Chapter One

"You've GOT to be kidding!"

Mike Lister sighed to himself and studied Hunter sitting across the desk from him. Hunter's dark, intense eyes were flashing indignation, rightly so. But it was an unusual, one-off event. "It's only temporary," Mike informed him. "Jeff's being recalled. His father's been seriously injured. Wouldn't you want the same consideration if your father was hurt?"

Hunter grunted and frowned. "There has to be someone else. How about that kid, James Pander? He's a useless waste of space."

"He doesn't have the expertise, doesn't speak the language, and isn't familiar with the area," Mike immediately countered. "Come on, Hunter. It's only for ten days or so. Help me out here."

Hunter shifted in his seat. His penetrating eyes studied Mike as if trying to read his mind. "He'd make a good babysitter. That's all you need. How hard can it be to keep an eye on her?"

"Hunter," Mike sighed in exasperation. "Don't make me order you. I'm asking as a favor. Besides, you're due for a break. This will be a good, much-needed ten-day rest. Think of it as a vacation."

Hunter stood suddenly and looked down at Mike. "All right. You owe me, Mike."

Mike Lister smiled to himself. As contrary as Hunter Lightfoot was, he could be trusted, and right now that's what Mike needed. He picked up a briefing folder and held it out. "Here are the details. You've been booked on the American Airlines' five-forty flight." Checking his watch, Mike added, "You'd better get moving."

After Hunter grabbed the folder and left, Mike leaned back and swiveled his chair to stare out the window. From his office, the view of Washington was nothing to look at: cars gridlocked and edging angrily in search of faster lanes; the street lined with plain, characterless concrete office blocks just like the one he was in; gloomy light from a dark, overcast sky threatening more rain. Mike stared out not really seeing. He wondered if he was doing the right thing. Should he have put his foot down? Hunter Lightfoot was one of the best agents the Bureau of Diplomatic Security had and he was needed elsewhere. He was unconventional and unpredictable; difficult to anticipate. They were traits that made him very, very effective despite his relative youth - twenty-nine years old. Why had Lightfoot been specifically requested? The orders from on high had been unequivocal.

A phone trilled, breaking Mike's train of thought. He swiveled back to the desk and answered.

"Mike Lister."

"Is it done?" a deep, raspy voice asked.

"Yes, Sir. But why Lightfoot?" Mike asked, yet again.

"You don't need to know, Mr. Lister."

The phone went dead. A feeling of foreboding passed through Mike before he shook it off, his attention turning to the pile of work on his desk awaiting his decisions.

Chapter Two

THROUGH THE OVAL PORTHOLE, I watched Paris unfold beneath the airplane as it completed its final holding track in preparation for landing at Charles de Gaulle airport. The constant thrum of jet engines changed, deepening as power increased. The whine of motors extending wing flaps added to the noise. Landing gear thumped open. Leveling, the Airbus started its approach.

In my lap, the file sat closed. I'd pored over it during the long flight from Dulles. At first blush, it seemed simple - protective duty for ten days. Yet, just because I speak French and know Paris aren't reasons enough to assign me the duty. In the hierarchy of assignments, this one rated next to last; way below my pay grade.

For the next ten days I was to protect Callie Hollister, daughter of General George Hollister, a four-star serving as America's top representative to NATO. But the question remained; why would she need protection? And why was she in Paris, not Brussels, Belgium, with her father, where NATO was headquartered?

There were more troubling questions, too. Why me? I hadn't been part of a protection detail for three years. My skills were intelligence gathering and troubleshooting for the US Department of State. There were many other qualified candidates who speak French and know Paris. They could have transferred another body from any other American Embassy in Europe for ten days. So, why me?

The Airbus thumped down onto the runway with a screech of rubber. Engines roared as reverse thrust was applied, g-force pulling my body forward.

Thirty minutes later I breezed through passport control with a flash of a diplomatic passport, carrying a duffel bag over my shoulder. Crowds shoved and bustled as I made my way to the taxi stand. Another ten minutes and I was rocketing precariously towards Paris, the cab stinking of stale Gauloise cigarette smoke and garlic salami, the dark-skinned driver yelling at other cars as he dodged in and out of lanes in an erratic, unpredictable rush, his hand playing a musical tempo with the horn.

Paris suburbs passed in a blur. It was a rare sunny day in late May that made Paris prettier than the usual grubbiness that characterized the outskirts. The smell of Gauloise made me long for a cigarette, a nasty habit I'd quit two years ago.

Peeling off the autoroute from the middle lane to the accompaniment of a chorus of angry car horns objecting to the sudden maneuver, the cab battled through city traffic, passing Champs-Élyseés in the distance, the top of the Arc de Triomphe de l'Étoile visible. We fought traffic down Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré paralleling the Seine. A couple of hair-raising jigs and the cab hit Rue du Temple and, two blocks later, screeched to a stop at Paris Marais Dance School.

"Quatre-vingt six Euro, s'il vous plaît," the cabbie announced, turning to stare at me as if I was planning to stiff him.

I handed him a hundred Euro note and got out. It was way too much, but what the hell. It wasn't my dime.

For a moment I studied the Paris Marais Dance School. It was very French; a large u-shaped tan building facing the street, two floors, a steep, dark, lead sheet roof with narrow dormer windows indicating a third floor, and the requisite small café with outdoor tables and bright yellow umbrellas promoting Pernod in the courtyard, occupied by a collection of young people sipping coffee.

Hefting the duffel bag over my shoulder, I entered the school and immediately spotted Jeff Benton, the man I was replacing. Forty-four years old, dressed in a dark suit, hair thinning, and weight collecting at his waist, he looked like a middle-aged businessman. Except, he was standing, alert and observant, watching everyone as they passed. He spotted me and smiled.

"Lightfoot! So they roped you into replacing me," he commented, extending his hand. I shook it. We'd worked the protection detail together years ago. Jeff never aspired to greater things.

"Yeah. Ten days. Hey, sorry to hear about your father. I hope he's okay," I said.

Jeff frowned. "It's the damnedest thing. He's never . . ." Jeff's voice trailed off. He shrugged. "It'll be good to see him. Here."

He handed me a set of keys.

"Callie is in class. Second floor. She'll be finished in half an hour. The car's parked down the street; a silver Mercedes. Just hit the remote and the lights will tell you which one."

I took the proffered keys. "Any advice?" I asked.

"Yeah. Keep a close eye on her. She's an escape artist." With a glance at his watch, he added, "I'm outa here." He shook my hand again and, shaking his head, said, "So they sent the A team . . . Strange." With that, he left.

I stood in the entry hall, glanced around, and finally spotted an office. A middle-aged, gray-haired lady tapping away at a computer keyboard paused long enough to inform me, after checking her computer screen and my I.D., that I would find Callie in studio 2D.

Climbing the broad marble staircase, I noticed all the students were of a type; young, slender men no older than mid-twenties and as young as early teens, and reed-slender females of the same age, all full of energy.

Studio 2D was large with polished hardwood floors, mirrors on the wall, and brightly lit. Peering through the window inset in the door, I watched a group of teens dancing the same routine, a modern dance, the late-middle-aged female instructor at the head of the studio watching with an eagle eye and barking out instructions. Callie was easy to find. She looked like the photo in her file: fine-boned and sparrow slender making her appear tall for her age; very, very dark brown hair pulled into a tight knot at the back of her head. I studied her. She moved with grace, her body flowing effortlessly from one pose into another, her fingers posed just so reinforcing my impression of a little sparrow. In a white leotard, with white leggings, and a colorful silk scarf tied around her waist, she looked delicate and young. Only a small bust hinted at her true age - fifteen.

Turning away, I leaned against the wall, dropping the duffel bag at my feet. Perhaps a couple of weeks of easy duty would be good for me. I felt tired and suffered from tension in my shoulders. The last five months had been hectic. Nigeria had been brutal. Yemen had been Hell on Earth. And Pakistan had been tense, especially for a westerner like me. Ten days to recharge my batteries might be just what the doctor ordered.

What did Jeff mean by Callie being an escape artist?

A loud bell rang. Within minutes the hall was filled with talking kids, sweaty bodies, and hustle and bustle. Callie's studio door opened and a flood of teens flowed out. I caught sight of Callie as she headed away from me.

"Hey! Callie!" I yelled.

Two girls paused and looked back at me. What were the odds?

"You," I pointed. "Hollister."

Pale blue eyes, like cool water, stared back at me. "What?"

I picked up my duffel. "I'm Jeff Benton's replacement."

Callie's eyes opened wide. "You?"

"Yes. Me."

She studied me as students flowed like a river between and around us. "You don't look like a bodyguard. Where's your suit?"

Wading through the rush of kids, I approached her until we were face to face. I'd been right. She'd seemed tall for her age, but the top of her head only reached my chin. It was definitely her slender physique enhancing the appearance of height; that and the way she carried herself. "I don't wear suits unless it's needed."

She took a step back from me and stared up defiantly. "Show me some I.D."

Good. She was cautious. Reaching into the inside pocket of my leather Bomber jacket, I pulled out the State Department I.D. and flipped it open towards her. She studied it, then studied my face.

"What sort of name is Hunter Lightfoot?" she asked. "American Indian?"

"Something like that," I responded.

Still cautious, she demanded, "Let me see your passport."

I showed it to her, slightly amused by her. "Now, can we get out of here?"

Without a word, she turned and walked off. I followed, watching everyone around us.

A hundred and fifty feet down the Rue du Temple, a silver late-model Mercedes blinked its lights at me when I pressed the remote. As Callie tossed her bag into the back seat, I adjusted the driver seat. Two minutes later we joined the madness that was French drivers, a mélange of rule-breaking, rampaging cars and trucks threatening each other with horns.

"Turn right up here," Callie instructed, her finger pointing.

I didn't bother telling her I knew where we were going. I had the address for her apartment. I knew the streets of Paris better than she probably did. Instead, I let her direct me while I kept an eye on traffic. While I had a hard time believing she needed any protection - I mean, who would want to kidnap her? - driving in chaotic traffic was the number one way of being trapped.

Twenty-five minutes later we parked in the street in front of a nicely built, mid-eighteenth-century six-story building in the 9th Arrondissement off Rue Notre Dame de Lorette.

The foyer, with worn stone floors and cream-painted wainscoting, gave access to a rickety elevator, the type where you had to close two mesh gates. It rose like an arthritic old man, complaining with whines and gnashing gears, shaking slightly in its frail old age. Her apartment, provided by her father, was on the fifth floor, facing east across a narrow street to another similar residential building.

I dropped the duffel bag and took a tour. The apartment was nicely decorated, nothing fancy, just comfortable furniture in a simple, almost Swedish austere look. The kitchen showed the age of the building with a ceramic sink and old taps - one with the initial C for hot on the top, the other with F for cold. A well-used Formica counter top contrasted with new appliances, the stove gas powered. Pale cream painted walls with no window made the kitchen slightly dark and typically French. The living room was neat, hardwood floors, a small dining table to one side, a couch and armchair set around a coffee table, and a flat-panel TV against the wall. Magazines and books were haphazardly spread over the couch and coffee table. Twelve-foot ceilings and tall, large windows gave the room a feeling of space. To the left, a dark hall led to two bedrooms and a shared bathroom. A large hall closet contained a compact laundry washer-dryer.

The first bedroom was small. An armoire took the duties of a non-existent closet, a dresser and single bed completing the furnishings.

"This is your room," Callie announced from behind me. I turned. She was leaning against the doorframe, one hand tugging at the knot holding her hair. Her hair expanded, springing thick as it was released. "The other one is mine and it's off limits, so stay out of it. We share the bathroom. You'd better be neat. I won't clean up after you. And I have first dibs on the bathroom."

With that, she shook out her dark, loose hair and disappeared.

I smiled to myself. She didn't lack for self-confidence, that's for sure. I imagined it was the influence of a General for a father and having to live all over the world. It matured kids faster.

Well, ten days . . . could be worse.

Chapter Three

CALLIE STRETCHED OUT ON top of her bed, her body sore from dance practice. Homework was ignored, her books spread out on the bed. She'd been surprised by Hunter Lightfoot. Until now, her minders had all been big older guys - except for the one female, Jill, who'd lasted three months. Hunter Lightfoot was very different.

First off, he was much younger than any of the others, maybe under thirty. She'd have to ask him. He was slender and lithe, not muscled or overweight like the others. And he dressed completely casual. Where were the suits that made the others stand out, an "I'm her bodyguard, be careful" statement?

In jeans and a brown leather Bomber jacket, he looked like he belonged in Paris. As far as she could tell, he didn't even carry a gun, unlike Jeff Benton.

Callie wondered what his story was. Clearly he was different. It wasn't just the clothes. His looks and attitude were different. Dark, almost black hair fell unfashionably to below his collar, his skin bronze colored. But his most fascinating feature was his eyes; restless, observant, and almost obsidian they were so dark. They were disconcerting, too - she couldn't read him. He didn't smile, didn't talk to fill the silences, didn't seem interested in her. Yet she didn't feel he disliked her, more like she was an inanimate object being protected. He responded politely enough when she talked to him, just never initiated conversation. Hunter was cool, aloof, distanced. One thing she did know - he looked exhausted; lines around his eyes, slightly disheveled, clothes wrinkled.

A warm flush of embarrassment and the return of indignation hit her as she replayed earlier this evening. She'd finished her shower and wrapped a towel around her before heading to her bedroom, and was about to take the towel off when she noticed Hunter standing in her room staring out the window.

"What are you doing here? Get out! I told you my room was off limits!" she'd yelled. Jeff had never entered her bedroom!

Hunter had turned and looked at her with those dark eyes, not fazed in the slightest.

"I'm responsible for your security. That means nothing is off limits," he'd informed her after a slight pause.

Without another word, he'd walked past her. She slammed the door behind him, furious at him. But, she'd noticed he hadn't even looked at her in the bath towel, just her eyes. That puzzled her. Most guys she knew ogled her at some point.

He surprised her again when, dressed, she'd emerged full of indignation and ready to lace into him for invading her personal space, only to find him cooking! Cooking!

He'd obviously hunted through the refrigerator and created something she'd never have thought of - a delicious Spanish omelet with red peppers, onions, and potatoes. A freshly warmed baguette and simple green salad had accompanied the omelet.

She thought back to his surprising response when she'd informed him she didn't eat high calorie, fatty foods.

"Relax. It's low fat and you need the carbs from the potatoes. The salad has hardly any oil."

She'd probed and discovered he was fairly disciplined about his nutrition; a health nut, maybe?

Then, over dinner, she'd asked Hunter, "How come you haven't grilled me?" Jeff had been so talkative and demanded to know everything about her when he'd started.

Hunter had looked at her, pausing with a fork halfway to his mouth and said, "I don't need to interrogate you. I already know everything about you."

"No you don't," she'd informed him.

Hunter had placed his full fork down on the plate and said conversationally, "You're fifteen, living in Paris because you want to be a dancer. Your father's too busy to argue, or you're too stubborn to accept anything else. Your mother passed away five years ago. You're dedicated to dance above everything else. You have no hobbies. You don't watch television. You don't have a social life. You don't have a boyfriend. And you're inflexible."

Open-mouthed, she'd retorted, "I'm not inflexible. I have a social life and, for your information, I have a boyfriend."

"No you don't."

With that, he'd gone back to eating, ignoring her.

Callie twisted onto her back on the bed, indignation still hot inside her. What an ass! She'd call Dad and ask for a replacement!

Chapter Four

STANDING, STARING OUT THROUGH the living room windows, I decided there was something calming about the assignment after all. I didn't have a say in Callie's schedule or activities unless they exposed her to potential danger, of which there was none. She was an anonymous teenager in a city full of them. It made my job mindless and reminded me why I dislike protective detail. For two days I'd followed her schedule, escorting her to the American high school every morning, then to the Paris Marais Dance School every afternoon, then home. For the first couple of days it had been relaxing. I could feel tension melt away. But now it was boring. Friday. Eight more days.

I listened to her on her cell phone talking to her father. It was hard not to. Despite the closed bedroom door, her vociferous protestations came through loud and clear. I happened to agree with her - she should get a different agent to protect her. But apparently General George Hollister disagreed. It was her yell, "I'll never talk to you again, Dad!" that suggested her father was actually the man of steel he was reputed to be.

Callie was proving to be a little bird with a spine; opinionated, forceful, headstrong, and determined to get her own way. Under other conditions I'd appreciate her, but as a protectee, those traits are the worst.

Deciding I didn't want to face her after that conversation, I went and took a shower.

Fifteen minutes later, clean, shaved, with a towel wrapped around my waist, I walked into my small bedroom to find Callie studying the contents of the armoire.

"What are you doing?" I asked, moving to the dresser for clean underwear and socks.

"You don't seem to respect my privacy, so I thought I'd reciprocate and see how you like it," she answered firmly. "You don't have many clothes," she added.

"Enough for the next eight days. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like some privacy to get dressed."

She strolled out slowly, closing the door behind her. I grinned when she'd gone. Back in the day, when protective detail had been my job, most female protectees could be classified as compliant or petulant. I'd never had one like Callie. She was different. It was refreshing.

Dressed, I sat on the bed and, once again, reviewed her file. It still troubled me. Why me? Despite what Mike said, there was no reason to put me on this assignment. There were far more serious problems in Foreign Affairs that needed attention; a leak in our Moscow embassy that was close to embarrassing the American government, a wayward employee in the Japan Embassy who was suspected of sexual assaults, and brewing trouble at the Brazil Embassy in advance of the Olympics. Those were things I could fix. So why here? Why Callie?

Picking up my cell phone, I tried to connect with Mike. No luck - out of the office according to his secretary. I called Jeff Benton, successfully connecting, only to learn he'd be on leave for three weeks, not ten days. His father was in critical condition. Apparently he'd driven off the road into a ravine. The police suspected alcohol, but Jeff was adamant his father never consumed alcohol when driving.

Somewhat gloomy with the possibility of having my assignment extended, I packed away the file and left the bedroom.

The living room was empty. Callie, I assumed, must still be in her room. Inspecting the kitchen cupboards and fridge, I found nothing for dinner. We'd need to shop or go out to eat. Maybe dine out. Perhaps it would mollify Callie after the disappointing conversation with her father.

I knocked on her door and waited. Nothing. No response. One more try. No response. Screw it! I opened her bedroom door. Empty. Well, shit! Where was she?

The bathroom was steamy but empty.

Striding into the living room, my mind tumbling through scenarios, I grabbed my jacket and car keys, now angry with her. Where had she disappeared to?

As I strode towards the front door, it opened, Callie walking in with a small plastic shopping bag.

"Where the Hell were you?" I growled.

Completely unperturbed, Callie replied, "I needed Tampax, so I went and bought some."

She walked away from me down the hall.

"Hold on just a minute, Ms. Hollister!" I growled again. When she didn't stop, I added, "Where the Hell do you think you're going?"

Without looking back, she informed me, "Tampax. Remember? I ran out." The bathroom door closed.

Shit!

Is this what Jeff meant by her being an escape artist? She'd done the same thing yesterday, slipping away from class without me noticing and making me feel incompetent. I'd found her blithely sipping coffee at the courtyard café with a couple of other students, a twenty-something year old guy showing far too much interest in her. She seemed surprised at my snarl of anger. Didn't she understand what my job was? Even if she wasn't in danger, there were protocols that needed to be followed for Christ sake!

Standing, blocking the hall to the living room, I waited. When she emerged, she walked towards me. I didn't move.

Callie stopped and stared up at me. "What's your problem?"

"We need to have a talk."

"So talk," she replied, trying to ease around me.

I didn't budge.

"Move!" she ordered, pushing me with a hand. I didn't. Her pale blue eyes turned up to stare in defiance, flashing with indignation.

"There's nothing for dinner. We're going to eat out at a restaurant," I informed her.

She glared at me. "Maybe I don't want to eat out."

"So suck it up. We're going out."

Callie waited a beat and, with a voice dripping with sarcasm, said, "I thought it was daaangerous for me to be out."

"Right now it's more dangerous for you to be in here with me," I informed her. "Get your things."

Her expression firmed up, eyes icy. "I would if you'd get out of the way!" Then she shoved me with both hands.

She was too slender to move me. I waited until she got the message before stepping aside to let her pass. This was shaping up into a battle of wills.

Five minutes later I was striding down the street, Callie matching me pace for pace, albeit with a dancer's grace. She pointed across the street to a small café, "We'll eat there." I shook my head and continued.

Bistro de la Gare, despite being nowhere near a train station, was classically Parisian. Small square tables set with white, starched tablecloths were close together. Waiters weaved in and out serving a loud, boisterous clientele. Wine was in profusion and the air was scented with garlic and rosemary.

"Why here?" Callie asked, opening her cloth serviette and placing it in her lap.

"It's not quiet and secluded. With all these people around you'll have to behave."

Another icy blue glare came my way. "Vin Blanc de maison," she instructed the waiter when he hovered.

I corrected her order for white wine. "Non. Pas du vin. Perrier, s'il vous plait."

"D'accord," the waiter said, walking away.

"Why did you do that?" Callie asked. "I wanted wine."

"You're too young, even here in Paris."

A frown emerged, a prelude to another opinionated comment. I cut her off. "Are you a good dancer?" I asked.

She looked startled at the sudden change in direction. "A very good one."

