before to investigate Nighthawk Island, he’d been grateful for the reprieve of the coast and warm sunshine. After years of living in Washington D.C., dealing with politics and the accompanying red tape, along with city traffic, noise and crime, he’d thought the job would be a picnic.

Though the scenery had changed and the pace of the southern town was much slower than the capital city, gaining access to Nighthawk Island’s secretive projects was just as difficult as infiltrating street gangs or corrupt politicians’ offices.

Exhausted, he yanked off his tie, tossed it onto the faded sofa in the den, flipped on the lamp which sprayed the room in a watery dim light, then opened the French doors. The sounds of the ocean crashing against the shore burst into the room, the high tide rising to wash away the remnants of sand castles built earlier.

The first day when he’d arrived he’d noticed the happy families vacationing, the babies in sunbonnets, the toddlers digging in the sand with big plastic shovels, the mothers chasing them to the edge of the water, the fathers tossing their kids into the waves and catching them as they squealed in delight. He’d tried to remember if his own family had ever vacationed like that, spending lazy days strolling on the beach gathering seashells and romping.

His memories consisted of formal dinner parties, being scolded if he tracked dirt on the marble foyer, eating with the housekeeper while his parents campaigned across the state, then later across the country.

And then his sister’s death… It had torn the family even further apart. Especially the family’s refusal to talk about it. It was almost as if his sister had never existed, as if she’d been wiped out like words on a chalk-board that had been erased. At family dinners and holidays no one even bothered to mention her name. Not that there were many family holidays or dinners…

An image of Thornbird’s face, bloody and pale with death, floated back, and he grimaced.

Although he hadn’t spoken to his dad in months, the urge to call him sent Craig to the phone, but he hesitated, his fingers lingering over the handset. His father’s parting words echoed in his mind. “You fool! You let a woman trick you into getting information on me. She nearly ruined my career.”

Just as it was his fault that Olivia’s father had died tonight.

He dropped his hand from the receiver. His father had never forgiven him.

Olivia wouldn’t, either.

Another reason some agents called him the Iceman. The end always justified the means. He’d use anyone he had to in order to get a job done. And if someone died in the process, hell, it was just a loss they had to take.

OLIVIA POURED HERSELF a glass of merlot, slipped on a nightshirt and opened the window in her bedroom, welcoming the sultry heat from the summer air while she desperately tried to banish memories of her father’s lifeless body from her mind.

The phone rang, shrill in the night, and she answered it, hoping it would be Agent Horn with some answers. Or maybe she just wanted to hear his husky voice.

God, she was desperate….

Her boss’s deep baritone boomed instead. “Olivia, it’s Carter. So sorry to hear about your father.”

She cleared her throat. “Thanks, it…was a shock.”

“What happened?”

She hesitated, wondered whether to share her suspicions yet. “I don’t know. He was depressed lately, was agitated, but he hadn’t confided any specifics.”

“Do you think his death is related to the other suicides?”

“I don’t know. I spoke to Agent Horn, but he was closemouthed.”

“He’s a cold one, all right.”

Yes. Except he hadn’t been tonight.

“You’re not giving up, though?”

“No.” She saw her father’s face in her mind. Remembered her resolve about her mother. “Definitely not.”

“Good, I know there’s a story there. I suspect it has to do with Nighthawk Island, too. If you can get it, your career will be made.”

For a fleeting second, she didn’t care about her career. “Lowell, I don’t intend to sensationalize my father’s death for a byline.”

“That’s not what I meant. But everyone is trying to get the truth about the shady research at Nighthawk Island, and you might just be the one to uncover it.”

Right.

She hung up, troubled by the conversation. If Nighthawk Island was keeping secrets about her father’s work and one of those projects was creating public danger, she had an obligation to inform the innocent citizens. She couldn’t sit back and let the truth be buried as it had been when her mother died years ago.

In fact, her father had mentioned her mother at least a half dozen times lately. He’d even claimed that someone might be listening over the phone when they’d last talked.

What if someone had been listening? Someone who hadn’t wanted him to finish researching the virus?

She swirled the red liquid in her glass, willing the rich flavor to dull the pain that coursed through her soul. All these years, she’d hoped for answers. Prayed that one day she and her father would be close again. That he’d wake up and see the daughter he’d forgotten existed. And maybe, in some way, she’d thought by making a name for herself in the paper, by getting bigger headlines, uncovering important stories, putting herself on the line, that he’d take notice.

That dream had died today, as well.

Tears spilled over her cheeks, the black abyss of her sorrow too much to bear, and she finally crawled beneath the covers of her bed, doubled over and released the pent-up emotions she’d been bottling so long. Heartrending sobs escaped her.

She would never be any closer to her father than she had been the day her mother had died. Would never fully understand the reason he’d virtually abandoned her for test tubes and research files.

But she would know the answers to the reason he’d died.

Special Agent Craig Horn’s face drifted into her mind. Sharp chiseled features. A strong jawbone. Black hair that framed a face that had seen hard times. Eyes as gray as a granite sky or the fog that enveloped the island after a storm.

His voice, his expression, his manner—it had always seemed so cold. Distant.

The Iceman. She’d heard the rumors about the other agents thinking he was nothing but a tomb, devoid of emotion.

And she’d understood why.

Yet today, his hand had been gentle when he’d brushed hers. So gentle she’d ached for more. For him to stroke her face, caress her body, touch his lips to hers. Give her comfort in the heat of this sorrowful night.