Without A Trace Read online

  "Maybe if you—"

  "I work alone."

  "I was only going to say that—"

  "Why don't you go down to the kitchen and dig up some coffee, sweetheart?"

  Her eyes narrowed at the tone, and temper trembled on the tip of her tongue. "Fine." She whirled and faced the closed panel. "I don't know how to open the door."

  "Button's on the left. Just put your finger on it and push."

  Her mouth opened again, but, all too aware of what might come flying out, she pushed the button.

  Typical hardheaded, egocentric male, Gillian decided as she marched down the stairs. Hadn't she lived with one, tried to please one, nearly all of her life? Why had fate decreed that in this, the most important thing she'd ever had to do, she'd be chained to another man who had no use for her opinion.

  Make coffee, she thought as she found the kitchen. And if he called her sweetheart one more time, she'd give him what men like him deserved. The back of a woman's hand.

  She started the coffee, too incensed to feel uncomfortable with rooting through a dead man's cupboards.

  He'd had no business dismissing her. Just as he'd had no business kissing her the way he had. It had felt as if she were being devoured. And yet when it had finished she'd been whole. It had felt as if she'd been drugged. And yet her mind had been clear, her senses sharp.

  However she'd felt, however it had finished, she would never be quite the same. She could admit that here, alone, to herself. She was too practical a woman for self-deception. Her feelings were perhaps more easily touched, perhaps more readily given, than she would have preferred, but they were her feelings, and she would never have denied them. She'd enjoyed the feel and taste of Trace's lips on hers. She would remember it for a long time. But she was also an expert on self-discipline. Enjoyable or not, she wouldn't allow it to happen again.

  Trace was still working when she came back into the room. Without ceremony, she slammed the coffee cup down next to him. He acknowledged her with a grunt. Gillian took a turn around the room, told herself to keep her mouth shut, then jammed her hands into her pockets.

  "Access, number 38537/BAKER. Tabulate access code five. Series ARSS28." Gillian blurted the series out almost like an obscenity. "And if you're not too pigheaded to try it, it may work. If not, switch the first number sequence with the second."

  Trace lifted his coffee, pleased she'd left it black, surprised she'd made it well. "And what makes you think you can figure out the access code to one of the most sophisticated computer systems in the free world?"

  "Because I've been watching you for the past hour and I do a little hacking as a hobby."

  "A little hacking." He drank again. "Broken into any good Swiss bank accounts?"

  She crossed the room slowly, almost, Trace thought not without admiration, the way a gunslinger might approach a showdown. "We're talking about my family, remember? Add to that the fact that I'm paying you, and the least you could do is try my suggestion."

  "Fine." Willing to humor her to a point, Trace tapped out the sequence she'd recited.

  ACCESS DENIED

  With only a slight smirk, he gestured toward the screen.

  "All right, then, transpose the numbers." Impatient, she reached around him and began hitting the keys herself. The only thing Trace noticed for a moment was that his shampoo smelled entirely different on her.

  REQUEST FILE

  "There we are." Pleased with herself, Gillian leaned closer. "It's rather like working out a system for blackjack. A professor and I played around with that last semester."

  "Remind me to take you with me the next time I go to Monte Carlo."

  They were closer. One step closer. Smiling, she turned her face to his. "What now?"

  There wasn't a hint of amber or gray in her eyes. They were pure green and brilliant now. Even as he watched them, they changed, filling with speculation, awareness, memory. "You talking about the computer?"

  She needed to swallow badly. "Of course."

  "Just checking." Trace turned away again. They both let out a quiet breath. He began typing, and within seconds data came up on the screen.

  He moved from screen to screen. After all, he knew quite a bit about Hammer already. He'd been briefed intensely before he'd gone undercover, and had learned more during his stint as a low-level delivery boy. During his assignment, he'd managed to pass along names, places and dates to the ISS, and he'd been on the verge of being transferred to the newly implemented main base before he'd been shot.

  Frowning at the screen, he rubbed a thumb over the scar.

  But he'd been sedated for days, hanging between life and death. His recovery had taken two months of hospital care. He'd been debriefed, the assignment had been blown and he'd taken off for a long—supposedly peaceful—vacation.

  Quite a bit could change in two or three months. Charlie, being Charlie, would have keyed into it.

  He breezed by the basic data. Hammer had been founded in the Middle East in the early seventies. With a combination of luck and money, and a complete disregard for life, they had pulled off a number of bombings, taken hostages. The last hijacking the organization had attempted had ended with someone's itchy finger pushing a detonator and blowing eighty-five innocent people and six terrorists to oblivion.