"I think so, too. So why do you assume I'm bad at my job?"

"I don't think you're bad at your job!"

"Yes you do. You question my decisions and leave the apartment without me or even informing me. You deliberately try to ditch me."

"It never bothered Jeff," Callie retorted.

"Jeff isn't good at his job. I am. I'm very good at my job."

Callie's eyes turned away from me. She studied the restaurant for a while, before looking at me again. "I'm sorry. I didn't think. But you make me . . . uncomfortable."

CALLIE WATCHED A CONFUSED expression pass over Hunter's face.

"I make you uncomfortable?"

She nodded. He did. He was so utterly unreadable she never knew what he was thinking, just dark obsidian eyes, ever watchful.

"Why?" he asked.

Callie shrugged. "Jeff and I used to talk all the time. You never talk. You don't converse. You're always so still. You don't fidget like everyone else. You just observe . . . everything."

"I'm not your traveling companion or your best friend," Hunter replied.

At the sound of the restaurant front door opening, she watched him assess the new patrons before turning back to her. "Like that," she said. "Do you miss anything?"

"A lot. Why do you care?"

"I don't. But . . ."

"But what?"

Callie wondered why she actually cared. He was only around for another few days. So why did he bother her? Maybe it was his stillness, his unreadable face, or those dark, dark eyes that held mystery. Was she just curious?

"Do you ever relax?" she asked.

"Not when I'm on the job."

"How long have you been in the protection detail?"

"I'm not with protective services," Hunter said.

"Then why are you here?" she asked.

"I'm temporarily filling in for Jeff."

Callie, somewhat frustrated at Hunter's curt responses, changed tracks. "What's harder than getting a pregnant elephant into a Mini Cooper?"

"Huh?"

She saw surprise in his eyes. Finally! Some emotion other than intensity!

"I asked, what's harder than getting a pregnant elephant into a Mini Cooper?"

"You can't get an elephant into a Mini Cooper," Hunter replied.

"Jeez. Just answer me."

He thought for a moment. "I don't know."

Callie deadpanned, "Getting an elephant pregnant in a Mini Cooper."

She watched him think. Then he grinned. It completely changed him. With one utterly charming grin, Hunter's character came alive, eyes twinkling. This Hunter was very nice, very easy on the eyes - younger and stress-free.

The waiter interrupted them to take their dinner order. Callie ordered a Salade Niçoise, Hunter, grilled Dover Sole. By the time the waiter left, Hunter was back to his watchful, serious self.

"So, tell me a joke," she suggested.

Hunter frowned. "I don't know any jokes."

"You must know one," Callie insisted.

"I don't. I never remember the punch lines."

Relaxing somewhat, Callie smiled and suggested, "Tell me something about yourself. Like, if you're not in protective services, what do you do? Or where you grew up. Or where you went to school. Or who was your first girlfriend?"

I FINALLY STUDIED CALLIE, really studied her, ignoring our surroundings. Her smile changed her personality. Loose, thick, soft wavy dark hair fell forward over her shoulders and behind her back, rich and glossy in the reflected light. Her skin was flawless, not white but slightly darker; a light Mediterranean bronze shade inherited from her mother. Her slender nose and classic mouth gave her elegance rather than cuteness or pure prettiness. It suited her as a dancer. She was destined to be a youthful classic beauty long into life. But it was her eyes that fascinated me. Her darker complexion and hair made her pale blue eyes stand out sharply, riveting and rather distracting.

Her smile was lovely, honest and without guile; very easy on the eyes.

I wondered how intellectually sharp she was. As talented as her dancing?

"Two fathers and two sons went fishing. At the end of the day, each caught one fish. When they returned to the dock, they had three fish all together. How come?" I posed, testing her.

Callie's smile faded. Her eyes lost focus as she thought. A minute later the smile returned, eyes twinkling. "It was a grandfather, father, and son who went fishing. Two fathers, two sons, three fish."

Yup. Mentally agile. It wasn't a hard brain teaser. However, the speed with which she figured it out was telling. I nodded. "Well done."

Callie's smile remained. She said, "Since jokes aren't your thing, try this one. Mary's mother had three children. The first was named April. The second was named May. What was the name of the last one?"

"June."

Callie laughed. "You're toying with me, aren't you?"

I laughed, too. "Yup. Her name was Mary."

"I'll think of one that will stump you," she informed me, and leaned back as our waiter placed her salad on the table.

We ate in comfortable silence, the fish delicious. There was a new ease between us, as if we'd reached an understanding. However, I didn't think for one minute that Callie was going to be more compliant. Compliance wasn't in her nature.

"So," Callie said, breaking the silence. "You said you know everything about me. How? Do you have a big file on me?"

"I have a file. It covers the bare bones. I don't need it to know you."

After swallowing a bite of her salad, she asked, "How so?"

"Simple observation."

Waiting for a minute, she asked, "Are you going to explain that or do I have to interrogate you for details?"

Leaning back, I took a sip of Perrier to clear my mouth. "I know you don't watch television because the remote is lost under the credenza and the TV screen is dusty. I know you don't have a boyfriend because you don't use makeup when you go to school, even though you have makeup in your bedroom and bathroom. You don't have a social life because you don't spend time on Facebook or chatting on your cell phone. You're confident and self-assured and don't care what other students think about you because you dress for comfort, not fashion or conformity. I know you're unusually passionate about dance. All the magazines and books in the living room are about dancing, both classical ballet and contemporary dance. I know you're confident and forceful and stubborn from experience. And I know you're a slob. Your room is a mess."

She smiled slightly at that.

"And I know you're mentally astute, so you don't act rashly. You're fully aware of what you're doing when you ditch me, which means, I now know you're a pain in the ass."

Callie laughed, pale blue eyes bright with amusement. She nodded. "It's not like I'm in imminent danger. Dad's just overprotective."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't belittle your father's importance. He's the top-ranking American General on the continent. He's important and, because of it, a target. That makes you a target that could be leveraged against him. Don't belittle his achievements."

Her smile faded away. "You're right. Sorry."

Chapter Five

The dinner altered our relationship. Callie wasn't as antagonistic towards me. She actually started chatting and playfully chiding me when I didn't chat back with her: "It doesn't damage your masculinity to talk, Lightfoot!" She lost none of her pig-headedness, though. We did what she wanted, when she wanted, and I was expected to accommodate her.

We slipped into an easy routine.

On Sunday, I was treated to a dance recital.

Pink Floyd music flowed rhythmically and seductively over the audience. On stage, student dancers from early teens to early twenties performed Roland Petit's ballet in a performance for families and friends. The dancers were all incredibly talented, a tribute to the Paris Marais school. I divided my attention between the stage and the audience, scanning the obviously proud family members.

Every time I glanced towards the stage, my eyes were drawn to Callie. It wasn't her classic beauty or graceful body. It wasn't that she was dancing with greater technical skill than the others, either. Great dancers have the same technical skills as good dancers. But, it's the other qualities of their performance that elevate them to greatness, and Callie clearly had those qualities. Her poses were sharp and defined. She moved like flowing water, appearing effortless, her hands held in the perfect positions, her fingers just so, her neck long, head tilted. She had a perfect body for dance, perfect proportions; long slender legs, slender hips, slim body, yet unquestionably female. Like Margot Fonteyn, she epitomized dance, and performed so well it was riveting. In my uneducated opinion, she stole the show.

This Sunday evening performance was one held every three months. It was an opportunity for students to experience a live, on-stage production with all the attendant nerves in front of a watchful audience.

Callie had changed over the last few days. She was brighter and happier. I enjoyed her company and, much to my astonishment, had found myself actually relaxing around her. She was finally heeding my demands for security, within reason. When out at a restaurant for lunch today, she hadn't been impressed that I'd insisted on checking the ladies bathroom before allowing her to use it. I wasn't checking the bathroom itself, I informed her, just access from rear exits - I still didn't fully trust her not to ditch me.

All in all, the coming five days left in my stint didn't seem too onerous at all. I was feeling good, stress finally leaving my shoulders.

Applause erupted as the performance ended. Making my way to the stage, I waited for Callie. She floated towards me, light on her feet, and clearly on an emotional high, smiling, pale blue eyes sparkling.

"Did you like the performance?" she asked.

I nodded, keeping an eye on the mêlée of students and family members.

"Let's go, Lightfoot. I need to change," Callie ordered, turning and walking away without waiting for me. I dutifully followed her to the dressing room. When she saw me about to look in, she shoved me away. "Uh-uh. You're not allowed in here," and closed the door in my face.

I waited.

Emerging, wearing narrow-leg jeans that emphasized her slenderness and a turquoise T-shirt, her clothes bag over her shoulder, she said, "I want to go for a walk. Let me dump this bag in the car first."

The night was warm, the air scented with meals being cooked in cafés and cigarette smoke, patrons spilling out onto the sidewalk at small tables. The sound of Paris was everywhere; sharp car horns cutting though the air, loud conversations with voices raised in friendly disagreement about the government, the far left party, social benefits, the English, and the influx of refugees, terrorism, Jihadists.

Callie walked at my side and, in an unusual move, hooked her arm through mine. She leaned against me and chatted, still energetic and alive from the performance.

"There's a great café over there," she informed me. "They have live music performances at night. Let's go."

Without waiting for a response, she darted off, dodging through traffic, horns blaring in warning, and giving me a heart attack in the process. After a moment of shock, I raced after. "Hey! Stop!"

I caught up to her across the street. About to lace into her, she hooked her arm through mine and tugged. "Over here."

Les Gitans Perdus, The Lost Gypsies, was full of character, eclectically decorated in clashing colors, bric-a-brac on the walls, and jam-packed with patrons, a cloud of smoke hovering below the ceiling in defiance of the new anti-smoking laws; typically French. People sat at small round tables. The air was aromatic; freshly ground coffee and exotic spices. Conversations were muted in deference to a small trio playing music on a low stage at the back.

A guitarist and keyboardist provided accompaniment to a young lady singing, her voice reminding me of Edith Piaf, unpolished, raw, and honest; a true chanteuse.

We found a table. Callie ordered a glass of white wine. I corrected her order, ignoring her frown of annoyance. Two large cups of café au lait were served. The music was great, weaving a spell over me and relaxing me even more. I enjoyed Callie's company. Once you got through her stubborn disposition, she was bright and articulate, without false airs, and knowledgeable about the singer and the complexity of non-mainstream music. I enjoyed her pleasure, her pale blue eyes twinkling with personality, her face animated.

I genuinely enjoyed being with her; a first for me.

She hooked her arm through mine as we made our way back to the Mercedes, now quiet and subdued. The silence between us had become comfortable.

Back at the apartment, she looked at me and smiled. "I had a good time tonight, Hunter. It was a good day. You're not that bad after all."

As she walked down the hall, she threw over her shoulder, "Bonne nuit."

Sitting in an armchair, I wrestled with unfamiliar emotions. I liked Callie. Emotionally mature beyond her age - the result of her upbringing - she'd developed into a fascinating girl; tough, independent, and confident. Those were traits that resonated with me. She was the type of person I felt I could have a friendship with, and that was a first. I'd never grown close to a protectee. It clouded judgment and impaired actions, affecting my ability to react in a cold, calculating response to danger.

I liked Callie and that was a potential problem.

Chapter Six

The assignment became even more problematic for me over the next four days.

On Monday, Callie spotted a friend when we arrived at the dance school and rushed over to chat. A couple of minutes later she approached me with her friend in tow; a young girl with short auburn hair and honey-brown eyes.

"Ceci est mon garde du corps, Hunter Lightfoot," she said, introducing me to her friend. To me she said, "This is Maria. She's Italian but doesn't speak English."

"Piacere di conoscerti," I said to Maria.

She smiled. "Tu parli italiano?"

I nodded.

The two headed to class, heads together whispering furiously.

On the way home, Callie commented, "I didn't know you speak Italian. Do you speak other languages?"

I nodded, concentrating on negotiating the traffic.

After a minute of silence, Callie prompted, "Well?"

"Well what?"

"What is it with you? You never offer information! Instead of nodding, you're supposed to tell me what other languages you speak. You know, have a conversation? Be sociable?"

"You didn't ask me what other languages I speak, just if I spoke them."

Callie snorted. "Are you always so literal?"

I smiled. "Are you always so grammatically imprecise?"

I felt Callie's eyes on me, studying me.

Out of left field, she said, "You have a great smile, Lightfoot. You should smile more often. So, what other languages do you know?"

Playing with her, I answered, "Pretty much every one spoken on the planet."

"You're kidding! Really?"

I nodded, still smiling. "I'm aware of all the languages. But I only speak six fluently."

Callie flopped back into her seat. "Jeez Louise! You're a pain, Lightfoot. It would be easier to wrestle alligators than have a conversation with you! What languages do you SPEAK?"

With a quick laugh, I told her. "English, French, Italian, Spanish, German, and Cheyenne. I have a smattering of Mandarin, Russian, Arabic, Farsi, and Portuguese; enough to order beer."

Callie asked, "Can you leap tall buildings in a single bound, too?"

I laughed again. "Nope. Can't dance, either."

Then on Tuesday, for no reason whatsoever, Callie moved in close while we were in the kitchen, slipped her arms around me, and hugged me. "You're a nice guy, Hunter," she said. "I'm glad you're here." I'd stood, rigid, my hands feeling awkward and limp at my side, unsure how to react, her action so alien to me. She'd smiled in amusement. "Relax, Lightfoot. I'm not going to assault you!"

It left me shaken. I'd liked her hug and was finding it harder and harder to remain distanced from her, impartial, professional. Under any other circumstances, if she was older, Callie was the type of female I'd find very attractive.

Wednesday evening, two days before I was due to be relieved, we took an evening stroll to enjoy the warm early summer air, the energy of Paris, the crowds. Callie hooked her arm through mine and leaned against me as we walked. It took several minutes before it registered how much I liked her holding my arm. I liked being with her. And, when the day ended, before retiring to her bedroom for the night, Callie hugged me again and I caught her scent; jasmine and plums that bore into my brain, beautiful, fragrant. I hugged her back lightly, her body so slender and delicate. I was in a precarious position; too close to really caring for her.

My downfall was announced with the trill of my cell phone at five-thirty on Thursday morning. Mike Lister, my boss, calmly informed me Jeff needed another week to ten days at least, his father having passed away. I was ordered to remain on assignment. I pleaded with Mike to no avail.

Callie was revealing a side to her that was gregarious and bright and giving, despite her ongoing stubbornness. I had the sense she was slow to gift anyone with her friendship, but when she did, she gave her complete acceptance and trust. In three more years, at eighteen, she'd be a woman I'd actively try to date.

Callie pretended it made no difference to her when I told her about my extended duty. However, she couldn't hide her pleasure; a small hidden smile, brightness in her pale blue, beautiful eyes. She laughed when I informed her I'd applied for hazardous duty pay.

The growing comfort with each other manifested itself in small ways. Callie, instead of hiding in her bedroom, started studying in the living room after school. She'd plug in ear buds, listen to music on her smart phone, and concentrate on her studies. Inevitably she was barefoot, feet resting on the edge of the coffee table, her toes moving to the tempo of the music. I didn't understand how she could multitask. I knew I wasn't capable of it.

She started keeping me company when I cooked. All too soon we were cooking together, a natural sharing of duties.

Then, on Thursday, we had an unexpected visitor.

Late afternoon, after a full day at her dance school, as Callie was dressing after her shower, there was a knock at the front door.

I rose and looked through the eyehole. A tall, broad-chested man in full uniform was waiting at the door: General George Hollister. What was he doing here?

I opened the door. "General."

Pale blue eyes studied me, his hair cut short and steel gray, a full breast of ribbons and medals on his chest. "Lightfoot, right?" he asked in a deep, resonating voice that must have sent soldiers scurrying to obey.

"Yes, sir."

"George Hollister," he said, extending his hand.

"I recognize you," I said, shaking his hand. His grip was firm, not a ball-busting one, just confident. "Come in."

"I don't have much time. I'm just passing through on my way back to Brussels. Thought I'd drop by to see my daughter. Where is she?" he asked, striding in.

"She's dressing. We just returned from her dance school. She took a shower."

"How's she behaving?"

"Dad!" Callie exclaimed, rushing over to hug him.

To give them privacy, I stepped out into the hall and closed the door. I didn't mind waiting. It was a skill I'd mastered a long time ago.

Thirty-five minutes later, General Hollister emerged, closing the door behind him.

"Walk with me, Lightfoot," he ordered.

I followed him into the rickety elevator and waited for him to speak. He didn't, not until we emerged onto the street; a black limousine waiting at the curb, an army corporal holding the back door open and ready.

"Give me ten, Joe," Hollister said.

The corporal nodded. "Yes, Sir."

Hollister strolled along the sidewalk. "I've heard some good things about you, Lightfoot," he said.

"Thank you, Sir."

He nodded. "I have a confession. I asked for you specifically when I heard Jeff Benton had to be relieved."

I wanted to ask why, but held my tongue. My sense was General Hollister didn't want a conversation. He wanted to tell to me whatever was on his mind.

"I've heard you're a man of integrity," he continued, "and very good at your job. I'm betting that's true."

He stopped suddenly and turned to face me, his expression very serious. "Callie is the most precious person in the world to me. I'd give my life for her. I expect you to do the same if it ever comes to it."

I nodded.

He studied me intently with an icy blue stare. I found him slightly intimidating. I could see how he'd made it so high in command.

"Callie likes you. She trusts you." He shook his head. "It's the first time she's ever accepted protection. She's a good judge of character.

"There are things going on that are delicate," he continued, turning to walk back towards the limousine.

I followed.

"Callie's a headstrong girl. She's never been spoiled, it's just her nature. Takes after her late mother, a woman who knew what she wanted and wouldn't brook any opposition." He smiled slightly. "Her mother intimidated me. The only person who ever has.

"Anyway, don't let Callie run roughshod over you. Her safety is the single most important thing. Got that, Lightfoot?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. I trust you to do the right thing if anything should happen to me."

Confused at his comment, we arrived at the limo. He slid into the back seat, the corporal closing the door. As the corporal made his way around to the driver's side, the smoked glass window lowered with a hum. General Hollister leaned forward and nailed me with his cool blue gaze.

"Lightfoot, if anything happens to me, you have to keep Callie away from the American Embassy and all American agencies for her own safety. It won't be a foreign service that causes problems. I'm relying on you to protect her at all costs."

With that enigmatic comment, the window rose and the limo silently pulled away from the curb. I mulled the conversation over as I headed back inside. Why would he think he was threatened, because he obviously did? And why the warning about the American Embassy? Or American agencies? It didn't make sense.

Callie was standing at the living room window when I returned, looking down at the street, one hand at her neck fingering something. She looked lost in thought. Dressed in stonewashed straight-leg jeans and a red T-shirt, barefoot, her hair pulled into a ponytail, she seemed so young and so lonely. She reminded me of a painting I'd once seen in the Louvre, the name for which eluded me.

A Cheyenne word jumped into mind, Ayasha - little one. That's what she reminded me of. She was going to carry her slender stature through her life with the grace of a dancer.

Callie turned. She smiled. "Look what Dad gave me."

Walking over to me, she showed me an intricately patterned, small gold locket on a delicate gold chain around her neck.

"It was Mom's," she informed me, opening it. Two small photographs. The left, a picture of a young General Hollister, mid- to late-thirties. The right, a picture of her mother, a raven-haired, olive-skinned beauty of eighteen or so, with dark, expressive eyes. Callie, with the exception of her pale blue eyes, was the splitting image of her mother.

Callie closed the locket. I studied the intricate pattern on the front. It was stylized Arabic script.

"Do you know what it says?" I asked, rubbing the surface.

She took it back from my hand. "It's Arabic. It says, Allah's Tears." She looked up at me. "Mom was Lebanese. That's where Dad met her. Beirut."

"I know. The locket's beautiful."

"It is," she agreed, closing her fist around it.

"I'm starting dinner. Any preferences?"

"Something light."

Chapter Seven

CALLIE SAT ON THE couch, not concentrating on her textbook. Instead, she studied Hunter. He was absorbed in her textbook on François-Marie Arouet, better known under his nom de plume, Voltaire.

Hunter was full of surprises. He was deeper than she'd believed, more knowledgeable, his interests broad. Despite being conversationally challenged, in the little he'd said he revealed a sharp mind. He was educated, articulate, and intelligent. He was a health nut, too, careful of what he ate, rarely consuming alcohol. She knew he left the apartment late at night to run for exercise. She'd heard him.

For the past fourteen days she'd grown comfortable with him. And, jeez, when he smiled! When he smiled, her chest felt tight. She liked him, a lot. Actually, she admitted to herself, she had a small crush on him. He was kinda dashing and mysterious and ruggedly cute.

Callie studied his face, his brows drawn in concentration. He was all angles and planes, his nose perfectly straight, mouth broad. His chin was angular, cheeks high. She could see his American Indian heritage, his hair so dark, almost glossy.

She knew he was of Cheyenne descent from his comment on languages, but how had he ended up in government service?

Dad had told her to trust him, and she did, implicitly, although she didn't understand why. Was it because she felt so comfortable around him? In fact, it was proving to be fun to tease him. He'd become as stiff as a board when she hugged him, making her laugh every time. She no longer dashed from the bathroom to her bedroom after her shower, instead wandering around with a bath towel wrapped around her just to see him spot her, become uncomfortable, and turn his head away.

In dance classes, she noticed him watching her through the door window and she enjoyed his attention. She was absolutely fascinated by his eyes; obsidian, mysterious, unreadable, and so observant. His eyes challenged her. She wanted to know what he was thinking, know more about him.

Setting her textbook aside, pulling the ear buds out, Callie asked him, "How did you end up working for the government? Did you grow up on a reservation?" Smiling, she continued, "What university did you go to? Are your parents proud of you? Do you have a girlfriend back in the States? How does a long-distance relationship work? How often do you see her?"

When the corner of his mouth ticked up in amusement, she continued, "How long have you two been together? What does she do? What does she look like? Is she blonde? Does she worry about you? Do you miss her?"

When she paused, he said, "Nope," without looking up from the book on Voltaire, the corner of his mouth ticking up again in amusement.

"Nope what?" Waiting, when he didn't respond, she added, "Elaborate, Lightfoot. Join the conversation."

He glanced over at her, his eyes so damned dark, smiled slightly and clarified in his odd way, "Nope. I don't miss her."

Callie laughed. She let it go, but wondered if he actually had a girlfriend.

AS CALLIE HEADED TO bed, I set the textbook aside. I was restless for some reason. I smiled to myself. Callie's stream of questions was amusing, starting so innocently then veering into the personal. Was she just being nosy, or was she really probing to know if I was involved with someone?

At the sound of the toilet flushing followed by her bedroom door closing, I rose. In the bedroom I changed into running gear. With Callie down for the night, I'd go for my daily late evening jog. It gave me the opportunity to check out the neighborhood, learn who the locals were, which helped spot strangers, and not worry about Callie disappearing on me. She was a sound sleeper.

The street was quiet, each side crowded with cars, all flouting the Stationnement Interdit signs prohibiting parking. An occasional window glowed with light, most of them dark. I jogged in a set pattern, a circular route that expanded until I was sweating, ten kilometers completed.

It relaxed me.

My stint with Callie was coming to an end. I was going to miss her. I knew I was going to keep an eye on her from a distance, check in to see how she was doing. She had good odds of achieving success in the dancing profession. She had the qualities needed; determination, commitment, innate talent honed by practice, and the right attitude.

It was lucky, I admitted to myself, that the assignment was coming to a conclusion. I'd noticed Callie's ease with me now drifted towards intimate. I saw the way she looked at me when she didn't think I could see. She had a crush on me, which wasn't unheard of. In these situations, living closely together, attraction was normal to some extent. But. While I tried to be even more distant, cool, and unresponsive, inside me feelings were emerging; inappropriate feelings. I liked her too much. She was growing on me without my permission and that was unacceptable in the extreme.

Running up the stairs at a fast pace, I quietly let myself into the apartment. Showered and clean, I fell into bed and was asleep within minutes.

Chapter Eight

The trill of my cell phone dragged me awake. I checked my watch; three-thirty-five A.M.

"Yeah?"

"What the Hell is going on, Lightfoot?" Mike yelled.

Confused, I informed him, "Nothing."

"Did you do it? No. I know you didn't. SHIT!" he exclaimed. "You need to get the Hell out of there NOW! And I mean NOW!"

As sleep fell away, I asked, "What the fuck is going on, Mike?"

"General Hollister's dead."

"Shit! How?"

"Heart attack."

Now really confused, I said, "I'm sorry to hear it. Callie's going to be devastated. But why do I have to leave now?"

His answer shook me deeply.

"He was tortured. His heart failed. A warrant is out for your arrest."

"Me? Why?"

"You've been identified by a witness as the person that abducted him."

"That's crap! I haven't left Paris since he visited!"

"Listen, Lightfoot. I know you weren't involved, but they have you on security cams in Brussels. Every agency has been alerted, including Interpol. The American Embassy is sending people over to arrest you and pick up Callie. There's a real shit-storm erupting. He was America's highest ranking General in Europe for Christ sake!"

"I . . ." for a moment I was at a loss for words.

"Just get out! We'll figure it out later," Mike ordered and cut the connection.

Moving suddenly, I jumped out of bed and dressed. Three minutes later I had my duffel packed. Then I stopped dead.

General Hollister's words of warning came back to me. Lightfoot, if anything happens to me, you have to keep Callie away from the American Embassy and all American agencies for her own safety.

What's going on?

I made an executive decision and went to Callie's room, entering without knocking. She was sound asleep. Shaking her shoulder, I ordered her, "Get up. Get dressed. Pack some clothes. And don't ask questions. We have to leave. Now!"

"What?" she asked rubbing her eyes.

"Move it!"

I had to give her credit. When she saw the look in my eyes, she exploded into action.

Ten minutes later, with Callie pulling a small, blood-red overnight case behind her, we left the apartment. I guided us to the stairs, grabbed her case and led us down. Should we take the car? It would be faster but it could be tracked, the license plate known. The Metro? No. Too many security cameras. Car it would be.

Callie jumped into the Mercedes. It was obvious she was confused and now scared. As I drove away, turning right towards the autoroute, two blacked-out Suburban SUVs raced past us heading towards the apartment.

Twenty minutes later I turned into a residential section on the outskirts of Paris and cruised the dark homes. It took ten minutes to find what I wanted - another silver Mercedes.

Five minutes of quick work and I had the plates switched. It wouldn't last, but it would misdirect for long enough for us to leave Paris.

"What's going on?" Callie asked as we cruised away.

"I don't know."

"Bull! You know. Tell me," she insisted.

I couldn't. I couldn't tell her her father was dead. Not here, in a car, on the run. "We'll talk as soon as we're safe, Callie. Right now I have to concentrate."

Back roads out of Paris were serpentine and slow. However, there were few, if any, traffic cams; not like the hundreds on the autoroutes.

Dawn was breaking when I pulled into a gas station in Ludon, a small village south of Paris. With the gas tank replenished, I paid cash. It reminded me I'd need more cash. Credit cards were out of the question.

Two blocks down, I parked at a closed Intermarché, one of the smaller chains of supermarkets. Turning in the seat towards Callie and, not knowing any other way to break the news, I said, "Your father is dead. He was killed."

Callie's eyes opened wide, washed-out blue, shocked. A cascade of emotions passed through in a heartbeat; shock, disbelief, comprehension, and, as pain arrived, her beautiful eyes brimmed with tears. She shook her head as if denying it.

"No," she whispered. "No. Please, tell me you're lying."

When I didn't, Callie covered her face with her hands and sobbed, her whole body shaking. It hurt me seeing her in pain, yet I had no idea what to do, how to help, how to comfort. I sat and watched her cry, my heart aching for her. It was the longest half hour of my life.

Eventually her tears passed. Red-eyed, she turned and looked out the window.

"Is there anything I can do?" I asked.

She shook her head.

Starting the car, I eased away from the supermarket. For the rest of the day we headed south. Callie was silent, not uttering one word, not looking at me. She watched the passing scenery and every so often her hand would brush away tears from her cheek. She ignored the stale ham sandwiches I bought at the next gas station.

As dusk arrived, I found a small Pension - a guesthouse - just outside the city of Limoges, northeast of Bordeaux, and renowned for its enamel-on-copper and porcelain. The Pension had one room available and didn't ask for I.D.

Callie, still dressed but emotionally exhausted, followed me with vacant eyes. She curled up on the single, old, too-soft bed fully dressed. I stretched out next to her, fully clothed, and finally had time to think rationally, not simply react.

It didn't make any sense. Why would someone frame me? I had nothing of value, no information, no secrets associated with the General. Did they want me on the run? If so, they'd succeeded admirably.

Callie turned and rolled into my side.

"Please talk, Hunter. My mind won't stop. I need it to stop," she pleaded, her pale blue eyes red from crying.

"Talk about what, Ayasha?"

"Anything. You. Your life. Anything that will distract me."

I didn't normally talk about myself. It wasn't an easy request. She cuddled to my side, pulled my arm around her, and looked at me with such distress, I just started.

"I was born in Montana. I have two younger brothers and a father. They're still in Montana on the reservation. Pete works on a horse farm. John, the youngest does nothing as far as I know. My father's a mechanic and owns a small gas station and garage. He keeps decrepit pickups working."

"Do you miss being there?"

I nodded. "There's nowhere like Montana. My job is solitary. I like traveling but miss the big skies, mountains, crystal clean air, and the openness of the land."

"How did you end up in the Government?" Callie asked softly.

"Scholarships. Classes were easy for me. I thought it was the same for everyone at the time. Learning was effortless. I liked discovering new things, no matter what subject. One high school teacher, Ms. Denton, saw potential in me despite how lazy I was. She had me take state tests. That led to a full scholarship to college. I studied philosophy and criminal law, with a minor in languages."

Pausing, memories of being alone at university, an outcast - bad memories - washed over me. Despite what Americans want to believe, racism is rampant. It had been tough; away from my family with few friends, ostracized.

"Don't stop," Callie pleaded.

"Seems like I was a good student with good grades," I continued. "I was approached by both the FBI and State Department. I picked the FBI, but, after two years I found the organization too rigid for me."

In fact, it had been even more isolating than university. The saving grace had been their training. I'd focused on it to the exclusion of relationships, determined to prove myself better than every other trainee. I wasn't. Turns out I have a weakness; I'm not very good with handguns.

"What does Ayasha mean?" Callie asked, breaking the silence.

"Huh?"

"You called me Ayasha. What does it mean?"

"It's Cheyenne for Little One."

"I'm not little," Callie observed.

"I know."

After a moment of silence, Callie asked, "What do you really do for the State Department if it's not protecting people?"

"It's hard to explain. I'm part investigator, part trouble shooter for the Bureau of Diplomatic Security. I'm a puzzle fanatic and that seems to make me good at my job; figuring things out and fixing them.

"There was this case of trade negotiations going badly. It seemed Peru knew everything our side was contemplating. I was sent in to . . ."

For fifteen minutes I talked, eventually looking down to find Callie sound asleep. It was the first time I'd observed her asleep. Her dark eyelashes were so long, her nose gently flaring with each breath. Her mouth was slightly more lush, a classical mouth that suited her beauty; and she was beautiful, very beautiful, not pretty. As I watched, a frown knitted her brow. She whimpered in her sleep and my chest tightened. I drew her closer to my side, jasmine and plum scents filling my nose.

Once again I turned my mind to my predicament. It made no sense at all. It was a puzzle. I played with the pieces.

What benefit would be gained by framing me? None. I was no threat to anyone. So, if I wasn't a threat, why set me up? To eliminate me? Again, why would that be needed?

Then it coalesced in my mind. There was only one reason to get me out of the way - Callie. With me around, she was protected. With me gone, she was vulnerable.

Again, why?

Why would anyone want a teenager? She knew nothing, didn't live with her father, and with the General dead, couldn't be used as leverage against him.

The pieces simply didn't add up. I had to be missing something.

Sleep finally arrived.

Chapter Nine

LUCAS SMITH GLANCED UP from the daily intelligence report he was reviewing on his desk. James Kington, the balding, slightly portly but whip-smart Director of the CIA, strode into his office, oblivious that he was intruding on the second most influential member of the Richards administration - the President's Chief of Staff. Following behind him, Clive Barrett, the Secretary of State, tall and distinguished with white hair, strolled in, impeccably dressed in a bespoke grey suit as always.

James dropped a slim file folder onto Lucas' desk. "The sonofabitch has disappeared with General Hollister's daughter."

Lucas leaned back and stared up at Kington. "I thought every contingency was covered. What happened?"

Kington frowned. He took it as a personal failure. "The daughter was gone by the time our people got to the apartment. Lightfoot must have taken her with him. We think he was tipped off."

"By whom?" Lucas demanded.

"We're working on it. Should know before the end of the day."

Clive Barrett nodded in agreement.

Lucas picked up the phone. "Marcie, I need to see the President." He waited, then nodded. Hanging up, he stood. "Let's go."

President Joseph Richards, sitting at his desk, handed a folder to his secretary as they entered. She left the Oval office, closing the door behind her.

Richards presented a patrician image, tall, slim, with sharp brown eyes and gray hair. Coming to the end of his second term in office, he was hugely popular with the American public. His administration had guided the economy to new highs, and a firm but astute foreign policy had seen a dramatic reduction in regional strife. His legacy was assured by the Israel-Palestine peace accord nearing completion; something the world had thought would never be achieved, the geopolitical, religious, and historical divide between the two perceived as insurmountable.

Bill Clinton had left office with a sixty-five percent approval rating. Joseph Richards was going to leave office with an approval rating exceeding seventy percent. Another Democratic administration was assured. Many predicted a Democratic majority in both House and Senate in the next election.

Richards' term as President was destined for the history books.

Normally smiling and younger appearing than sixty-eight, Lucas observed that, today, President Richards looked his real age. Stress lines etched his mouth and eyes. His frown foretold of displeasure - his well-known temper at incompetence close to the surface.

"Lucas. James. Clive," the President said, rising to shake hands. "What's the situation?"

"Not good. James, why don't you brief the President."

The four moved over to the sitting area and settled.

James started briefing President Richards. Through the briefing Richards first pinched the bridge of his nose, then rubbed his temples, his mood darkening.

Briefing over, President Richards observed acidly, "I thought the plan was foolproof."

James Kington shifted on the couch uncomfortably. "It was. We underestimated Hunter Lightfoot. He didn't react as we'd predicted."

"Are you sure General Hollister didn't have it?"

"Yes, Sir. We searched his apartment and office inch by inch. It wasn't there. We're convinced it isn't in a bank. He didn't have it with him. As you know, he suffered a heart failure before we'd finished interrogating him, so we can't be one hundred percent certain."

"So now you think his daughter has it?" Richards asked. "Why?"

"General Hollister visited his daughter last week." Kington noted.

"Do you have any proof?"

"No, Sir. But there's no other viable alternative."

President Richards sighed deeply. "Tell me again, what happened in Paris?"

Lucas Smith took over. "In order to bring his daughter in, we thought the best, least disruptive approach was to remove Lightfoot from the equation. To that end, we manufactured video evidence and planted an eyewitness that proved Lightfoot was responsible for the kidnapping and death of General Hollister. That evidence has been released to all European police agencies and Interpol."

Lucas paused, looking uncomfortable under President Richards scrutiny. "Unfortunately, we couldn't predict he'd take Callie Hollister with him when he ran."

"And now you have no idea where they are," Richards observed acidly.

"No, Sir. But it won't be long. We're certain they're still in France. Traffic cams are being reviewed to find their car. We're ready to triangulate both their cell phones if used, and reviewing Hunter Lightfoot's file to find a way to predict his moves."

President Richards placed his palms on his knees and leveraged himself up. Lucas, Clive, and James stood.

"With respect, Mr. President, I think we're making a mistake," James Kington said.

The President indicated for him to continue.

"Sir, I don't think we want the information General Hollister had to fall into a foreign intelligence agency's hand. We need to get to the Hollister girl first."

The President nodded. "Good point. What do you suggest?"

"We should take back our claim that Lightfoot was responsible for General Hollister's death. Tell them it was a mistake. Give them a different target to search for, someone very different looking, and let the CIA handle tracking the girl down."

Lucas agreed.

President Richards looked at Clive. "Do you agree?"

The Secretary of State nodded. "Yes, Sir."

"Okay. Do it. Keep me updated. I don't need to remind you what will happen to the three of us if the situation isn't contained."

"No, Sir," they responded in unison.

Chapter Ten

A WEAK LIGHT ANNOUNCED dawn. Three hours sleep wasn't enough to recharge my batteries.

Callie was pressed against me. Facing each other, my arms held her, her knee resting between my legs. Her face was nestled into my neck, one arm over my waist. Her scent filled my lungs.

She was asleep.

For a few minutes I indulged myself. I didn't get to hold a female very often and had forgotten how pleasant it was; another warm body close to mine.

Somehow, through the night, my mind must have been active. Callie, as their target, whoever they were, must know something and I needed to know what it was.

Callie stirred, her arm tightening around me. As she woke up, she eased her face away from my neck. Beautiful pale blue eyes opened, framed by sleep-mussed hair. She didn't move, just studied me intently, her eyes moving to each of mine, then down to study my mouth.

Out of the blue, she kissed me, her lips warm and silky soft, a gentle, not-quite-chaste kiss that rocked me to my toes.

Extracting herself from my arms, she went to the bathroom, not one word spoken.

Was it transference that made her kiss me? Was it the emotional storm she was going through? Even more troubling was my reaction. Being kissed by a fifteen-year-old should have shocked me. It definitely shouldn't have felt so good! But it did. Why?

Now restless, I rolled off the bed and paced, my mind racing. Passing the tiny bathroom, I heard sobbing. Without hesitating, I opened the door to find Callie sitting on the tiled floor, arms wrapped around her knees, her face hidden.

Something broke loose inside me; compassion, and surprising me, affection. The bathroom was very small. Nevertheless, I sat on the floor next to her and put an arm over her shoulders.

"You're not alone, Callie. I'm here and I'm staying for as long as it takes."

She melted, leaning against me. "It hurts so much," she whispered. "Dad . . ." her voice hitched. She breathed deeply. "Dad was all I had in the world."

I had no words.

Twenty minutes later we were back on the road. Callie sat silently watching the scenery pass; lush green fields broken by deep forests of oak and elm and birch. We passed through small villages, no more than a main street with two or three stores and a café. Miles drifted by in silence. We passed to the east of Bordeaux, still heading south.

I had no plan yet. I wanted distance from Paris. Being on the road may have been riskier than hiding namelessly in a city, but I found comfort in the constant movement, running - action being better than inaction when threatened.

Clouds gathered in the distance and rolled towards us. As a spring rain shower hit, I finally spoke.

"Did your father tell you he was in danger when he visited?"

Callie shook her head.

"Did he tell you anything? Give you instructions in case something happened?"

She shook her head again.

"When you were alone with him, what did you talk about?"

I thought she was going to ignore me, her pause so long. The car tires hummed on a rain-drenched road, puddles of standing water spraying out to the side. Hard-working wipers swished back and forth, the road ahead clear, then spotted, then distorted, then clear once again.

"We talked about school. Dad told me he was proud of my grades and asked about dance school. We talked about you. He told me he wouldn't replace you so I'd better learn get along with you."

"That's all?" I asked.

"Before he left, he told me he trusted you and I should too. He asked, for his own peace of mind, for me to do what you asked." She brushed tears from her cheek. "He told me he loved me more than ever," she added in a whisper. Her hand closed around the small gold locket at her neck, as if she could hold onto her father through it.

Approaching noon, my stomach reminded me I needed fuel, growling loud enough even Callie heard. A roadside café offered simple but satisfying fare. Their potage du jour was a rich, thick, cream of mushroom soup served with slices of crusty oven-fresh baguette. Callie picked at her food. I'd ordered steak and frites as a main course. The steak was thin but serviceable, the fries shoestring thin and crispy hot.

Callie, twirling a fry in her fingers, looked at me. I noticed a new toughness in her, as if she'd already rebounded from her sorrow. She stared at me, her eyes as icy blue as I'd ever seen. "I want you to find who did this to Dad and punish them, Lightfoot. I want them to hurt."

"That might be a problem," I informed her.

"Why?"

"Apparently, I killed him."

Callie's mouth dropped open, her face shocked. Mouth closing, a dismissive expression emerged. "That's just stupid. You were with me the whole time!"

I nodded.

"So find out who and punish them."

I sipped coffee. "To know who, I need to know why, and I haven't a clue." Glancing at the proprietor, I motioned with one hand, rubbing a thumb and two fingers together. He nodded and prepared the bill.

Back on the road, we turned southwest, staying with back roads. It made the journey much longer but safer. Over lunch, I'd also decided on my next step; money and anonymity.

"Where are we going?" Callie asked eventually, her face still watching the passing countryside.

"San Sebastián."

"Why?"

"I know someone," I answered.

"Is it far?"

I nodded. I'd need to take a circuitous route up through the Pyrenees, the range of mountains forming a natural border between France and Spain.

Mid-afternoon we skirted Biarritz and turned southeast, the long climb into the mountains starting, deciduous trees giving way to hardy evergreens. The temperature dropped noticeably. By late afternoon I found a rundown roadside inn. A flash of money to the old owner bought us a single room, no names required.

We carried our bags into the threadbare room; two single beds, worn furnishings, a balding carpet. The only redeeming grace was a clean bathroom.

Callie headed for the bathroom. Stretched out on the bed, I planned. In San Sebastián I was going to draw in a marker. Pedro Margules owed me. I'd caught his son, Carlo, selling drugs to an American Embassy employee in Madrid who leaked low security documents to fund his addiction. Pedro had asked me to keep his son out of it, as a favor. Since Carlo was incidental to the problem, I'd agreed and he'd avoided a lengthy jail sentence. Now I needed a favor in return.

We had to stop running at some point. Actually, I needed to get to Brussels. That's where this had started. Answers had to be there.

CALLIE STOOD UNDER THE showerhead, water pouring over her. It came again; the lance of agony, emptiness, pain, loss. Tears prickled her eyes. Dad's dead!

Sobs swamped her. She held herself, her body wracked with pain, and sank to the tiled floor, hugging her knees, huddling against the storm of painful emotions. She cried, her chest heaving. Breathing was hard. "WHY?!!" she cried, and sobbed harder. Why, Dad? Why did you leave me?