  That was their style, he thought. Win some, lose some.

  "Husad," Gillian said, honing in one name as Trace flipped screens. "Isn't he the leader?"

  "He's the one with the bucks. Jamar Husad, political outcast, self-proclaimed general and complete lunatic. Come on, Charlie," he muttered at the machine. "Give me something."

  "You're hardly looking," she began.

  "I already know all this."

  "How?"

  "I worked for them for six months," he said half to himself.

  "You what!" She took a step back.

  Annoyance flickered in his eyes as he glanced up. "Relax, sweetheart, all for the good of the cause. I infiltrated."

  "But if you were inside, then you should know where they would have taken Flynn and Caitlin. Why are we fooling with this computer when—"

  "Because they moved. They were just getting set up in the new location when I got taken out."

  "Taken out?" Puzzlement veered into horror. "You were shot?"

  "Part of the job description."

  "You were nearly killed—a scar like that…" She trailed off and laid a hand on his shoulder. "You were nearly killed by those people, but you're doing this."

  He shook her hand away. He couldn't afford to let her feelings soften toward him. Then it would be too easy to let his soften toward her. "I got a personal investment here. There's a matter of a hundred thousand—my ticket to paradise."

  She curled her fingers into her palm. "Do you expect me to believe you're only doing this for the money?"

  "Believe what you like, but keep it to yourself. I've never known anybody who asks so many questions. I'm trying to concentrate. Yeah, yeah," he muttered. "I know they were in Cairo, that's old—

  "All right. I knew I could count on Charlie." Trace leaned back. "New base of operations: Morocco."

  "Morocco? Could they have taken Flynn and Caitlin all that way?"

  "They'd want the best security for them. In Morocco, Hammer would have allies close." He continued to flip from screen to screen until he came to the end of the file. "Nothing on your brother here yet." He instructed the computer to print out the pages that interested him, then turned to Gillian. "It would only take a phone call to bring the ISS in on this. I want you to think about it."

  She had thought about it, worried about it. "Why didn't Mr. Forrester do that?"

  "I've got some ideas."

  "But you're not going to tell me what they are."

  "Not yet. Like you said, it's your family, you make the choice."

  She moved away from him. It was more logical to call the ISS. They were an organization with sophisticated equipment, with manpower, with political clout. And yet… E
very instinct told her to go with this one man, the man Charles Forrester had called a renegade. With her hands linked, Gillian turned to him. He still didn't look like a hero. And she was still going with her instincts.

  "One hundred thousand, Mr. O'Hurley, and I go with you every step of the way."

  "I told you I work alone."

  "Perhaps you haven't seen me at my best, but I'm a very strong and capable woman. If I have to, I'll go to Morocco alone."

  "You wouldn't last a day."

  "Maybe not. Hammer's agents are looking for me. If they find me, they'll take me to my brother. At least that way I'd know he and my niece were all right. I'd rather do it another way."

  He stood up to do some pacing himself. She'd slow him down, but not by much. And if she stayed with him, he'd be able to keep an eye on her. He couldn't deny she'd held up in Mexico. If he had to play that kind of game again, he could use her.

  "We go together, it doesn't mean we're partners, it means you take orders."

  Gillian inclined her head but didn't say anything.

  "When the time comes for me to move, you stay out of the way. I won't be able to worry about you then."

  "You won't have to worry about me." She took a deep breath. "What do we do now?"

  "First I check with Rory." He moved to the phone. "But I have a feeling we're catching a plane."

  Chapter Four

  Contents - Prev | Next

  Casablanca. Bogart and Bergman. Pirates and intrigue. Foggy airports and sun-washed beaches. The name conjured up images of danger and romance. Gillian was determined to accept the first and avoid the second.

  Trace had booked adjoining rooms in one of the more exclusive hotels near United Nations Square. Gillian remained silent while he spoke to the desk clerk in fluid French and was addressed as Monsieur Cabot.

  Andre Cabot was the name on the passport he was using now. He wore a conservative three-piece suit and shoes that had a mirror gleam. His brown-rinsed hair was a bit mussed from the drive, but he'd shaved. He stood differently, too, she noted. Ramrod-straight, as though he'd come through some military academy. Even his personality had changed, she thought as she stood to the side and let him deal with the details of checking in. He'd slipped so effortlessly into the role of the brusque, slightly impatient French businessman, she could almost believe she'd lost Trace O'Hurley along the way and picked up someone else.