She wanted to die, for the agony to go away. There was nothing left. Her stomach cramped. Sobbing, she huddled on the floor trying to protect herself from the storm of darkness. It was a relentless assault.

Callie was only vaguely aware of the shower stopping. She heard Hunter, his voice soothing and soft.

"No, no. Not here. Not alone, Ayasha."

A towel was wrapped around her. He picked her up effortlessly, like a child, as she trembled, still sobbing. "It hurts so much," she cried.

"I know, Ayasha."

He laid her on the bed gently, drawing the covers over her. She curled up. The mattress dipped as Hunter settled next to her, his hand heavy and comforting where it rested on her side.

Sobs slowly passed. Her cramping stomach eased. Tears finally dried. When she felt Hunter move to get up, she begged, "Please don't go. I don't want to be alone. I'm scared, Hunter."

"Okay. I'll stay."

Callie, emotionally exhausted, fell asleep held by Hunter, safe, not alone in the world.

Morning was just breaking when she stirred. Her first thought was, thank God. The agony of loss seemed to come in waves. One minute she was coping, the next, despair. She felt better.

She opened her eyes. Hunter was on his back, asleep. She was pressed to his side, her head resting in the crook of his shoulder, his arm around her, hand resting on her hip. Memories of last night flooded back; the shower, wrapped in a towel and carried, Hunter's calm voice, the comfort he offered.

Where's the towel?

Groping around, she found it bundled behind her. She was naked and pressed against him! Momentary panic eased when she realized he was still dressed. The memory of kissing him came back making her smile. He'd been so surprised. She inhaled deeply, drawing his scent in; leather and a faint trace of some spice. Very nice.

Easing away from him, she wrapped the towel around herself before slipping from bed. In the bathroom, while trying to bring some semblance of order to her hair, she smiled to herself. Hunter, underneath his cool, mysterious exterior, was kind and gentle and considerate; traits well hidden. Who'd have thought? She liked both sides to him. It made him more attractive in her opinion. Did he have a girlfriend?

Dressed and feeling much better, she emerged from the bathroom. Hunter was still asleep. Smiling, she went over to his side, gathered her hair in a fist, bent and kissed him lightly on his cheek.

His eyes opened, dark and unreadable, no expression.

"Thanks for last night," she said, moving away.

After a pause, he nodded, his eyes watching her.

Chapter Eleven

THE ROAD WAS SINUOUS, winding through a canopy of trees. This part of San Sebastián was beautiful, bucolic. Around a bend Pedro Margules' estate appeared; a tall stone wall topped with nasty-looking spikes, and a double solid wooden gate.

There must have been a sensor. As I pulled up, a small door inset into the left gate opened and a simply dressed young man emerged. I noticed the loose cotton shirt and how it draped, hiding a pistol.

"Sí?"

"Estoy aquí para ver Señor Margules. Me llamo Hunter Lightfoot," I informed him.

He nodded. "Espere."

We waited as instructed.

The gates opened. A long drive rose towards a large, very traditional, pale ocher hacienda; red tiled roof, black wrought iron balustrades, wood shutters, bright red geraniums spilling everywhere. At the steps leading to the front door another young man waited.

Callie was silent, her eyes taking everything in.

In a large, airy living room, the floor cool from glazed tiles, the furniture dark wood and intricate, Pedro rose from a couch with an easy smile.

"Hunter, mi amigo," he exclaimed, extending his hand.

I shook it. Pedro hadn't aged at all. Tall, with gray-streaked dark hair and still-dark mustache, he looked like a wealthy landowner.

He studied me. Then turned his attention to Callie. "I am Pedro Margules," he said.

"Callie," she answered, shaking his hand.

Pedro turned back to me. "You look tired. Sit! Sit! Can I get you some refreshments?" Without waiting, he yelled, "Juana! Bring us some iced tea!"

We chatted while drinks were served. Once alone, he turned the conversation to business. "So what brings you here?"

"I need a favor."

"Why?"

"I'd rather not involve you in it. It's for Callie's safety."

Pedro studied Callie. He nodded. "Bueno. I owe you. How can I help?"

I explained what I needed. Pedro didn't blink an eye. He smiled broadly and announced, "I will have the photographer here in una hora. All will be ready for tomorrow morning. Until then, you shall stay here as my guests."

I tried to object. He wouldn't listen.

The day passed quickly. Pedro was a charming host, Callie quite taken with him, especially when he showed his interest in dancing, their conversation drilling into the complexity and history of Flamenco dance.

Late, after a sumptuous dinner, Callie and I retired to a small guest villa. She was bright and chatting but, as night arrived, when she emerged from the bathroom, I saw her brightness had melted away to be replaced by sadness, a look of loss and loneliness and pain. She was battling tears.

In a short rose T-shirt and blue panties, she looked so young and vulnerable. I rose from the bed and went to her, wrapping her in my arms. "You're not alone, Ayasha. I'm here."

I led her to my bed. She huddled to my side, slender, delicate.

"Talk to me. All I have are bad thoughts," she pleaded softly.

Arm around her, I caressed her back. "I had an instructor at the FBI Academy, Phillip Greer. He taught firearms and was a real ball-buster. He'd ride my ass more than the others. I think he just didn't like me."

"Why?"

"He said I was a good-for-nothing recruit and, if it was the last thing he'd ever do, he was going to break me. I've never responded well to threats, so I told him there was nothing he could teach me about firearms. Us injuns grow up with guns. I told him I could outshoot him with one eye closed.

"Well, he didn't take kindly to that, what with all the other recruits standing and watching. He growled, "We'll see about that," and handed me a big Smith & Wesson .500 Magnum, a monster of a gun. He pointed at the target range and, grabbing a gun for himself, said, "Let's see what you got, injun."

"Then, to make it harder, he pressed the range button and moved the paper targets all the way to the back of the gallery. "When you're ready," he said with a sneer.

"I stepped up and, together, we fired all six rounds. Reeling the targets back, he showed his, all rounds perfectly hitting the bullseye.

"I showed him mine. It had one hole in the bullseye.

""One out of six?" he said. "My ten-year-old can shoot better than that!"

"I calmly informed him all six rounds went through the same hole. He didn't believe me and ordered me to do it again, this time with him watching. I did. Man, he really didn't like me after that. But all the other recruits thought I was a God."

"Wow!" Callie said in amazement. "You're really that good?"

I grinned. "Not at all. The truth is, I'm useless with a pistol. I barely passed the course."

Callie's body shook with silent laughter.

"Do you want to hear about my one-armed Kung Fu skills?"

Callie laughed brightly. "Is there anything you've told me that's the truth?"

"I really do speak Cheyenne fluently."

Callie rose onto her elbow, smiled at me and kissed me gently. She settled, snuggling closer, and whispered, "Thank you, Hunter."

By ten A.M. the next morning we were back on the road. Pedro, true to his word, had provided three different passports for each of us and enough money for us to survive. We were also in a small Peugeot 208 GTI painted an eye-catching fire-engine red. Pedro had laughed when I expressed my doubts about the color, telling me people will be so busy looking at the car, they'll ignore the occupants. He was right.

Newly anonymous, we zipped up the highway back into France. Cell phones disabled with the batteries removed added to our security. For the first time I was feeling positive. Glancing over at Callie, I smiled in amusement.

"Stop staring!" she snapped, her fingers playing with the ends of her now dirty blonde hair before brushing it back, wind from the open window fluffing it.

She did look different. Blonde didn't suit her as much as her natural dark brown.

Her hand absentmindedly went to her neck to play with the gold locket. A thought occurred to me.

Peeling off the highway at the first exit, I pulled over. "Give me that locket."

"Why?"

"Because. Give it to me."

Her pale blue eyes narrowed in distrust. "What do you want it for?"

"Your father gave it to you. I want to check it."

"Oh." She removed it and handed it to me.

I inspected it. It looked innocent enough - a simple locket. Opening it, I studied the photos. They looked normal; old, slightly distorted like they'd been shrunk and reproduced from Polaroids. Pulling a pocket knife out, I pried the frames open and removed the photographs.

Callie warned, "Be careful!"

Nothing. There was nothing hidden behind them. Reassembling it, I handed it to her and pulled back onto the highway. She carefully put it back around her neck.

We breezed through the border as Julian and Suzanne Hugot. I headed directly towards Paris. There was someone there who might know what's going on. I wanted to talk to him before heading to Brussels.

CALLIE, CARESSING THE LOCKET, glanced at Hunter. It amazed her that two cheek pads and shorter sandy blond hair radically changed his looks; not for the better. At least his eyes were still the same.

She felt good. Being with Hunter relaxed her; she wasn't alone. The darkness inside her was muted by a bright, stress-free day, and in no small measure by Hunter. Smiling to herself, she thought back to his firearms story last night. It was so unexpected to discover a humorous side to him. He delivered utter nonsense with such a straight face, too! She'd really believed him.

The thing was, she knew she liked him . . . a lot. He would be easy to fall for and she felt it inside her, the slipping sensation, a bit unnerving, butterflies in her stomach. She liked watching him, loved the intensity in his eyes, the angles and planes to his face, and the hint of a cleft on his chin.

She liked his sensitivity, too. She'd never have suspected he had a caring side. Callie smiled again. Ayasha. She liked the nickname and adored how much emotion he expressed when he used it.

"You never answered me. Do you have a girlfriend?" she asked, lowering the window more to inhale the scent of countryside and catch a cool breeze.

"None of your business."

"So you don't. Why not? You're not that ugly when you smile. You don't smile much. How come?"

She grinned when the corner of his mouth ticked up in amusement.

"We're in the Bordeaux region," she continued. "See? Those are all vineyards. You didn't tell me. Where are we going now?"

"Paris."

A shiver passed through her. "Do we have to? Aren't they still looking for us there?"

"I need to talk to someone."

"So call him," she suggested.

Hunter glanced at her. "It needs to be face-to-face so I can make sure he tells me the truth."

She noticed the hardness in his eyes. "Do we have to get there today?"

"No. Why?"

After a momentary pause, Callie said, "I'm feeling better today. It's so nice in this part of France and no one knows us. Can't we just stop and have some time to breathe? Paris will still be there tomorrow."

Hunter was silent.

"Well?" she asked. "Come on," she urged.

He finally nodded.

"Well, jeez! Don't be so enthusiastic, Lightfoot!"

His grin warmed her.

An hour later, having found a modest hotel in the picturesque Cartier St-Michel section of Bordeaux, Callie hooked her arm around Hunter's and they strolled.

It was a beautiful day, warm and sunny. The square was dominated by the huge Basilique Saint-Michel, a fascinating gothic church built in the 14th century. It was so romantic, the pulpit representing Saint Michael's slaying of a dragon. It brought stories of valor and bravery and fantasy to mind. What surprised her was Hunter. He gave her a history lesson as if he'd been here before and knew the church.

A late lunch eaten on the sidewalk under large umbrellas with enticing aromas drifting out from the café, was so relaxing. And through it all, despite Hunter's restless eyes that missed nothing, Callie was treated to his charming grins. She could feel her attraction to him growing, strengthening, blossoming inside her. Was it, she wondered, the result of a stressful situation?

As she spooned unenthusiastically at the single scoop of frozen strawberry yogurt, she asked, "What's greater than God, more evil than the devil, the poor have it, the rich need it, and if you eat it, you'll die?"

Hunter, still studying people in the street, didn't respond.

"Well?" she urged.

"I'm thinking."

Dessert finished, Hunter motioned for the bill. He paid.

"Well? Figured it out yet?" Callie asked, slipping her arm through his as they strolled along the bustling street. She liked being close to him.

"I'm thinking."

"It's not that hard, Lightfoot. Maybe you're over-thinking it. Want the answer?"

"No."

The afternoon sun had dropped just enough to disappear behind the buildings, casting a cool shade in the street. She window shopped, enjoying the eclectic mix of bakeries, patisseries, souvenir shops, jewelry stores, and fashion stores. The French had some of the nicest fashions.

A lazy afternoon passed into a lazy evening. She decided they'd eat dinner in their room. The room service menu sounded good.

With Hunter showering, she yelled, "I'm ordering dinner. What do you want?"

When no answer was forthcoming, she opened the bathroom door and paused. In the glassed-in shower she could see the misty outline of his body. Details were obscured, but his physique wasn't.

Not a tall or large guy, not quite six feet tall, he was lean with muscles she associated with runners, not bodyguards. She admired his naked butt when it moved close to the glass. Nice! After faces, she ogled guy's asses the most, and Hunter's was fabulous!

"I'm ordering dinner . . ."

Hunter turned suddenly, surprised, and bumped into the glass. "Shit! What are you doing in here?"

"Relax, Lightfoot. I can't see you with all that steam. I said, I'm ordering dinner. What do you want?"

"Anything."

"Okay. Anything it will be."

She ordered on the phone, smiling to herself. When Hunter emerged with a towel around his waist, sandy hair damp, she grinned at his frown.

"You shouldn't invade my privacy," he commented, fishing through his duffel bag for underwear, jeans and a shirt.

"Why not? You saw me naked."

He paused and studied her. "I didn't. You were curled up. I wrapped a towel around you before picking you up. Your modesty is intact."

Huh. How about that?

A knock on the door ended the conversation. Hunter went back to the bathroom to dress. Callie let the waiter in, watched him set up, and signed the bill, adding a generous tip.

"Merci beaucoup, Mademoiselle," he said after looking at the tip.

Callie sat and contemplated her roasted chicken and root vegetables. It looked healthy and delicious. Grinning, she opened the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and poured herself a glass. Taking a sip, she sighed. Dry, fruity, aromatic. She didn't like red wine, but white . . . Yum.

Hunter emerged and sat across from her. He frowned at the white wine and reached out. She grabbed the bottle and glass. "Nuh-uh! This is mine!"

"You're too young to drink."

"You're so American," she countered.

When he picked up the silver cover keeping his meal warm, his frown deepened. "What the Hell is this?"

"Escargots."

"I don't eat snails," he complained. "Why did you order them?"

"You said to order anything, so I did," Callie countered sweetly, trying not to laugh. She sipped the wine instead. Yum. Very good.

He rose and went to the phone on the table between the two beds. She heard him talking softly but couldn't hear what he was ordering.

"So, what did you order?"

He studied her, his eyes so dark and intense. Then said, "Nothing. I ordered a burger."

Confused, Callie said, "That's not nothing."

Hunter grinned slightly. "Nothing's the answer. What's greater than God, more evil than the devil, the poor have it, the rich need it, and if you eat it, you'll die? Nothing."

Callie laughed. "It took you long enough!"

She was very relaxed when she took her shower. Wine helped, keeping the darkness and sorrow at bay, just. Clean, pleasantly tired, she pulled on fresh panties and a T-shirt. When she emerged from the bathroom Hunter was in bed watching a muted TV. Callie looked at her bed. "Can I sleep in your bed?" she asked.

Hunter studied her before nodding.

Walking over, she lifted the covers and slipped in next to him. Expressionless, he watched her, his thoughts a mystery to her.

"I get lonely at night," she informed him, moving close. She rose up onto one elbow and looked down at him. "I had a wonderful day. Thank you." Without invitation or waiting for a response, she bent and kissed his mouth gently, a pulse of pleasure suffusing her.

"Don't do that," he said when the kiss ended.

"Don't you like my kisses?"

"You're too young. It's illegal. You'll get me arrested," he said, still no expression.

"I'm not. It isn't. And I won't."

When he didn't respond, she added, "When I kissed you last night it was illegal. Tonight it isn't."

"How so?"

"You figure it out, Lightfoot. You like puzzles." Callie lifted his bare arm and settled, her head comfortably nestled in the crook of his shoulder. She rolled into his side, inhaled his scent deeply - leather and spice and now clean soap - and sighed quietly.

TURNING MY EYES BACK to the silent television, I wrestled with demons. I liked her kiss. Her lips were so soft and warm, the pressure just so. It was intimate more than casual and I liked that too.

I liked Callie. If she wasn't so young, I thought I could even fall for her. She was my type; confident, charismatic, and sweet. If it wasn't for the situation we were in . . .

Why wasn't it illegal for her to kiss me tonight?

"Was today your birthday?" I asked, wracking my brain. Maybe she was sixteen now. Was today her birthday?

"Nope."

"Then, what?" I asked.

"Figure it out."

"I don't want to figure it out! Just tell me."

Beautiful pale blue eyes smiled at me. "I'll give you a clue. We were in Spain yesterday."

I pondered it. No clue. "That doesn't help."

She smiled again, her face remarkably pretty. "I'll give you another clue. We're in France today."

Frustrated, I rolled to face her, our heads only inches apart. "Stop playing and spit it out."

She touched my chin. "The age of consent is fifteen in France, sixteen in Spain. So, not illegal." After a pause, she smiled softy. "You can kiss me now."

Huh.

"I meant now, this minute, Lightfoot."

Smiling to myself at her order, I studied her enchanting eyes, then the shape of her mouth - classic, then her lips - full, almost lush.

Moving slightly, I pressed my lips to hers. Her eyes closed. Her arm circled my neck and drew me deeper, pressure increasing, affection, sensual.

When it ended, her eyes opened. She smiled, so beautiful. "You like kissing me," she murmured. "That bodes well."

Forty minutes later, deep in thought about her, Callie spoke. I'd thought she'd fallen asleep.

"Talk to me, Hunter. My mind is going to dark places again."

Caressing her back, I thought for a moment, and started.

"A couple of years ago I was assigned to provide safety for Senator Collins. We were in Turkey, Ankara, for discussions with the Turkish government about sharing intelligence on Middle East terrorist groups. Senator Collins is a member of the Oversight Committee for Foreign Intelligence.

"He'd been ensconced in meetings for three days. It was Friday night. He ordered me to accompany him, telling me he wanted to go out to a club for a break.

"I was suspicious when we went to the old town section and, in a side alley, knocked on a plain wooden door. When we entered, the interior was astonishingly different. It was full of red velvet, ornate furnishings, and Turkish carpets. There were men smoking water pipes and I could smell hashish in the air.

"Even more astonishing were the skimpily-clad females. It confirmed a rumor about Collins; he was a lecherous old goat. He'd brought me to a bordello and there was nothing I could do about it.

"While he sat and drank gin tonics, he fondled almost every passing female. Half an hour later, he grabbed the hand of a petite Asian girl no more than seventeen, stood and headed upstairs.

"I followed. I mean, who knew if they had video cameras in the upstairs rooms? But at the base of the stairs, my way was blocked by two beefy bouncers.

"About to shove past them, the madam arrived, a real piece of work. About as old as the Senator, sixty-eight, she was powdered and rouged with outrageous false eyelashes, and generously proportioned under a multi-colored mu-mu.

"I informed her I was responsible for Senator Collins' security and had to check upstairs. She told me only paying customers were allowed upstairs."

"What did you do?" Callie asked.

"I looked around and pointed to a young, well endowed, scantily-clad middle-eastern young lady with a great ass and told the madam I'd take her. I mean, every job has some perks, she was pretty, and it had been such a long time since I'd had sex with anyone."

"You didn't!!" Callie exclaimed, indignantly.

Icy blue eyes full of disapproval and disappointment at my lack of moral fortitude stared at me. I had to grin.

Callie kicked me under the sheet. "You're SUCH a liar, Lightfoot! I'm NEVER trusting anything you say, ever again!"

I was quite sure she wasn't thinking about her father now.

Chapter Twelve

Miles of French countryside slipped by in companionable silence. The Peugeot was a feisty little car I enjoyed driving. It gave me time to think.

Callie was a distraction. Not good given our situation. But I couldn't help it. In the middle of last night she'd woken me, moaning and tossing, signs of a disturbed sleep. She'd rolled away from me earlier at some point. I tried placing a hand on her to calm her. When her moans turned into quiet whimpers, I rolled towards her and hugged her, spooning her from behind, whispering, "Hush, Ayasha."

I'd woken up in exactly the same position and, for a few moments, found peace. She emitted a sleep-muted aroma of jasmine and plums. While tall for her age, she was slender in my arms, petite but not. She felt good against me, a warm, female body.

When she shifted, I closed my eyes so our position wouldn't embarrass her. But, once she'd eased herself away from me and headed to the bathroom, I watched her.

Her T-shirt had rucked up exposing an exquisite ass in pale yellow cotton panties - a developing teardrop with dance-toned buttocks that moved sensuously. Being an ass lover, I'd admired, unashamed, then shook myself. I was here to protect her, not take advantage of her!

As the miles melted away, I had the image of her incredible butt in my mind. I couldn't get rid of it.

Just before five in the afternoon, we entered the outskirts of Paris. Twenty minutes later we were parked on Boulevard Haussmann, the American Embassy a hundred feet away.

"This guy you're after works at the Embassy?" Callie asked, fidgeting in her seat.

I nodded.

"Do you know where he lives?"

I nodded.

"Then, why are we here?"

"I need to make sure he's in town."

"Why don't you call him?" Callie asked, a reasonable question.

"I don't want him on alert. There!" I pointed at a mid-thirties man, well dressed, short brown hair well coifed, clean-shaven. Russell Kirk. Officially Press Officer for the Embassy. Unofficially, the Paris CIA liaison.

Starting the car, we eased back into the traffic, heading away.

Forty-some minutes later we were parked in a residential street. Eventually, Russell appeared walking along the sidewalk as if he didn't have a care in the world, briefcase swinging. He entered an apartment building, one of many lining the street.

"Now what?" Callie asked.

"We wait."

"Boring. So . . . How can you throw a ball as hard as you can and have it come back to you, even if it doesn't bounce off anything, there is nothing attached to it, and no one else catches or throws it back to you?"

I pondered it. "Throw it straight up in the air."

"You're no fun, Lightfoot."

It was time to move. "Stay here," I ordered Callie. "Don't even open the door."

"How long will you be? Is it dangerous?"

"Fifteen minutes or so. There's no danger. While I'm gone, figure this one out. If you feed me I grow. But if you give me a drink, I die. What am I?"

With her preoccupied, I walked up the street to the apartment building. Security wasn't great. I could have picked the lock if I'd had the tools. I didn't.

At the intercom, I pressed 3B.

"Oui?"

Raising my voice one octave and giving it a southern accent, I responded, "Courier from the embassy, Mr. Kirk," imitating Justin Mackie, a known embassy messenger.

The door lock clicked.

Pushing through, I took the stairs. I didn't want to run into any other tenant. At Russell's front door, I knocked.

When it cracked open, I shoved hard, throwing Russell back. Three steps and I had my left hand around his throat and slammed him against the wall, holding him pinned.

"You!" he exclaimed, eyes wide with sudden recognition.

"Why was I set up?" I asked.

"I have no idea."

Without warning, I slammed my fist into his jaw, his head bouncing off the wall, his lip splitting. "Why was I framed?"

Russell's eyes regained focus. "I swear! I don't know!"

This time I hit him harder, snarling at him. His eyebrow split, blood cascading down the side of his face to stain his shirt.

"Okay! Okay! Enough!" he yelled.

"Talk," I snarled, still holding him by the throat and pressing him to the wall.

"They wanted you out of the way."

"Why?"

"To get to the Hollister girl."

Tightening my grip, choking him slightly in anger, I asked again, "Why?"

"She has information."

"No. She doesn't," I informed him. "Who set me up?"

"I don't know. That's way above my pay grade, Lightfoot."

I could see his lie. Why was he playing for time? A blood soaked smirk emerged. He withdrew his hand from his pants pocket and opened his fist.

Shit! A small panic fob rested in his palm.

"You're too late, Lightfoot. They're on their way. You can't get away this time. Where's the Hollister girl?"

Infuriated at my lapse - I should have remembered the fob, I slammed my fist into his cheek. Russell's head snapped back smacking against the wall with a loud thud. The whites of his eyes showed. He slumped. I let him fall limp to the floor and raced out.

Running out the front of the building, I turned towards the Peugeot. As I reached it, in the distance, two black Suburban SUVs tore around the corner.

"Get your seatbelt on," I ordered Callie, starting the car. Five seconds later I tore out onto the street with a squeal of rubber and floored the accelerator, the tach hitting red before I up-shifted into second gear.

Watching the rear view mirror, my fears were confirmed; the Suburbans passed Russell's apartment building giving chase.

Another gear change and we were barreling down the narrow residential street at over eighty kilometers an hour, engine screaming, Callie hanging on to the door handle.

The Peugeot was a racy little car, but its small engine, GTI or not, was no match for the big V8s following us. They charged forward.

"Hang on!" I yelled as we were rammed from the back, our rear wheels leaving the road. Callie screamed. When the wheels hit the road our rear bumper fell off. The Suburban swerved to avoid it giving us a slight gap.

The rear window suddenly exploded, glass fragments flying. Callie screamed again. Fuck! They're shooting at us!

Ahead to the right was a side alley. Without thinking, I slammed the brakes on and yanked the steering wheel to the right, the Peugeot slewing into a four-wheel drift, the front left crashing into the wall and bouncing off, metal tearing, headlight glass tinkling. Accelerating hard, the car straightened and we barreled down the alley. Our side mirror swiped a garbage container leaving a spray of sparks and the mirror behind us. They didn't follow, the alley too narrow.

Peeling right at the next street, parked cars on both sides of the street suggested I was going the wrong way on a one-way road. I made an immediate left, into another alley, tires squealing to maintain adhesion. The car bounced over drainage dips in the center. A main road appeared ahead of us, traffic passing. Slowing, I turned right onto it and held to the speed limit, eyes peeled for the Suburbans.

"What happened?" Callie asked, her voice raised.

We had an hour or less before the make, model, color, and license plates of our Peugeot were broadcast to the French Gendarmes. Forty-five minutes to disappear.

"Hunter! What happened?" Callie yelled.

"He had a panic button that alerted the Embassy security detail."

"Oh."

Thirty minutes later I found a Novotel, a mid-level hotel chain with underground parking. Twenty minutes after parking the Peugeot in a corner of the garage, we let ourselves into a room.

"You need to change and dye your hair for the second passport," I informed Callie, removing the cheek pads from my mouth. Damn it felt good to get them out.

"Why? They didn't see me."

"They saw me," I informed her, rubbing my cheeks.

"So?"

"Callie, we don't have time for me to explain! Go."

Callie grabbed her makeup kit from her overnight bag and went to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. I dug through my duffel for another change of clothes, this time pulling out trendy Chinos and a loud, gaudy turquoise shirt; very noticeable.

Eventually Callie emerged wrapped in a towel. She looked much, much better with dark burgundy hair.

"So, are you going to explain, Lightfoot?" she asked, still angry, tossing clean clothes onto the bed.

"As soon as I'm finished."

My shower was quick. Rinsing out the temporary sandy hair dye was easy. My features were hard to conceal. However, clothes were the first thing people noticed especially if loud, so an outfit change should suffice as long as we stayed away from camera-heavy locations.

Callie was dressed and waiting when I emerged. "Get your stuff. We're leaving."

"Leaving? We just got here!" she exclaimed. "Are you going to tell me what we're doing or not?"

"We need to go," I repeated, checking my watch.

"No!" Her eyes turned Arctic-ice blue; a washed out color. "I'm not moving until you explain everything!"

Shit! Why was she being stubborn now of all times? "I'll explain on the way," I offered.

"Way to where?"

Sighing in resignation, I sat next to her on the bed. "I used our IDs to get this room. It's not going to take them long to connect our car with the border crossing. Then they'll know what names we're using and from there they'll find this hotel. Maybe another fifteen minutes or less. We have to move, find another hotel and register under new I.D.'s."

Stubbornness melted away from her expression, firmness emerging. "Okay then. We should go," she advised me, standing.

Striding down the corridor, Callie behind me, she added, "Did it hurt to explain yourself?"

She laughed when I nodded.

Escorting her to the service elevator, we left Novotel via the rear loading dock. Four blocks away we found a cab. An hour and two cabs later, with enough distance from the old room, we were registered at another mundane hotel.

Callie parked herself on the edge of a bed and said, "Now tell me everything, Lightfoot."

Taking a beer from the mini fridge - I needed it - I settled in the one armchair and explained about being set up to get me out of the way. I told her she was the one they wanted, that she had information her father had passed to her.

"But, I don't!" she exclaimed.

"Do you have a joint safety deposit box anywhere?" I asked.

"No."

"And he didn't mention anything strange when you saw him?"

"No!"

After a minute of thought, I told her, "I'm going to have to go back to your apartment. Maybe he left a clue there when you weren't looking."

Callie studied me, brows knit. "You mean we right?"

"It's too dangerous for you. I can move faster alone."

Callie stood, walked over to me, and stared down. Her finger jabbed at me as she announced, "You're NOT leaving me here alone, Lightfoot! I don't care what you say. We're staying together!" Her beautiful cool eyes flashed at me. Damn she was stubborn.

I nodded. Truth is, I didn't want to worry about her, too. Besides, I was beginning to like having her with me.

"Good!" she announced. "I'm hungry. Order something from room service."

After placing an order for chicken piccata, I turned to discover Callie had served herself a small bottle of white wine. She sipped it, smiling at me, knowing full well I disapproved. Charming.

Later, I wasn't surprised when, after emerging from the bathroom in a plain white, sleeveless tank top and white cotton panties, her burgundy hair pulled into a ponytail, she calmly lifted the covers and slipped into my bed.

Moving to my side, she smiled slightly, studying my eyes, then my mouth. Leaning over me, Callie kissed me gently, soft lips, pressure. When she murmured into the kiss, I seemed to lose myself. Wrapping my arms around her slender body, I pulled her to me and kissed her back, lips moving together. The kiss ended with me inadvertently sucking her plump lower lip. Soft arousal seeped into me, an attraction and desire I'd been resisting so hard.

I was enchanted by her.

Callie smiled when the kiss ended. "You're a good kisser," she observed.

"How would you know?" I asked.

A small smile played on her face, eyes sparkling. "Experience. I've kissed a few guys."

The jolt of jealousy I experienced stunned me! I cared! "How many?" I asked.

Callie laughed lightly, obviously amused. "You're jealous!"

"I am not. I'm curious. That's entirely different."

She settled to my side, my arm around her, her head finding the crook of my shoulder with familiarity. Inadvertently, my palm settled on her panty-clad buttock.

"Fire," she said.

Fire? Fire what? "Huh?"

"The answer to your riddle. If you feed me I grow. But if you give me a drink, I die. What am I? Fire."

"How long did it take you to get the answer?" I asked, caressing a rather scrumptious, dance-toned buttock.

"Just now. I was thinking how hot your kiss was and the answer popped into mind. How come you don't carry a gun? Those guys were shooting at us."

She thought my kiss was hot? Did she have any idea how white-hot her kiss was, sweet yet passionate, and that murmur!

"Earth to Lightfoot."

"What?"

"Why don't you carry a gun?"

"I don't like guns."

Puzzled, she asked, "How can you be in a protective detail and not have a gun?"

"I used to carry one. Never shot it in action. Contrary to most people's perception, protective security is mostly intelligence, not brute force. If someone tries to kill my protectee, my first job is to get in front of the bullet, not shoot back."

"That sucks," Callie observed. She looked up at me and added, "I don't want you to die, Lightfoot."

I couldn't resist. Tightening my arm around her, I kissed her again, this time floundering. Her lips were so soft, so sweet, arousal flooded my body, an erection forming. Confused disorientation swamped me when she murmured quietly and the tip of her tongue touched my lips.

I had no resistance, mores and training falling away to be replaced with adoration and desire for this charming, stubborn young girl; a girl unlike any I'd encountered before.

The kiss intensified, tongues touching. I fondled her scrumptious buttock and, for just a moment, wanted to roll us, lie on top of her, feel her under me, make love to her.

It took a superhuman effort to resist.

When the kiss ended, Callie sighed and snuggled into me.

"I've had a crush on you for the last two weeks," she announced. After a moment of silence, she added, "Promise you won't leave me. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You're tougher than you think," I answered. But I knew, deep in my heart, I couldn't let her go.

Chapter Thirteen

"Are you sure it's safe?" Callie whispered, peering around at the darkness.

The rear entrance to her apartment was deserted. Distant streetlights were weak, casting a yellow glow in the alley, creating dark impenetrable shadows. I used the keys we still had to open the door.

Avoiding the ancient elevator - it was too noisy and a trap if we were spotted - I led her up the stairs, pausing at every landing to check the corridors.

Her front door opened silently. I paused, listening for anyone. Dark rooms have a feeling about them. When someone's in the room, I know it. Maybe it's instinctual in humans; that ability to sense another presence, a protective instinct in our genes. The apartment was empty, echoing silence.

"No. Don't!" I whispered, reaching out to stop Callie from turning on a light. "Close the curtains."

With a small flashlight we searched the apartment looking for anything out of the ordinary, anything that might have been left by her father. We found nothing after forty-five minutes. I was stumped.

I had no ideas left. What now?

"We should go," I whispered.

"Kay."

Turning the front door handle, the door exploded in knocking me back. Callie screamed.

A dark shape charged through the door, one hand holding a gun. I launched myself at him, grabbing his gun hand and ramming my shoulder into him. He grunted. The gun went off, hot pain searing my arm as I drove him up off his feet and back into the brightly lit corridor.

Without thought, I powered him into the marble floor on his back with everything I had and felt his ribs crack as I landed on top of him. The back of his head hit the floor so hard it bounced, making a wet smacking sound. He went limp.

Standing, breathing hard, I looked at him. Six-two, hard, muscled. I'd never seen him before. Blood pooled under his head. I checked for a pulse. None. Fuck!

"Callie! Let's go!"

Turning, Callie was standing in the doorway frozen, eyes huge and staring at the dead man.

"Come on!" I urged, grabbing a cold hand.

Running down the hall to the stairs, Callie stopped, pulled her hand from mine, bent, and vomited. I tugged her back into motion and we raced down the stairs, leaving through the back door. She stopped and, bending, threw up again.

Glancing up and down the alley, I waited for her to finish heaving, then took her icy hand and led her away.

"He's dead!" she exclaimed.

Waving down a cab, I said, "Not now. We'll talk about it when we're back at the hotel."

Three cabs later, we entered the hotel. In our room, I poured Callie a glass of white wine, thinking it might be good for shock.

She drank, then choked, the glass tumbling to the floor. "You're bleeding! You've been shot!"

In the rush of action and adrenalin, I'd forgotten. Taking the blood-soaked shirt off, I checked my bicep. The bullet had creased the inside of my upper arm; nothing serious. Antibiotic cream and a butterfly bandage could handle it. "It's nothing. Don't worry."

"Nothing?" she exclaimed, standing. "You're bleeding!" She dashed to the bathroom and returned with a towel. Shoving my hand aside, she wrapped it around my arm, tying it with a knot. Her hands shook.

"Callie," I said softly, taking her hands. "It's nothing. Just a scratch." When I drew her into a hug, I felt her trembling. Kissing the top of her head, I reassured her, "A simple bandage will fix it."

She whispered, "You could have been killed." Then, leaning back and staring at me, eyes frigid blue, she exclaimed loudly, "You could have been KILLED, you idiot!"

"Risk is part of the job, Callie."

"Let's go away. Run away. We could hide somewhere they'd never find us. We could just disappear. They'd stop hunting for us." In an increasing, jumbled frenzy she spit out plans, destinations, options, all driven by the need to escape danger - a reaction to what she'd just seen.

I waited her out. When she fell silent, I said calmly, "I wasn't killed. There's nowhere to run. You can't spend the rest of your life in hiding. There's only one way to make all this stop and that's to figure out what's going on."

"But . . ." Tears glistened in her eyes. In a soft voice, she said, "You could have been killed, Hunter. All because of me."

Taking her hand, I backed up and sat in the armchair, drawing her onto my lap. "This is not your fault. This is their fault. They are responsible for your father's death. They are responsible for shooting me. They are responsible, not you."

Callie melted against me, her head finding my shoulder. We sat in silence. Eventually she whispered, "Kay."

Inside, I was concerned. Lethal danger had not been a concern before. Now it was. Anger made my blood boil. I didn't care about the scratch on my arm, but what if the bullet had hit Callie instead of me? I needed to take the initiative. But how?

Later in bed, in the darkness, with Callie so close she was almost on top of me, she spoke. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"For falling apart like that. I've never seen a dead body before. I haven't seen a gunshot wound, either. I don't like blood, Hunter. It makes me sick to my stomach. How can you handle it so easily?"

"It just is. I don't think about it. Blood's never bothered me. My two brothers and I got into all sorts of trouble, not fighting, just daring each other to do stupid things. Bleeding was usually the end result."

Callie turned her face up to me. "Kiss me, Hunter. I need it."

Smiling, I kissed her. Warm, silky lips pressed to mine, pressure growing. She moaned quietly when the tips of our tongues touched and pressed herself against me even harder. When she opened her mouth, when our kiss intensified into the sensual, I grew hard. Caressing down her back, I cupped her buttock. Callie responded, drawing her knee up to rest on top of my legs. I nibbled her lip, loving her sighs. Then her knee found my erection and she kissed me with passion.

The quiet moan was in my head, brought on by Callie's hand settling over my erection, gently feeling the outline, hesitant, exploring, her first touch. It felt fantastic. I caressed her gorgeous buttock, soft cotton under my hand. In a moment driven by passion, I slipped my hand up and eased my fingertips under the waist of her panties. Suddenly I held her cool, bare buttock, compact and perfect. My erection throbbed against her palm and she curled her fingers, holding my shaft over my boxers. Control was slipping away. I wanted her. God I wanted her!

Ending the kiss, a Herculean task, I said, "I don't think we should be doing this."

"Why not?" Her hand still held my erection.

Easing my hand out of her panties, I told her, "This is just a reaction to the danger we experienced. It's natural to have intense feeling afterwards, to seek affection and companionship. We should stop."

Pale blue eyes studied me. "Does that mean you don't like me? It's just a reflex?"

Caressing her cheek, I responded. "Quite the contrary. I like you too much. I'm very attracted to you. I won't insult you by telling you you're too young, because it would be a lie. I don't care about your age. But, in stressful situations emotions can be confusing or misleading."

"I know how I feel about you. I'm not confused in the least."

"Well, I am," I stated. "I like you too much to have a casual tumble in the sack, no matter how much fun it might be. You deserve better."

A beautiful smile emerged lighting up her face. God she was gorgeous!

"You love me," she said, smile intensifying.

"I didn't say that."

"It's okay. Guys hate using the L word. You love me and sooner or later you'll admit it. I can wait."

With a final, exquisite squeeze of my erection, she released it and settled to my side. "Talk to me," she ordered.

"About what?"

"How much you love me." With a quiet giggle, she added, "Relax, Lightfoot. I'm just kidding. Tell me about your childhood."

I didn't speak right away. I had another problem to wrestle with. I was hugely attracted to her. I adored her personality. I enjoyed having her with me and I knew I'd miss her badly if she left. Until now, I hadn't realized how lonely I'd been with work, constant travel, never settling into one spot long enough to develop a relationship. I had few friends and those I did have I hadn't talked to in years.

Attraction has many shades, from a simple sexual attraction to beauty, to a deeper, more significant attraction to someone. Physical attraction is easy. It's everywhere. You spot a woman walking down the street and, through the motions of her hips, the shape of her rear, the prettiness of her features, or suggestive bust, it's easy to have a physical response, to appreciate, and even long for a dalliance.

Emotional attraction is much, much harder and rarer. Emotional attraction requires awareness of the person inside; their personality, behaviors and beliefs. Emotional attraction is far more intense. I strongly believe that most marriages fail because couples mistake physical attraction for emotional attraction. Great sex and raw desire don't make for a lasting relationship. We spend only the smallest percentage of our life having sex, the majority of it just being with someone, in their presence, a part of their life, intimate and entangled, accepting warts and all.

I could imagine a life with Callie and it looked enticing. I could envision a lifetime of her stubbornness and sweetness, her forcefulness and softness, her remarkable smiles, those pale blue eyes. I saw my life gifted with companionship and love and commitment and, for the first time, I could even imagine a family in my future; all of it because of this girl next to me.

It was a huge problem. Now, her safety became critical and it scared me. Dispassionate protection was no longer possible.

"Come on. Talk," Callie urged.

Smiling to myself, I started. "When I was growing up we lived on a huge horse farm. Hundreds of acres of arid land to support a few horses. About five miles away there was this large butte . . ."

"That's like a mesa, right?" Callie interrupted.

"No. Both are flat-topped. But when the width across the flat top is shorter than the height, it's a butte. When it's wider than the height, it's a mesa. Stop interrupting me."

"Sorry."

"There was a butte we used to explore as kids. It was full of cracks and small caves decorated with old Indian drawings. We often climbed to the top in search of dinosaur bones because we'd been told they were up there. We . . .

"Did you ever find any?"

"No. And stop interrupting or I won't tell you about the Cheyenne Chief's tomb."

"Sorry."

"There was this ancient Indian - Sam Little Bear. We thought he was a hundred and twenty years old. His face was all wrinkles. He chain-smoked and had teeth missing. Well, he told us the story of Chief Lost His Horse who'd died long, long ago. Apparently he'd buried his possessions in a cave before dying. They were supposed to be magical and hold special powers he didn't want to fall into the white man's hands.

"Being young and indestructible, my brothers and I decided we'd find the Chief's possessions, so we spent countless hours every weekend hunting through every cave we could find, all to no avail.

"One weekend we'd stayed out later than usual. The intense sun had dropped to the horizon. We had about half an hour of daylight left, which meant we'd be walking home in the dark. That didn't bother us. We knew the way like the back of our hand.

"But this once, the light hit the butte at an oblique angle. Shadows highlighted cracks and crevasses. That's when we saw it." I paused.

"Saw what?"

"High up, maybe halfway, on the steepest side, there was a deep, dark crack. About four feet high and two wide.

"It was too late to climb up to it but we decided to skip school the next day, Monday, and explore that opening. We returned early the next morning and scrambled and climbed. It was hard. The slope was more like a cliff and sandstone kept crumbling under our hands and feet. I really cut up my hands that day.

"It took two hours to reach the opening and, being the oldest, I went first, armed with a flashlight and a stick. We needed sticks to slap against the stone. The noise would make rattlers nervous. That way we could hear them and avoid them.

"The opening was tight and went on for sixty or so feet. At first I thought it ended. The flashlight showed bare rock blocking the end. But, when I got close, I saw the tunnel actually turned at a right angle. Once past the turn it opened up into a small cave covered in drawings. And there, at the far side, I saw a buffalo skin at the foot of the wall.