  For the second time she felt as if she were putting her life into the hands of a stranger.

  But the eyes were the same. A little shock passed through her when he turned and looked at her with the dark intensity she recognized but had yet to become accustomed to.

  She remained silent as Trace took her arm and led her to a bank of elevators. Gillian still wore the wig, but the glasses were gone and the drab dress was replaced by an elegant silk outfit more suited to the image of Cabot's current mistress. Twenty stories later they were entering their suite and he hadn't said a word. Trace passed bills to the bell man in a slow, methodical fashion that indicated that he was a man who counted his francs.

  She expected Cabot to disappear the moment the door was closed, but instead he spoke to her in lightly accented English. "For rooms of this price, the sheets should be threaded with gold."

  "What—"

  "See if the bar is stocked, cherie." He was moving around the room, checking lamps, lifting pictures from the wall. He turned to her only briefly, with a warning glance. "I would prefer a small glass of vermouth before I have the pleasure of undressing your lovely body." He picked up the phone, unscrewed the mouthpiece, and then, after a quick search, fastened it again.

  "Would you?" She understood he was staying in character until he was certain there was no surveillance equipment in the rooms. Though it was unnerving, she accepted it. It was only the fact that he'd portrayed his character and hers as lovers that grated. Deciding two could play, she moved to a small wet bar and opened a cabinet door.

  "I'm more than happy to fix you a drink, sweetheart." She saw his brow lift as he checked the headboard, then the mattress. "But, as to the rest, I'm a bit tired after the flight."

  "Then we'll have to see what can be done to bring your energy back." Satisfied the first room was clean, Trace walked to her. There was a long moment of silence before he accepted the glass she'd poured. "Let's move into the next room," he murmured, then turned and left her to follow. "Perhaps you're not as tired as you think."

  As he began the same procedure on the second room, Gillian sat on the bed. "It was a long flight."

  "Then you should rest. Let me help you." He lifted a print of the Cathedral of the Sacre Coeur. His hands, long-fingered and sure, ran over the frame and the back. "You'll rest better unconfined."

  Gillian slipped out of her shoes to massage her arches. "You seem to have only one thing on your mind."

  "A man would be foolish to have more than one thing on his mind once alone with you."

  Gillian considered a moment. Perhaps she could grow to like this Andre Cabot. "Really?" She lifted the glass he'd discarded and sipped from it. "Why?"

  He'd come closer to check the headboard. Pausing a moment, he looked at her. There was a grin on her face that said, "I dare you." She should have known better. "Because you have skin like a white rose that grows only warmer and softer when I touch you." His hand brushed her thigh, making her jolt. Trace continued to check the mattress, but his eyes stayed on hers. "Because your hair is fire and silk, and when I kiss you… When I kiss you, ma belle, your lips are the same."

  Her breath caught as he circled his hand around her neck. He leaned closer so that when it was released again it mingled with his. "Because when I touch you like this I can feel how much you want me. Because when I look at you I can see you're afraid."

  She couldn't look away. She couldn't move away. "I'm not afraid of you." But she was fascinated. Whoever he was, he fascinated.

  "No? You should be."

  She didn't notice that his voice had changed, had become his own again, just before his mouth closed over hers. It was the same heat, the same strength, as before. Had it only been once before? she thought as her body went fluid, sliding beneath his onto the bed. Without a thought to reason, without a thought to consequences, she wrapped her arms around him.

  Why did it seem so easy? His mouth was hard and hot, his hands were anything but gentle. And yet it seemed so easy to be with him now, so natural. So familiar. Surely his taste was a taste she'd woken to before. If she ran her hands over his back, she knew what muscles she would find. If she drew in a breath so that the scent of him filled her, it would be no surprise.

  Perhaps she had known his face for only a matter of days. But there was something here that she had known all her life.

  He must be going mad. It was as though she'd always been there for him. Would always be there. The feel of her body beneath his wasn't like that of any other woman. It was like that of the only woman. He knew, somehow, how her sigh would sound before he heard it, how her fingers would feel on his face before she lifted them to touch him,

  He knew, he expected, yet it still stunned.

  He could feel his pulse speed up until it beat in hundreds of points throughout his body. He could hear his own crazed murmuring of her name as he tore his mouth from hers to let it roam desperately over her face and throat. Then there was the need, growing to a rage inside him that was nothing like the desire he'd felt for other women.