"Man was I excited. The three of us rushed over and, as carefully as we could, opened the hide. I can still remember the excitement. Wrapped in the skin we found the Chief's headdress, his flint tomahawk, a bow and quiver of arrows, and underneath, the Chief's jewelry. In the light of the flashlight all the intricate turquoise and silver glowed as if alive. There was a full breastplate, armbands and more, much more.

"Well, when we brought it all home, Dad couldn't believe our good fortune. We sold it all and moved to a penthouse on Fifth Avenue in New York and lived like kings."

"Lightfoot!" Callie exclaimed, kicking my leg. "Why can't you tell me the truth about your life? I want to know."

"That was the truth," I said, smiling to myself.

"As if!"

Chapter Fourteen

Silence echoed in the Bibliothéque nationale de Paris, France's national library. I'd decided some research on General Hollister was needed. What was he into that was worth killing for? Callie had been no help, knowing little about his duties in the armed forces.

So here we were, sitting side by side at microfilm machines scrolling through newspapers for any mention of her father. It was tedious and boring, but an Internet search had revealed surprisingly few details of his career.

Tension from hunching over built in my shoulders. General Hollister had risen through the ranks in the regular army, posted to countries all over the world. None of it helped. He'd had a spotless career.

"This is useless," Callie announced, pushing back from the machine. "I'm seeing double now."

"Let's break for lunch," I suggested.

We strolled along Quai François Mauriac, the slow-moving Seine on one side, tourist boats passing with tinny loudspeakers providing commentary on the sights.

At a riverside café we stopped for sandwiches, sitting outside under a shaded umbrella. Swallowing a bite of her croque-monsieur, a baked ham and cheese sandwich, Callie asked, "What's with those machines? Haven't they heard of digital records?"

"The microfilms?"

"Uh-huh."

"It was the latest technology way back when. In fact, it was the technology adapted for spies. British MI6 and the OSS - now the CIA - used the technology to . . ."

I stopped. A sudden thought occurred to me.

"To what?"

"Give me your locket."

"Why?" Callie asked suspiciously, her hand closing around it possessively.

"The microfilm technology, or more specifically, the microfiche technology was used to pass secret information between agents."

"So?"

"Give me the locket."

As she removed it, I continued. "Spy agencies adapted it to produce microdots; tiny specks that carried information." I took the locket and opened it, inspecting the pictures. "They were so small they could be hidden as a full stop on a letter, yet contain large amounts of information. Did your mother have a beauty mark on the right side of her mouth?"

"No. Why?"

"She does here." Wiping my mouth, I threw down the serviette and stood. "Come on. I need to make a call."

"Give me my locket back," Callie insisted.

Reluctantly, I handed it back. It was probably safer around her neck, anyway.

Three hours later, after making some discrete inquiries, we were in an old photography shop surrounded by an eclectic mix of single lens reflex and digital cameras, lights, shades, tripods, and other odds and ends.

Charles LeBlanc, a surprisingly young man, was studying the locket with an eye loupe, Callie frowning watchfully.

"Don't damage the photo!" she exclaimed when Charles pulled out a pointed paper knife.

"Ne vous inquiétez pas. Don't worry," he added in English. Concentrating, he eased the tip of the knife against the photo. "Bon. See? No damage."

To me, he said, "You were right. It's a microdot. Vien. I have a microscope in the back."

We followed him into an even more cluttered work area. When he bent to look at it through the microscope, I stopped him. "You don't need to see what it contains."

He nodded and stepped away.

I glanced through the eyepiece, adjusted the focus, and straightened. "Is there a way to transfer this? Print it or copy it to a memory stick?"

"Oui. Bien sur. We can make images of it and enlarge it."

Watching him like a hawk, fifteen minutes passed before he handed me a USB memory stick and the microdot in an envelope. His fee was quite reasonable.

On the way back to the hotel, we stopped so I could purchase a cheap laptop. In the room, with Callie showering, I opened the files on the memory stick.

The information absorbed me, so much so I didn't notice Callie when she emerged from the bathroom.

"What does it contain?" she asked.

I glanced up. She had a white towel wrapped around her, another being used to rub her damp, burgundy hair, her head tilted to the side.

"I need more time."

"Kay."

Turning back to reading, I heard the sound of the mini fridge opening. "No wine," I warned, not looking up.

The information was astonishing. Even scarier was that some very powerful people would kill to keep it secret. A shiver of fear hit me when I understood Callie's life was in serious danger, more so than mine.

Half an hour later I switched to Google and, using the hotel WiFi, searched travel sites. Satisfied, I closed the laptop and removed the USB.

"So?" Callie asked, sipping a glass of white wine.

"I said no wine."

"Live with it. What was in the files?"

Callie seemed relaxed, leaning back against the headboard. She was wearing a pastel-red, ribbed cotton tank top, and tight, multi-colored stretch pants. I noticed how the tight tank top emphasized her small bust and shook my head. How could I think about that right now?

The mini fridge yielded a cold Evian. The first sip partially settled my churning mind and gave me focus.

"We're leaving France tomorrow," I informed her.

"Why?"

Sitting on the bed next to her, I rubbed her leg, firm, toned, slender. "We have a long trip tomorrow. If I ask nicely, would you hold off your inquisition until then? I'll tell you everything on the way." I needed time to process the enormity of what I'd just read.

"Okay."

"Thanks."

"So ask me nicely," Callie said, smiling, having some fun at my expense.

Her smile broadened, eyes twinkling, as I bent close. I kissed her gently, her soft lips so damned delicious. "Will you give me until tomorrow to tell all?" I asked quietly.

With a straight face, she answered, "Kiss me again and I'll consider it."

"Nope. I'm getting hungry. Let's go out," I countered, standing.

"You don't play well, Lightfoot," Callie observed with a grin. "I think I need to find someone else to play with."

"Get dressed," I suggested.

"I am dressed."

Shaking my head, we headed out.

Dinner, consumed at a quaint bistro, was delicious. I tried the blanquette de veau, a rich, creamy veal stew that was superb. Callie, pleased that I let her have a glass of white wine, ordered sole meunière, a healthier dish than mine.

Callie charmed me. Perhaps it was growing up all over the world, but she was so mature for her age, well informed, with an acute intellect. I relaxed in her company and actually found myself laughing; a rare occurrence.

It was nice how she hooked her arm through mine when we headed back to the hotel, her body brushing against me. And clearly I'd had too much wine.

She was far too feminine when she emerged from the bathroom after brushing her teeth, still wearing that pastel-red tank top but now in matching ribbed cotton bikini panties that stretched and emphasized her mons, her stomach partially exposed. She was far too slender, her legs perfectly toned. She was far too beautiful, her pale blue eyes bright and enticing. She was far too attractive; my body responding, pulse accelerating, blood flowing, a tingle of desire. And she moved far too gracefully, a dancer, svelte, sexy, narrow hips undulating.

She wafted aromas of mint toothpaste and jasmine and plums at me when she lifted the covers and slipped into bed next to me. Her smile was soft and sexy, expectant; as if she had plans. And, when she snuggled close to my side, her leg hooking over mine, and pulled my arm around her, something in me broke. Resistance took a permanent vacation. Morals faded away. In bed with me was a true beauty, sweet, desirable, someone that hit me just so. It was disorienting, an experience I'd never had. I felt fear for her again, her life at risk. Wrestling with the unfamiliar feelings, I understood what it was.

I loved her. That's all. I loved her. The first female I'd ever loved.

It made me smile. I was finally in love and it was with a fifteen-year-old obstinate, opinionated girl. Rolling to face her, Callie scared me with her ability to understand me.

"I told you I'd wait. It didn't take long, Lightfoot. I dare you to say it."

"How did you know?" I asked, wrapping my arms around her.

She smiled, beguiling, a you're-so-slow smile. "You were in love with me from the moment you first saw me."

"No I wasn't."

"Of course you were. You just wouldn't admit it."

Looking at her, I admired her thick, glossy, burgundy hair and how it set-off the blue in her eyes. I admired her perfectly proportioned features; her nose straight and narrow, face oval, and her sensual mouth that was made to be kissed. I could picture her thirty years from now and she'd be the same, blessed with lasting beauty, tall and slender moving with the grace of a dancer.

"Ayasha," I whispered.

Her smile grew into radiance. "You should kiss me, Hunter," she instructed.

I did, and fell into the warmth of desire and adoration, her lips so responsive. I shuddered at her quiet murmur; so expressive, as if she adored my kiss. She nipped my lower lip, tilted her head, and opened her mouth, her tongue meeting mine. Where had she learned to kiss like this?

I gave in and didn't fight what I was feeling.

CALLIE TREMBLED AT HUNTER'S kiss. Her heart beat fast and hard. Echoing through her mind was his whisper, "Ayasha." He'd said it with such love, such feeling. It was as if he adored her.

Heat blossomed inside her, new feelings mixed with excitement and desire. Kissing Hunter was an experience like no other, so different from the kisses she'd experienced before.

Her heart thumped, blood flowing, and mentally sighed when he cupped her breast with tenderness, her nipple responding, tightening, delicious arousal arriving, his thumb teasing, and groaned silently at his gentle squeeze. Her pussy pulsed and ached. She wondered what sex with Hunter would be like.

When the kiss ended, his hand still gently caressing her breast, she opened her eyes. "I want to hear you say it," she told him, studying his dark eyes intently. Would he?

After he stayed silent for what felt like forever, she said, "It's okay, Hunter. You don't have to say it if you don't want to." Disappointment crept in.

He moved his hand up to cup her cheek, thumb rubbing, eyes intense, expression unreadable.

"I love you, Callie Hollister. I'm now forever damned."

Callie laughed lightly, her heart racing with pleasure and relief. "In that case, I love you too, Hunter Lightfoot."

She settled to his side when he rolled onto his back, snuggling close, inhaling his distinctive scent. "Lucky for you, I've decided to keep you."

His body shook with a chuckle. For the first time since Dad dying, she felt at peace, loved, safe.

Chapter Fifteen

Callie watched the countryside pass in a blur, the TGV, France's high-speed train racing at over three hundred kilometers an hour. Across from her Hunter was absorbed in the laptop.

"You promised to tell me what the microdot contained," she reminded him.

He shut the laptop, pushed it aside, leaned back, and looked out the window.

"You've heard about the Israel-Palestine peace accord?"

"Sure," Callie nodded. Everyone knew about it; the single biggest achievement in the past fifty years, all due to President Richards. He was going to have a real legacy in the history books.

Hunter continued. "The peace accord would never have happened three years ago. Yosef Sloman, the Prime Minister at the time, was adamantly opposed to any recognition of Palestine and railed against the UN's acceptance of a Palestinian State. If you remember, he died of natural causes; a heart attack. It made way for his replacement, Ari Levon. Ari's a moderate. It was with his support and no small amount of persuasion from President Richards that the accord has been reached. It's due for ratification in five weeks and will finally bring official recognition of Palestine as a State; bring peace"

"I remember all that. What's it got to do with us?" Callie asked.

"Your father had information, devastating information that could derail the accord. That's why he was killed."

"Like what?"

Hunter was silent for a moment, still looking out the window. He turned to look at her, his obsidian eyes hard.

"Your father had definitive proof that Yosef Sloman's death was an assassination. In fact, it was President Richards direct order, supported by the Secretary of State and implemented by the CIA; a deliberate plan to alter the political landscape in the Middle East."

Callie's mouth fell open in shock. "But, isn't that illegal?"

"I'm not finished. He had documents showing President Richards is involved in an unsanctioned, ongoing covert effort to bring about the fall of the socialist government in Venezuela in favor of a more moderate, American-friendly government. They're fueling the social unrest and demonstrations."

"Holy cow!"

Hunter nodded. "The American government was responsible for your father's death. They'll stop at nothing to keep their secret. If the public finds out, it will cause wars to erupt and permanently destroy America's relationship with Israel, destabilizing the entire Middle East. America will never be trusted again. If they can't recover this information, they'll kill to keep it safe. That means they're prepared to kill you, Callie."

The magnitude of his comments hit her. Her hands shook. There was no way out! Now, even if they returned the information to the government, she knew their secrets. Hunter knew their secrets. Would the President sacrifice the peace accord and admit to illegal assassination to achieve a political goal just to avoid killing her? Not likely!

"We're dead, aren't we?" she asked. "They'll never stop looking for us."

Hunter's face grew hard, like flint, eyes flashing dangerously. It scared her. This was a hard, hard man, not the gentle one she'd fallen for.

"You will not die, Callie. I won't let them get to you. I promise."

"How? How can you promise that? There's a whole government on their side and two of us on the other."

"I have a plan."

She studied him and believed him. Relief flooded through her. She trusted him. If he said she'd be all right, she believed him. Wait! A shudder shook her.

"What about you? Can you promise me you won't die?" she asked.

"No. But I'll do my best," he responded with a smile.

"That's not good enough, Lightfoot!"

"I have the greatest motivation in the world to survive."

"What?"

"You."

Callie smiled, despite her nervousness. Hunter had a way of getting to her with few words. A flush of love washed through her. "So where are we going?"

"Back to the States."

Confused, Callie pointed out, "We're heading south, to the Mediterranean. Isn't that the wrong way?"

Hunter smiled. "We're going to Genoa. I hope you don't suffer from sea sickness."

"Why?"

"In three days we sail on the Canada Senator from Genoa to Montreal."

"A cruise will be nice," Callie commented, her mind picturing all the amenities; restaurants, swimming pools, shops, sports, shows.

"It's not a passenger cruise liner. It's a container ship."

"Oh." A bit disappointed, she shrugged. "At least we'll be together."

"That we will," Hunter reassured her. The sudden twinkle in his eyes made her heart beat faster.

"How long is the journey?"

"Fourteen days," he informed her.

Chapter Sixteen

I COULD SMELL SALT in the air when we stepped off the train in Nice. The sun was slipping towards the horizon. I was antsy, not having moved enough during the long trip down.

Callie, despite being lost in thought at what she'd learned, appeared to be okay, flashing me easy smiles every time she caught me studying her.

A cab dropped us at another mid-level yet expensive hotel two blocks from the waterfront. I wanted to walk, to burn off nervous energy. After depositing our bags in the nicely appointed room, we left.

I set a fast pace. Callie had no problem keeping up, her strides long and graceful. We hit the waterfront, a long, curving section with a sandy beach and a retaining wall acting as a broad sidewalk - the Promenade des Anglais. Across from the beach were beautiful, traditional French buildings, some a couple of centuries old, some new; banks, casinos, restaurants, and upscale hotels. We walked east towards the old marina. I slowed.

Callie hooked her arm through mine, leaning against me. She inhaled deeply. "I love the smell of the sea," she enthused. "It's so pretty here. So peaceful. As if all our problems are a world away."

We walked in companionable silence. Then Callie stopped walking and broke the silence. "Are you sure we can't just run away and hide? It's not like I have a family left."

"If it could work, I wouldn't hesitate for a minute. But it won't work." Looking down at her, the top of her head level with my chin, I asked, "Do you trust me?"

Pale blue eyes studied me. She nodded.

"Then we do it my way."

Dinner and a walk back, the waterfront now lit up with lights, was almost romantic. It was hot, even that late in the evening. When we returned to the hotel, Callie immediately went for a cool shower. I chose to cool myself with a bottle of Evian spring water, removing my shoes and socks.

I felt good, despite everything. I had a plan and it might just work. Details were complete in my mind and all I needed to do was adapt to the unexpected, of which there'd be a lot, I was sure. The endgame wasn't ideal but it would protect Callie.

She emerged from the bathroom, interrupting my thoughts, her hair damp, towel wrapped around her body, long toned legs bare. Pale blue eyes sparkled. She smiled.

I stood. I had to hug her. She was so beautiful, inside and out - the complete package. Her smile broadened as I approached and she moved into me with easy comfort, her arms slipping around my waist.

I hugged her.

"What's up?" she asked.

"I needed to hug you."

"Kay," she sighed, resting her cheek against my chest.

Her face turned up, enchanting eyes, sweet expression. I bent my head and kissed her, soft lips meeting mine, her arms tightening. When tongues touched and she murmured, I let my hand fall to cup her buttock, arousal suddenly flowing through me. I touched bare skin, a naked buttock, perfectly formed and toned, compact and sexy as Hell. An erection formed, desire for her following closely behind.

Callie felt my response, pressing herself to the growing lump in my pants, her tongue becoming frisky. When a deep shudder shook me and selfish desire threatened to take control, I eased the kiss to an end, my hand leaving her delectable bare rump.

Callie studied me, her lips looking plump and a bit bruised. "What's the matter?"

"I don't think I'm ready for this. It's too fast, too soon."

She smiled softly as if knowing how scared I was of my desire for her. With a shrug, she moved away and went to her overnight case, pulling out a pair of skimpy, lace and nylon black panties. With her back to me, she dropped her towel exposing her naked body.

Fuck me!

Callie's ass was the finest I'd ever set eyes on. Two sculpted, sensual buttocks formed a teardrop shape that made my erection strain, her butt crack drawing my eyes down to the sexy, sexy gap at the top of her thighs.

I caught my breath at the glimpse of a lightly dusted pussy nestled in her groin. This time my groan was loud - loud enough that Callie's body shook with silent laughter.

Damn! Damn!

"What's wrong, Lightfoot?" she asked bending to slip a foot into her panties.

Her pussy peeked at me, jet-black pubes dusting her tightly closed labia, her bottom rounding. "Fuck me," I whispered in awe without realizing it.

Callie, wiggling her butt, drew her black panties up. I could see her body shaking with laughter. She was deliberately seducing me and I loved it!

Two sudden long strides and I grabbed her from behind, growling. Callie erupted into a flurry of giggles and twisted in my arms.

Bright, beautiful eyes smiled at me. "I thought you said it was too soon," she said.

Her breasts were gorgeous, small yet perfect, widely spaced and proudly gravity-defying, topped with dark pink areolae and small, beaded nipples.

I kissed her smile hard, forcefully, tongue tasting her luscious lips, and pulled her slender body tight against me. She responded, her arms around me, hands rising to my shoulder blades, tongue meeting mine with equal enthusiasm. The kiss was intense, demanding, sensual.

I couldn't resist. Unashamedly, I groped her buttocks, slinky material under my palms, the exquisite shape of her cheeks fueling lust. She responded, her hand groping and finding the lump of my erection, fondling me gently, caressing. Damn!

Holding her ass, I lifted her. She wrapped her sexy legs around me. Still kissing, I turned and tumbled onto the bed, landing on top of her, her thighs cradling me.

The kiss ended. "I'm not going to stop," I warned her.

Callie gave me a small smile, eyes twinkling. In a soft voice, she informed me, "If I wanted you to stop, I would have stopped you." She studied me. "You should kiss me now, Hunter."

I did. But this time it was a soft, loving kiss, lips moving, tongues flirting, her intoxicating scent filling my nose. It ended with a gentle suck of her delicious lower lip, and I rolled off her.

CALLIE, WATCHING HUNTER UNDRESS, slipped under the sheet, not out of modesty - she didn't feel any embarrassment at being undressed with him, but because the air conditioning chilled her, the warmth of his body against her missed.

When he tugged off his shirt, she admired him, lean and sleek, a faint six-pack showing. He truly had a runner's body. A small shiver of pleasure hit her when he lowered his jeans, his erection tenting the boxers. I aroused him!

Callie briefly wondered what sex was going to feel like. She'd daydreamed about it often enough - more over the last two weeks. She'd heard so many different stories, good and disappointing. No matter. She loved that she could arouse him so much. Teasing him with the bath towel had been so much fun. And his growl! His deep-chested rumble of desire had thrilled her. Being the object of his desire was liberating. She loved Hunter. She trusted him. She'd do anything for him. She wanted to bring a smile to his face all the time.

When he stood at the side of the bed and stared at her, his eyes so intense, her body reacted, breasts aching, pussy pulsing, blood rushing, heart beating hard.

Then he smiled and warmth rushed through her. It still amazed her that she felt no shyness, not one shred, at being almost naked with him. It felt right and comfortable and exciting, even if he was the first guy to see her this way.

Turning on her side, she let him draw the sheet down. He glanced at her body before slipping next to her, his arms reaching for her.

"Ayasha," he whispered, sending chills through her.

Hunter changed yet again, his touch now delicate and gentle, drawing her to him, eyes crinkling in a smile full of warmth and love and desire. Her nipples responded.

She felt his erection press against her, large and rigid. Staring at her, Hunter kissed her, a gentle touch of his lips, his breath warm against her cheek. She closed her eyes and relished the touch of his hand as it traced down her spine to cup her ass, drawing her harder against his erection.

And when the soft, sensual kiss ended, she opened her eyes. Her body felt strange to her; tense expectation, butterflies in her stomach, breasts aching for his touch, pussy damp and gently pulsing with arousal, heart fluttering, breath short.

He touched her breast, a feather-light touch, gently cupping it. Callie moaned silently. It felt so, so good. He kissed her cheek then nuzzled her neck, her nose filled with his scent of leather and spice.

This was so unexpected. She'd thought they'd tumble into sex, especially after the way he'd grabbed her. But this, this was Hunter loving her. Another shiver passed through her when he nibbled her earlobe. Who knew the earlobe was erogenous? It was!