  He wanted all of her, mind, body, soul. He wanted her now. He wanted her for a lifetime.

  It was that shocking thought that stopped him. There were no guaranteed lifetimes, especially not in the game he'd chosen to play. He'd learned to live for the moment. Tomorrow was up for grabs.

  Whatever she was doing to him had to stop—if he wanted to live to collect his hundred thousand.

  He ached. He could have hated her for that, but he rolled off her with a carelessness that left her still and speechless. "The room's clean." He picked up the glass to
drain the last of the vermouth. And wished it was whiskey.

  Her breathing was uneven, and her limbs were unsteady. There was nothing she could do about that, or about the unsated need crawling inside her. But she could hate him. With her whole heart and soul she could hate him.

  "You bastard."

  "You asked for it, sweetheart." He pulled out a cigarette and focused his mind on what lay ahead, instead of what had lain beneath him only moments before. "I've got some things to do. Why don't you take a nap?"

  She came off the bed slowly, with the look in her eye that he'd noted before. It occurred to him that it was fortunate for both of them that his weapons were out of sight and reach.

  She'd been humiliated before. She'd been rejected before. But she didn't intend to be either at his hands ever again. "Don't you ever touch me. I'll put up with your crude manners because I have no choice, but don't you ever put your hands on me again."

  He wasn't sure why he did it. Anger had a way of urging a man to make a wrong and reckless move. He yanked her against him, even enjoying her fast and furious struggles as he clamped his mouth down on hers again. She was wildfire now, hot, volatile and dangerous. He had an image, steamy and strong, of pulling her to the bed and letting violence feed violence. Before he could top one mistake with another, he let her go. "I don't take orders, Gillian. Remember that." Her hands curled into fists. Only the knowledge that she'd lose kept her from landing a blow. "There'll cornea time you'll pay for that."

  "Probably. Right now, I'm going out. Stay inside." When the door closed behind him, she had the small satisfaction of cursing him.

  He was gone only an hour. Most of Casablanca was as he remembered it. The little shops along the Boulevard Hansali still catered to the tourist trade. The port was still busy with European ships. He had walked through the original Arab town, still surrounded by old rampart walls. But he hadn't gone sightseeing. His contact in the bidonville, the shantytown near the shopping district, had been pleased to see him again, and agreeable enough after an exchange of a few dirham to give birth to a certain rumor about a hijacked shipment of American arms.

  Trace arrived back at the hotel, satisfied that the first step had been taken and ready to start the next. The rooms were empty. He didn't panic, not at first. His training was a natural extension of his mind, just as his arm was a natural extension of his body.

  After unstrapping his revolver from his calf, he began to search both rooms and baths. The balcony doors were still locked from the inside, though the curtains had been drawn. She'd taken her things out of his suitcase. Trace found them neatly put away in closets and drawers. The cosmetics she'd bought to replace those she'd lost stood on the counter in the bath. There were bath salts the color of sea foam, and a short cotton robe shades darker hanging on the back of the door.

  Her purse was gone, and so were the notes inside it. The drumming at the back of his neck, slow and steady, was growing louder.

  There was no sign of a struggle. It was hard for him to believe that a woman like Gillian would have submitted to anyone without a fight. It was just as difficult for him to believe that anyone could have traced them so quickly.

  So where the hell was she? Trace thought as he felt the first twinges of panic. He ran a hand through his hair and tried to think calmly. If they had her… If they had her, then he would…

  He couldn't think calmly when he kept seeing how Abdul had dragged her up by the hair. He couldn't think calmly when he remembered how her blood had felt on his hands.

  When he heard the key in the lock, he whirled. It took only an instant to pull back control. Before the knob turned, he was behind the door, gun pointed up, body tensed. As the door opened, he grabbed a wrist. And yanked Gillian inside. Both of them received a shock when he dragged her into his arms.

  "Damn it, where were you? Are you all right?"

  She'd drawn in her breath to scream. The collision with Trace had knocked the air out of her again. She managed to nod, and then, feeling the tension in his body, she soothed him automatically.

  "I'm fine." She ran a hand over his back. "Did something happen? I was only gone a few minutes."

  And in a few minutes his imagination had worked at top speed. Trace cursed himself, then her. "I told you to stay inside. What the hell's wrong with you?" Furious with himself, he shoved her away. "I don't have time to babysit, damn it.