But, when the pad of his thumb teased her sensitive nipple, Callie wanted more. Hunter was so gentle it was as if he thought she was fragile. It was nice, really, really nice, but her body ached for more.

"I won't break," she said softly, pulling his face away from her neck and staring at him.

"I'm afraid you might," he said. "I don't have much more self control left and you're so damned beautiful."

A feeling of maturity settled over her. She lost what little nervousness she had. This was right, perfect, just what she wanted. Reaching down, she searched and, easing her hand inside the waist of his boxers, found Hunter's erection, her hand slowly closing around the shaft. Thick. Warm. So hard. Pulsing as if alive. So exciting.

His eyes narrowed as she stroked him. When his hand touched the inside of her leg and moved up, she lifted her other leg, gave him room, and shuddered when he cupped her pussy, arousal rushing in even stronger, desire, need.

Hunter leaned in and kissed her gently, his hand caressing her pussy. She stroked his erection carefully, so thick, so long.

The kiss deepened, his tongue touching her lips. She met it with hers, opening her mouth. She couldn't stop her body trembling when he moved his hand up, slipped his fingers under the waist of her panties, and eased his hand inside, touching her pussy. Pleasure pulsed below, throbbing and aching. She felt her wetness and gripped his cock when his hand cupped her again, his middle finger finding and slowly caressing her clit.

Breathing deeply through her nose, she probed into his mouth with her tongue, kissing him hard, her body shaking. She could feel everything; his finger tracing along her cleft, easing between her labia, finding her entrance, probing gently before slipping up to rub her clit. This was so much better than touching herself!

A hard pulse of pleasure washed over her and her hips responded uncontrollably. Hunter stroked her, pleasure building, her hips moving, undulating. She ached deep inside, so horny, so close.

Then he broke the kiss. In her ear, he whispered, "Ayasha," soft and adoring, full of affection.

Unable to stop herself, Callie climaxed, ecstasy slamming into her. She grunted, body taut, and another exquisite wave of bliss washed through her. Gripping Hunter's erection, Callie let herself go, giving in to the pleasure of her climax, grunting with each beautiful, powerful wave of ecstasy, heart racing, Hunter rubbing her clit. It was endless, a vortex of pleasure that built and built until almost painful. With a loud gasp, she tumbled over the peak and down into peace, warmth, lassitude, her body twitching with fading waves of pleasure.

It felt like it took forever for her to recover enough to open her eyes. Hunter, so sexy and handsome, smiled at her.

"Thank you," he said softly.

Thank me? Me? Why? she thought to herself.

Before she could ask, he continued, "You are so beautiful when you climax. Thank you for letting me experience it."

Callie smiled. The stories of guys being selfish were SO wrong! With a gentle squeeze of his thick erection, she said, "You're welcome," then giggled when his eyes narrowed, so sexy. She liked Hunter horny!

I REMEMBERED THE FIRST time I'd touched a girl and brought on a climax; Susan. She'd reacted as if I'd done something wrong and became ashamed, pulling my hand from inside her jeans at the movie theater, jumping up and running to the bathroom. There'd been awkwardness between us from then on and, as a fourteen-year-old, I'd been flummoxed by it.

In my experience, many women were more comfortable with intercourse or oral sex than being brought to an orgasm by the touch of a guy's hand, as if it's a more intimate act or something embarrassing. I'd never understood it.

But Callie's climax was spectacular, made more so by her obvious post-orgasm enjoyment. The sweet agony of pleasure on her face when she came was truly beautiful, her light grunts powerfully arousing, her final gasp thrilling. As horny as I was, I could have now stopped and cuddled, living with the gift she'd given me; unabashed pleasure.

But I didn't.

Easing my hand out of her panties, I teased the waist down. Callie rolled her hips helping me and kicked them off. I had the sharp memory of touching her silken pubic hair and wanted to see.

Pressing her shoulder, I guided her onto her back, her hand refusing to release my erection. Propped up on my elbow, I studied her.

God she was gorgeous! Stunning! I noticed how she let me look, no shyness, no hiding parts of her body, just pale blue eyes watching intently for my reaction.

I knew what I felt; adoration and lust and desire. Callie's body was everything I'd imagined and more. Slim and sexy, her naked body was full of sensual curves. Small, perfectly formed breasts mounded up, areolae dark with sexy nipples that cried out to my mouth. Her slender waist flared gently where buttocks pressed to the bed. Her stomach was flat, toned by dance, yet subtly curved. Prominent hipbones like small peaks framed the sensual swell of mons, her pussy a gorgeous, sexy delta. Dark, almost black, wavy pubic hairs formed a small bush that didn't fully cover her mons, denser at the top of her cleft, thin higher and to the sides; just stunning. I knew what her pubes felt like; pure silk. Below, slim, dance-toned legs, dainty feet.

Surprising myself, I bent and kissed her stomach, warm and smooth, then straightened. "You're gorgeous," I told her. "Even more spectacular than I'd imagined."

Callie smiled softly. "You imagined me naked?"

I nodded and bent again, lightly kissing one nipple. When I opened my lips and sucked her areola carefully, Callie squeezed my erection, a pulse of pleasure hitting me.

It was as if my blood was on fire, aroused beyond belief, desire a harsh taskmaster demanding, driving, promising me ecstasy; a circling storm threatening disorientation and chaos.

Rolling away from her, her hand ceding its hold on my erection, I shucked my boxers and rolled back, this time pulling Callie to me, face to face, body to body, my erection sandwiched between us.

In my arms she felt so delicate, much younger; a slender waif. I understood the dichotomy. When dressed, Callie carried herself tall, a uniquely dancer's stance. But in my arms she was a gazelle, almost delicate and I loved it just as much.

Inhaling deeply to restore control, I kissed her lightly and admitted, "I desperately want to make love to you, but . . ."

"But, what?" she asked.

"I'm afraid," I admitted, a foreign emotion to me. "I want you so much, I might hurt you and I'd never forgive myself if I did. I think we should wait until I can control myself better."

Callie smiled with pleasure. "You can't control yourself around me? You? You lose control? Wow!"

She kissed me softly, a sensual brush of her warm lips, and smiled again. "I want this. I want to make love with you." Her pale blue eyes studied mine. "I don't believe you'd ever hurt me." Her smile broadened. "You love me. Remember?"

She reinforced her comment by easing her leg underneath me, tugging at my shoulders. I rolled, resting on top of her, her thighs cradling my hips, her arms around my chest.

"I want to hear you say it," she urged, her mons undulating against my erection, "Please?"

Precum suddenly made us slippery. I smiled at her forcefulness and gave up. "I love you, Callie Hollister."

All smiles faded. She caught me with her eyes, her body stilling underneath me. "And I love you, Hunter Lightfoot. So make love with me."

It started with small kisses, playful and light, smiles, eyes twinkling. Reaching down, I gripped my shaft and eased the tip over her mons and down, rubbing it along her cleft, precum making her slippery.

For a while that's all I did; tip rubbing up and down. It felt wonderful, on the cusp of full intimacy, anticipation raising my excitement, so close to actually having sex with Callie. I was hard, so hard, cock swelling. Then, with care, watching her eyes, I eased the tip between her supple labia, pressing slightly. Warm moisture greeted me. I felt her clit and rubbed against it, Callie's eyes narrowing slightly.

Kissing her softly, I smiled and eased my inflamed crown down, sexy labia spreading. Suddenly I was poised at her entrance. She felt it, her eyes locked onto mine. Callie took my face in her hands and pulled me into a sensual kiss, lips parting, tongues touching; sensual and loving.

Below, I pressed forward, holding my shaft. Nothing. No progress, Callie unyielding. I pressed harder. Nothing. I now worried I was going to hurt her. I was too big, she too young.

When the kiss ended, Callie pulled my body onto her fully, guiding my face to her neck, her arms wrapping around me. She whispered, "Hunter," into my ear and curled her pussy up.

Every sensation burned into my mind; her entrance slowly dilating, stretching, warm heat spreading over my tip. A small gasp of pain in my ear, and Callie's pussy slipped over the head of my straining erection to hold me tightly. I wanted to pause, to experience this first, exquisite penetration, but couldn't. I couldn't stop my response, couldn't control my body.

Letting go of my shaft, I reached under Callie to hold her gorgeous buttock, and pressed into her slightly, eased back and pressed again, gaining another exquisite, tight inch. Need fueled desire. With small withdrawals and gentle thrusts, Callie's pussy yielded to me, an exquisitely tight, silken sheath gradually encompassing more and more of me until my groin nestled to her pussy.

My cock swelled, thick, hard. I was buried inside her, buried inside this slender, young, gorgeous girl! For a moment I did nothing. My erection throbbed rhythmically, Callie's pussy so tight, the feeling unbelievably good. Her thighs cradled my hips. She felt so damned good underneath me, slender and sexy. Her small breasts pressed firmly to my chest, a distinct sensation. I'd found heaven.

Inhaling her scent deeply, I moved my face away from her neck, rising on elbows, my forearms on the bed, hands behind her shoulders holding her. Callie smiled softly and placed her palm against my cheek.

"Did it hurt too much?" I asked, cock pulsing, desire raging through my body.

"No."

She clenched her pussy bringing exquisite tightness, my erection straining in response. It felt as though my cock was massive, bigger than usual, and so stiff it almost ached.

Kissing her lightly, I confessed, "You feel so good I wish I could stay like this all night. But I can't." I rubbed my groin against her pussy and felt my cock slip slightly in her tight embrace, so damned good.

Staring into her beautiful, pale blue eyes, I repeated the action, slowly rubbing my groin against her clit, my cock straining. Desire punished me, my pulse racing as if I'd run twenty miles. My body was taut from restraining myself. I loved this moment; on the cusp of full movement, intercourse, that intensely pleasurable feeling of sex, the promise of release and utter bliss calling to me.

Eyes locked, I moved, withdrawing slightly, her tight pussy gripping me, trying to hold me in. Reversing, I slipped back into a velvet heaven, fully ensconced, her snug pussy welcoming me, erection straining.

I did it again, withdrawing further, cool air on my shaft, and reversed, gently penetrating Callie, a wash of pleasure flowing through me. When I withdrew again, Callie smiled slightly and tilted her pelvis, joining me, her eyes locked on mine. This time my erection eased out until only the crown was inside her. We moved together, Callie curling her pussy up towards me as I stroked into her, slippery, velvet warmth surrounding my cock.

We repeated the slow, sensual movement and gradually a rhythm emerged, a slow, almost languorous loving; long withdrawals, exquisite gentle thrusts, fucking each other.

The need to move faster and seek release was powerful. But this intimate dance together was so beautiful, so loving, I held back. Kissing her gently, lips nibbling, her sigh of pleasure intensified mine, thrilling me.

Making love with Callie was incredible, intense, so wonderful. My love for her grew and almost overwhelmed me.

"Ayasha," I whispered, erection swelling. Pleasure suffused my body. My cock ached, thick and straining, her pussy so velvety and warm and tight. Pressure built, the ominous warning of an orgasm. I could tell Callie was nowhere near but fucking each other slowly, staring into her gorgeous, expressive pale blue eyes, I reached that point of arousal I couldn't hold back any longer. Control slipped away.

Like a rogue wave, my orgasm rushed towards me, cock straining, fucking her slowly, full withdrawals, full penetrations. Heart racing, my orgasm erupted.

Thrusting, burying myself inside her slender body, my erection swelled, ached, and I came, semen spurting with a burst of bliss. Withdrawing slowly, I stroked into her again, staring into her eyes, and came, a more powerful eruption, cum exploding in a gut-wrenching, exquisite pulse. I had only enough control to keep my strokes slow, but let myself drown in the intense ecstasy of release, spurting hard, cock swelling, pulsing, cumming again and again, sweet bliss flooding my body. In an endless orgasm I thrust and came, erection straining, hot semen spurting deep inside her.

My body started aching. Suddenly the peak passed, relief hitting, pulses waning until I had nothing left, just bliss and lassitude and intense love. Exhausted, I lay on her, drained, nestling my face to her neck.

Callie's hands lovingly caressed my damp back. Slowly, very slowly, my heart quieted. Below, my cock was still thick but softer; no ache or strain left, just satisfaction. I was drained, physically and emotionally. Callie's pussy was warm and now very wet. And it still felt so damned good to lie on top of her.

Then it hit me. "Oh, Hell," I exclaimed quietly.

"What is it?" Callie asked, pulling my head up to look at me, her expression worried.

"I forgot to use a condom!"

Callie smiled. "Don't worry. I'm on the pill."

I don't know why it surprised me, but it did. "I thought this was your first time."

Callie, wrapping her legs around my thighs, and hugging me, locking me in place, grinned. "Didn't you know? I'm a slut. I've put a smile on the faces of half the boys at school!"

"What?" I exclaimed, shocked at her confession, a rush of jealousy hitting me. I'd never have suspected!

Callie laughed, her pussy clenching and expelling me. "Jeez Louise, Lightfoot! You're so gullible!"

Rolling off her, I lay on my back. She turned into me, still chuckling. "I like your jealousy."

"I don't." Kissing her softly, I added, "I'm sorry you didn't cum. Was it a disappointment?"

Her eyes twinkled. "No. It was perfect. I think I'm going to like sex with you. I hope you're virile."

Reaching out, I turned the bedside lamp off. Darkness enveloped us. Callie settled her head in the crook of my shoulder and sighed.

Chapter Seventeen

At some point deep in the night, I woke up. Callie was stretched out on her front, face turned away from me, and I had her gorgeous naked buttock in my hand. An erection returned, fueled in no small measure by the memory of making love to her, and I wanted her again.

Rolling towards her, I woke her with soft kisses on her bare shoulder. She smelled wonderful. Callie murmured and stirred. Reaching over her, I turned her, spooning her, her gorgeous ass nestling into my groin. Rising on an elbow, I leaned over and kissed her cheek. She reached behind to touch my face, eyes closed, a small smile curling her lips.

My strengthening erection nudged against her closed thighs and, as if we'd been intimate forever, she lifted her leg. When my erection settled along her pussy, she lowered her leg, trapping me.

Without a word, I reached around and cupped her petite breast, a perfect, firm palmful that aroused me so. Callie was quiet. When I fondled her, rubbing her nipple, she moved, squeezing my erection between her legs. I hunched slightly, pressing my groin against her gorgeous ass. Callie eased away, then pressed back in a non-verbal invitation. Letting her breast go, I caressed down her stomach to brush my fingertips against her silky-soft pubes, another surge of excitement hitting me. A little lower, passing over her plump mons, I felt the tip of my erection poking out. Easing my body back, with a gentle touch, I found her clitoris and rubbed it. Callie's pussy was still slippery from making love earlier. She squeezed her thighs and relaxed, squeezed and relaxed. I followed, slowly stroking my erection back and forth along her pussy, her sexy buttocks pressing to my groin. Arousal built. I wanted more.

With fingertips, I pressed my crown into her cleft, still stroking back and forth. For a few minutes I relished the experience, her pussy slippery and warm. Then Callie trembled. She tilted her hips in another silent invitation. Pressing my crown deeper between her labia, I found her entrance. Movement stopped.

Her hand touched the back of mine, pushing against me, encouraging me. At the same time, she pressed her ass back and my erection oozed into her, her vagina gripping me again, a molten, incredibly snug velvet heaven.

With the crown held tight, I went back to caressing her clitoris, enjoying the small tremors of pleasure in her body. We started moving, a dance of love. Slowly but easily my erection penetrated her deeper, each stroke exquisite. We fucked gently, almost languidly; no rush, no urgency, just mutual intimate pleasure, the ultimate closeness any couple can have. It was fantastic. I wasn't desperate this time. This was pure loving. Callie pressed my hand harder against her pussy, my middle finger strumming her clit. Her buttocks clenched, body tensed, then jerked. She trembled against me like a frightened fawn, her pussy pulsing as she climaxed with almost silent gasps, a rhythmic milking sensation on my erection. I let myself go. Cock swelling, I experienced heaven again, semen erupting in a burst of ecstasy. I came softly, each gentle thrust bringing exquisite release, cum flowing, bliss, utter bliss.

As peace returned, our bodies stilled. With my softening erection held inside her, sleep, like a seductive sylph, danced in. My body was liquid and sated, relaxed. The last thing I remember was her scent; subtle jasmine and plums mixed with sex - Heavenly ambrosia.

At eight-fifteen I woke up. Callie was sound asleep on her front next to me, her dark burgundy hair an attractive mess spread across the pillow only partially contained by a ponytail. Watching her sleep hit me just so; beautiful, sweetly sexy, and I experienced a rush of affection. Easing myself from the bed, I hit the bathroom feeling refreshed and remarkably good. Sex twice with this beautiful girl had me smiling as I shaved. I must be smitten, I thought with a smile.

She was still out for the count while I dressed so I left her sleeping. I had three things to do; I'd be gone for one hour max. Grabbing the USB memory key and envelope with the microdot, I let myself out of the hotel room quietly.

Meandering back forty-five minutes later, I caught myself smiling in anticipation of seeing her again. When I opened the hotel room door, an arctic chill blasted through me.

"WHERE WERE YOU?!!" a clearly angry Callie yelled, her glacial stare chilling me.

My smile faded. "I had some things to do."

Fist on a narrow hip and one accusing finger jabbing towards me, Callie yelled with a stern frown on her face, "And you didn't think to wake me up?!" Man she was pissed off.

"It was less than an hour," I tried to reason. Stupid me.

"I thought something had happened, you . . . IDIOT!!!"

She was spectacular. Barefoot, wearing sky blue yoga pants that matched her eyes and an un-tucked pale yellow cotton top with a wide neck that slipped down off one shoulder revealing a thin white bra strap, she was gorgeous in her anger.

"I thought you'd be tired after last night so I let you sleep in," I explained.

"Be quiet! I'm too angry! I'm not talking to you!"

"All evidence to the contrary," I muttered.

Her eyes flashed. "What's that supposed to mean?!!!"

I grinned. Couldn't help it. Our first fight.

She pointed a finger at me, now furious. "Wipe that grin off your face, Lightfoot!"

I didn't. I couldn't.

Callie's anger seemed to deflate like a popped balloon. Worry stole into her eyes. "You scared me, Hunter," she said in a small voice.

Moving in, I wrapped her in a hug. "I'm sorry, Ayasha. I really didn't mean to." She pressed herself against me and hugged me back.

In a firmer voice, she accused, "I can't believe you grinned at me, Lightfoot. Don't you know how arguments work?" Leaning back, she looked up at me. "I was scared. Don't ever leave me like that again."

I nodded.

She smiled slowly, all forgiven. "You can kiss me now."

I did, willingly.

By mid-morning we were back on a train heading towards Italy. Callie, sitting next to me, kept a possessive hand on my thigh or arm, just needing to touch me. She'd rebounded from the morning argument in fine form, chatting about two weeks on a ship, how many passengers were there? What amenities did they have? Why Montreal?

Then, as I watched the countryside pass, she nudged me.

With a twinkle in her eyes and a smile, she informed me, "I thought you should know, I like sex with you. I'm glad you're virile, Lightfoot."

I smiled with amusement. I liked sex with her, too.

"You're supposed to tell me I'm the best you've ever had," she instructed. When I didn't respond fast enough, she added, "Come on. It won't hurt you to admit it."

"I was just comparing you to all the women I've slept with. Give me five minutes."

Callie pouted and edged away from me. I grinned. She seemed to make me smile more than anyone I knew.

"How many?" she asked, shoving my arm away when I tried to put it over her shoulders and draw her back.

"None of your business."

Judging by her expression, that might not have been the best response. Her blue eyes dropped several degrees towards frigid and she moved completely out of my personal space, turning to face me.

"I'm not sleeping with you anymore, Lightfoot. Keeping secrets I can understand. Lying to protect me I can understand. But telling me something personal about you isn't my business when I love you isn't acceptable. It never will be."

Callie was serious! Feeling surprisingly contrite, I tried to explain.

"Callie, I'm a private person. I've never had to share with anyone. It doesn't come naturally to me. When you ask personal questions my automatic response is to deflect. You need to give me time to adjust. I haven't been in a relationship for a long time."

Somewhat mollified, she asked, "How long?"

"Twelve years."

After a slight pause, she observed, "You must have been in your teens. What happened?"

I shrugged. "I went to college. We stayed in touch but slowly grew apart."

"What happened to her? What's her name?"

"Christina. Like too many in the community, with so little work available, she found alcohol, then drugs."

Callie moved back next to me, leaning against me. "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault."

Looking up at me, she asked, "How many, Lightfoot?"

I could see she was testing me; my willingness to reveal personal information a measure of our developing relationship. "Four."

"Including me?"

I nodded.

"That's not as many as I'd thought," Callie observed. "How come?"

I shrugged. "Casual sex isn't my thing. I prefer a personal connection; someone whose personality attracts me. That's not easy to achieve when working all over the world and traveling constantly."

"So you like my personality."

"From the moment I met you, yup."

CALLIE LEANED HER HEAD against Hunter's shoulder, absent-mindedly watching the deep blue Mediterranean Sea flash by when the train crossed steep valleys between tunnels.

She'd felt a rush of jealousy when she thought Hunter had been with lots of other women. It wasn't a rational reaction. She knew that. She didn't have any say in his past. Yet, she couldn't stop her emotional reaction. Why?

Was it because he was her first? No. She'd never imagined her first time would be with a virgin guy. Smiling to herself, she was glad it hadn't been. Last night, the second time, she'd climaxed harder than she'd ever done on her own. Sex with Hunter was fantastic! She loved it.

No, it was more. Now she understood that empty ache in the pit of her stomach and why, with her life ruined and father dead, her mind was full of Hunter. She was in love with him!

It was different than loving him. It felt different, more significant. It explained the abject fear she'd experienced when waking up to find him gone; a fear not for herself, but for him! Glancing at him, Callie admired his face, angles and planes, strong, handsome. He'd never be a model. She giggled silently. Hunter a model? On a runway? Wouldn't that be a laugh!

Hunter, as if psychically connected to her, turned his head from the window and studied her, expressionless except for liquid dark eyes.

In a soft voice full of tenderness, he asked, "What is it, Ayasha?"

"I just realized I'm in love with you." Callie wondered if he'd understand the significance.

Hunter smiled. "I know."

About to chastise him for his sorely lacking sensitivity, he continued, "I feel the same way." His smile faded. "This complicates my life no end."

"So I'm a complication, am I?" she asked with fake indignation, feeling very pleased.

He nodded. "A very pleasant one."

Callie smiled and let her head rest on his shoulder again. Relaxed, feeling safe and loved, she drifted off to sleep, tired from last night and the angst she'd suffered today.

When she opened her eyes, the train was pulling into the station. Genoa. She'd never been to Italy. Would it be as pretty and romantic as she'd imagined?

An hour later she knew. Yup. Ancient buildings crowded together. Narrow, steep streets following no set pattern formed a bewildering warren only to open up into spectacular plazas, fountains, statues, running water.

Streets teemed with life. Cafés and quaint restaurants and bakeries scented the air with mouth-watering aromas. Small shops showcased their goods; fashion, shoes, tobacco, and books.

The waterfront was beautiful. Lights were just coming on making it appear like a Christmas celebration. A warm, salty breeze wafted over her. She inhaled deeply. Wonderful!

After stopping at a small travel agency, Hunter led her towards a hotel overlooking the bay. Luxury powerboats and cruisers, all bright white, rocked at anchor. The sounds of seagulls cawing and traffic rumbling filled the air. Totally romantic!

Suddenly Hunter stiffened at her side. He grabbed her hand.

"Come! Quickly!" he ordered, taking her overnight suitcase.

When she looked at him, a shiver of fear coursed down her spine. Hunter's expression was hard and flinty, his eyes dark and threatening, body rigid with tension. This Hunter looked dangerous.

"What is it?" she asked, moving fast to keep up with his long strides.

He nodded to the right. "That man was on our train."

"So?"

"I think he's recognized us."

Hunter led her through a series of left and right turns, moving fast but not running.

Suddenly, the man appeared ahead of them, racing around the corner not eight feet away, a pistol in his hand.

Before she could inhale to scream, Hunter moved. Lightning fast, he approached the attacker grabbing his wrist holding the gun. She heard a sickening crack as Hunter twisted the wrist, a grimace of pain blossoming on the assailant's face. Without breaking movement, Hunter stepped even closer, still holding the guy's wrist up and away from his body, and slammed his fist into the guy's diaphragm. A whoosh of air exploded from him. As the man bent in pain, Hunter stepped back, his knee striking up. Another sickening crunch sounded when his knee connected, the guy's head snapping back up, a spray of red blood arcing through the air from a crushed nose. Hit so hard, the guy flipped over, landing on his back with a solid thump, sprawling on the sidewalk, limp.

Callie gulped air fighting a gag reflex, her stomach churning, bile rising.

Hunter bent and quickly frisked the body, pulled out a wallet and checked before tossing it back on the guy's chest. Hunter approached her, grabbed the bags in one hand, and took her hand in his other. "Let's go." He started jogging.

Callie stumbled trying to keep up. Another roil in her stomach and she gasped, "Stop. I'm going to throw up."

"Suck it up, Callie! Keep your eyes peeled. Look for another man. He'll be wearing a jacket to hide his gun. He'll be staring at us. You'll see his eyes react if you look at him."

Callie, running to keep pace, looked around and studied every person she could see, fear making her shake. She let Hunter lead her through a maze of alleys and narrow streets.

Twenty minutes later, breathless, they stopped.

"Did we lose him?" she asked.

"Who?"

"The second guy." She studied Hunter, his expression inscrutable. "There wasn't another guy, was there?" she accused.

He shrugged. "There might have been; probably was. But you didn't vomit, did you?"

"You deliberately distracted me!"

He nodded, his eyes restlessly glancing around. "We had to get away from there fast."

Finally noticing their surroundings, she saw they were no longer in a quaint, romantic setting. Buildings were dingy and smog-stained dirty gray. Windows were smudged and dark. There were no people out strolling. In fact, the street was empty. Litter filled nooks and crannies along the cracked sidewalk and she could smell rotting garbage from somewhere. Darkness gave the street a foreboding feeling. She shivered, suddenly feeling cold.

When Hunter led her up the uneven steps of an old building, she wondered where he was taking her? Pushing through grimy doors, she found out. It was a decrepit rooming house. The room was even worse; a worn and dirty carpet, a sagging bed with a threadbare blanket. The tiny bathroom was so cruddy she didn't want to enter it.

"This isn't exactly the Ritz," she commented.

Hunter sat on the bed. It sagged under him. He shrugged. "It'll take them two days or more to find us here. We sail tomorrow morning. It's just for one night."

"I'm not getting undressed in that bed," Callie stated. "You can't pay me to sleep in it. It looks like it's never been cleaned!"

"Okay. We'll sleep on top."

With one of her packed T-shirts covering the pillows, Callie finally settled next to him. He drew her to his side, his arm holding her. His familiar scent of leather and spice washed in.

Still a bit queasy, she asked, "Do you kill everyone that threatens you?"

"I didn't kill him."

"How do you know? He looked dead."

Hunter looked at her. "I told you before. I'm very good at my job. He'll have a few broken bones and a concussion that'll give him headaches for a couple of weeks. That's all."

Relieved, she snuggled closer. "You really know how to romance a girl, Lightfoot."

"Only the best," he responded, making her smile.

As she drifted to sleep, she couldn't help replaying the event. Hunter, in less than thirty seconds, moving with unbelievable speed, had disarmed and disabled the attacker. He'd been vicious, yet, oddly, the way he'd moved was like a dance, fluid and smooth, confident, not frantic. She shuddered remembering the sounds of breaking bones. How strong was he? To break a wrist with one twist must take a lot of strength. She shuddered again, the sound of a cracking bone so sharp in her mind, so horrible.

Hunter's arm tightened around her as if he knew what she was thinking. "Talk to me," she suggested to distract her thoughts.

"There was this time I chased an Embassy employee who'd stolen the Ambassador's china. I chased him all the way to the Antarctic before catching him. Damn it was cold. I'd forgotten to bring a parka so I had to rely on skinned seal fur for . . ."

Callie kicked him, grinning. "I've changed my mind. Don't talk to me, Lightfoot."

Chapter Eighteen

Callie studied their stateroom with pleasure. It wasn't luxurious, but it was neat, clean, functional, and spacious with several portholes giving a view of the sea. The bathroom was spotless, towels clean.

While unpacking, she smiled to herself. This was so unexpected. The Canada Senator was a working container ship. At first glance when they'd arrived at the commercial docks, she'd seen a rusting blue ship piled high with different colored containers; so high she wondered how the ship didn't topple over and sink. The sailors she'd seen appeared rough and hardy but not unfriendly, several smiling at her. All in all, a couple of weeks here might be fun.

"Let's go," Hunter suggested.

"Where? It's a boat."

The side of his mouth ticked up in amusement. "To check out the facilities. That's where."

"Oh. Okay."

Meandering down a corridor after inspecting the dining room and lounge, Hunter spoke. "There's one rule here, Callie. You never go anywhere without me. Never. Got that?"

"Why? Hey, look! They have a gym! I can practice dancing here." She studied the well-equipped gym, satisfied. They even have a stereo! Two deckhands working out paused and looked. One smiled at her. Callie smiled back.

Hunter took her hand and led her away. He stopped in the corridor and turned to face her, a frown on his face.

"Don't smile at them, Callie."

"Why? They seemed friendly enough."

Without a word, he grabbed her hand and led her out onto the deck. "Look," he instructed, pointing towards the prow. "See all those containers? See how big this ship is? How long do you think it would take to find someone in all that?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"Tomorrow we'll be in International waters. There, the ship's captain is the only law. It only takes one of these deckhands you think are so friendly, and who's consumed alcohol after his shift, to find you wandering around, like what he sees, and that's that."

What was his problem? The crew seemed nice enough. She noticed his dark expression. Callie paused.

"What do you think they could do to you in the time it takes me to find you?" he asked, still frowning at her.

"Okay already! Enough! I get it. You're my shadow."

I WONDERED IF SHE did get it. I'd spotted two guys with nasty gleams in their eyes and it worried me. I'd been looking forward to relaxing now that we were safe from pursuit. Clearly relaxing was out of the question.

Shit! Where was she going? "Hey! Didn't you hear what I just said?"

Callie glanced back over her shoulder as she walked away. "I'm going back to the cabin. Aren't you coming, Shadow?"

I followed, shaking my head in frustration. Perhaps she didn't understand how worried I was for her safety. Or, more likely, was just being her usual obstinate self.

When I closed the stateroom door and locked it, Callie moved close, wrapping her arms around my waist. She looked up at me.

"You're angry, aren't you?"

I nodded, reaching for her hair band. Tugging it, I let her thick, lustrous, dark burgundy hair free. It expanded. I combed my fingers through it to loosen the soft waves.

"I'll try to cooperate," she said. Her lovely eyes twinkled. She smiled softy. "You should kiss me, Hunter. It'll make you feel better."

Her hands reached for my face and drew my lips to hers. A sparkling smile in her eyes blinked out when they closed. She tilted her head and sucked my lip, emitting a murmur of pleasure.

I fell into a very, very sexy kiss, gripping her hair in my fist. My blood raced. When she sucked my tongue, I became erect. Damn she could affect me.

Ending the kiss, Callie asked, "Better?" Before I could answer, she took my hand. "I couldn't shower last night in that unhygienic bathroom. I'm going to take one now. Want to join me? The shower looks big enough for two."

I must have frozen momentarily. She tugged my hand to get me moving and led me to the bathroom. When she reached for her cotton top, I stopped her.

"What?" she asked.

"I'd like to undress you. Next to kissing, undressing a lover is one of the sexiest acts."

Callie smiled and gave me a soft, "Kay."

Taking the hem of her pale yellow top, I drew it up over her head and inhaled sharply. Callie wore a small, simple, plain white cotton bra. It had no flourishes, no decorations. Soft cotton covered her petite breasts providing no support, just modesty, her breasts firm. My erection pulsed.

Dropping to one knee, I hooked my fingers into the waist of her sky blue yoga pants that hugged her crotch so enticingly, her skin soft and warm. Callie watched me intently as I lowered them to reveal plain white cotton panties. They were perfectly ordinary, designed for comfort. They hugged her body, leg elastic snug, the swell of her mons beautiful. The cotton was thin, her young pubic bush shadowed underneath, her vulva full between the gap of her legs. Standing, as I moved in, I glanced down. The waist of her panties stretched from small hip to small hip like a suspension bridge, touching down on the slight curve of her stomach in the middle. Before I could reach behind her to open her bra, Callie stepped back.

"My turn."

The way she unbuttoned my shirt was sensual, one button at a time, slow, her blue eyes studying me. She spread the sides of the shirt away and caressed my chest lightly with both hands.

"Your chest hair is so soft," she murmured, moving in. She kissed my nipple, her hands now toying with the button of my jeans. It popped open. She kissed my other nipple, her hand unzipping my pants. Damn I was horny! Did this skilled seduction come naturally to girls?

Callie's hand rubbed the bulge of my erection. She smiled, "You're horny. Good. So am I."

Jesus!

Expecting her to tug my pants down, she surprised me by reaching in, worming her hand inside my boxers to gently grip my cock. Holding it firmly, she tugged, pulling it upright and let it go. Man, was I horny!

With a shove, my pants and boxers fell to the floor. Callie smiled, stepped back and ogled. "Turn around. I want to see your tush," she instructed.

"I'm not a piece of meat on display," I countered. As odd as it was, I was feeling ridiculous standing naked with a hard on being studied carefully.

She laughed lightly. "Yes you are. You're my piece of prime, grade A meat. Turn, Lightfoot!"

I did.

"World class. Edible," she murmured, her hand fondling.

I'd had enough. Turning, I grabbed her and pulled her against me, my erection sliding across her silky skin to the side. She smiled with amusement. Her smile broadened as I searched for the bra clasp behind her.

"It's in the front," she informed me with a light laugh.

I fumbled with the small clasp. It opened, the soft cotton falling away, and I inhaled sharply. God they were sexy. Her breasts stood firm. On the small side, they were perfectly formed, dark pink areolae stippled from arousal, beautiful nipples beaded.

Drawing her against me, her breasts pressing, I let my hands glide down her bare back, tracing the curve of her spine, the swoop to the base, and, at that sexy spot where her buttocks start to swell, I touched the waist of her panties. Heart beating faster, I eased my fingertips inside to touch soft cool skin. Delving deeper, I was once again holding her spectacular buttocks, my cock throbbing in response. Callie's ass was world-class, her cheeks compact and dance-toned firm, each a perfect handful, utterly spectacular. When she curled her hand around my cock, I'd had enough.

Screw the shower!

Grabbing her hand, I dragged a laughing girl out of the bathroom to the bed.

Still laughing, she announced, "I'm still grimy. I don't want to dirty the sheets."

"There are two beds," I pointed out. With that, I pushed her. Callie sprawled onto the bed, on her back, smiling, pale blue eyes sparkling with amusement.

"You're pretty easy to seduce, Lightfoot," she observed.

"I'm not. You just get to me," I claimed; the truth. Reaching down, I grabbed the waist of those sexy plain white cotton panties and tugged. Callie didn't resist, lifting her long legs for me.

For a moment I paused and admired her pussy. Her pubic bush was so dark, wavy pubes not curly, only partially covering her remarkably plump mons and slightly denser at the top of her cleft, full labia coddling a long clitoral hood and tightly closed below. Buttocks swelled where they pressed to the bed. With her slender body and beautiful young breasts, she was a goddess, sexy beyond belief. My cock flexed, bobbing in the air. Desire for her raged through me like a wildfire.

I loved her self-confidence; how she just lay there, letting me study her naked body, no hint of shyness or embarrassment. A raw desire took control; the dangerous type. I wanted to fuck her, not make love, just fuck her. She was so damned desirable!

Maybe she saw it in my eyes, because, as I moved onto the bed, a Cheshire cat smile formed. In a deeply arousing move, she drew her knees up and parted them; an invitation, or perhaps satisfaction in her remarkable ability to arouse me.

Leaning over her, she nestled my hips with her thighs, watching me intently.

"I get the feeling you're gonna ravish me," she said, still with that Cheshire cat smile.

"Until you beg me to stop," I confirmed, settling down on her young body.

She murmured, "Kay," before our lips touched, her arms wrapping around me.

Falling into another passionate kiss, I reached down between our bodies and found her silken pubes. Finger searching, I caressed her clit before probing deeper. Callie really was horny! My fingertip touched her vagina and slipped in easily, held in a snug, warm grip. Probing deeper, I curled my finger and touched the slightly rough skin of her G-spot.

Callie broke the kiss with a deep groan. Her hips undulated. I watched as her nostrils flared with each breath. Still caressing her G-spot, another groan sounded. Her eyebrows formed a frown. With my thumb, I strummed her clit, now stimulating her in two spots.

For a minute or two, I watched her arousal grow ever more intense, her eyes tightly closed. Then she slipped over the cliff. She grunted cutely, her pelvis heaving up, then her climax consumed her, her body shaking, grunting softly, "Ngh," with each wave of pleasure. Her mouth opened. She panted and writhed, her vagina clenching my finger. Suddenly, she reached down between us and grabbed my hand, pulling it away.

I didn't stop. Gripping my erection, I guided the tip between soft, moist labia, probed, found her entrance and, in a hard shove, penetrated her. Callie gasped loudly.

With another quick thrust, I buried myself inside her, my cock gripped tightly by her velvety heat.

"Oh, Gaaawd," she groaned, her legs rising to wrap around my waist, ankles locked.

Withdrawing, I thrust back into her, all the way, deep, deep, cock swelling. It felt fantastic, too good.

Settling my full weight on her slender body, with one hand gripping a sexy, sexy buttock, I started fucking her, long withdrawals, firm thrusts, drowning in the incredible sensation of sex with her.

Callie hugged my body tightly, hanging on as I fucked her hard, my need to own her driving me. Each full thrust made her body shift on the bed, and still I fucked her, erection straining and feeling thicker than ever before, each stroke caressing me with her tight pussy.

Time stood still. My universe narrowed to just me, Callie, and the incredibly erotic sensation of penetrating her. I thought I could go on forever, cock straining, fucking her faster. But I didn't.

Callie gasped in my ear, "Hunter," and fell into another climax, her body heaving, pussy tightening into a vise-like grip. It took me over the top.

With hard thrusts, my cock swelled, swelled even more, an ache emerging in my gut. I heard myself growl like a feral animal, and came. Semen burned up my shaft and, with a hard thrust, I erupted deep inside her. I thrust again, another excruciating burst of pleasure hammering into me, cum exploding. Dizziness set in as I thrust and came, sweet bliss with each powerful spurt, I rode my exquisite orgasm, pulsing, spurting, cumming, until nothing was left, and still I thrust, chasing my waning orgasm until, with a deep, deep groan, it passed, releasing my body from the strain. I was exhausted and completely sated. Nothing but liquid pleasure was left in me, perspiration coating my back. I'd never experienced such an intense orgasm.

When hearts slowed, when Callie started caressing my back, and her legs relaxed falling to the bed, I rolled off her to the side, now very drowsy.

Opening my eyes, Callie, her hair a wild mess, looked ravished and gorgeous.

"Holy Hannah," she said. "What happened?"

"You did," I told her. "Did I hurt you?" I asked, now worried by my roughness.

Callie rolled towards me, her hand rubbing my chest. "I'm a bit sore now. But that was incredible. I think I'm gonna have to be careful about teasing you."

Combing her dark burgundy hair with my fingers, trying to restore some semblance of order to it, I told her, "I've never done that before; been so selfish."

She smiled. "You should be selfish a lot more in the future."

Later that night, when we finally went to bed, I was still too drained to make love. Callie, now in her comfortable spot nested to my side, her head in the crook of my shoulder, her hand lightly toying with the sparse hair on my chest, spoke.

"I want to ask you something."

"So ask."

Following a brief pause, she asked, "Sex with you, not that I've experienced it with anyone else, is wonderful. I like it more than dancing. Is it wrong to like it so much? Does it make me cheap?"

"No. If it was casual sex with any passing stranger, it would be cheap. I think sex, any type of sex, is a celebration of a relationship. It's supposed to feel good."

Her pale blue eyes appeared washed out in the moonlight filtering in from the portholes when she looked at me. "I want to try everything with you, Hunter. I might not like everything, but I want to try. See if I do. Does that bother you?"

I had to grin. "I might not survive. On the other hand, education is so important. I'd hate to see you live in ignorance."

Callie kicked me softly, smiling. "We didn't get to take a shower together. Maybe tomorrow?"

Her expression changed becoming sneaky. Trailing her fingers down my stomach, following the thin line of body hair, she gently held my penis.

"Aw, it's all worn out. What happened to my virile hunk of grade A meat?"

Then she giggled softly when unbelievably, my body responded, soft penis stirring. Arousal, like a warm summer breeze, flowed in. Would I ever be able to resist her?

Chapter Nineteen

CALLIE YAWNED AND STRETCHED. Her body felt bruised and sore like she did after a long, hard dance workout. She smiled. She had danced, just a different dance - the dance of love with Hunter.

Turning her head, she saw the bed was empty. A momentary spike of fear passed when she saw him sipping coffee at the small table by the porthole. Why didn't he ever sleep in?

Her bladder called. A flush of warm embarrassment hit when she felt a damp spot underneath her. She'd leaked! Dashing to the bathroom with panties and Tee in hand, she told Hunter, "I'll have some coffee, too."

Teeth brushed, hair combed - order restored, and bladder relieved, she put a pad in her panties to avoid staining them. She was still leaking slightly. How much do guys cum? she wondered. It felt like tons! Then again, they'd had sex twice yesterday. How could anyone get work done when there was sex instead?

Hunter studied her when she emerged. "Everything okay?" he asked.

Another flush hit her, warmth in her face. She nodded. "We made a mess in the bed."

He shrugged and pushed a cup of coffee across the small table to her. She took it and sipped.

"What would you like to do today?" he asked.

"I need to practice dancing."

He nodded.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

He frowned in annoyance at her, then informed her, "Watch you dance. I told you, you don't go anywhere without me."

Callie smiled to herself. She knew what his answer would be, but liked bugging him, giving her his hairy eyeball look.

Twenty minutes later, she forgot about him, lost in dancing.

I SAT QUIETLY WATCHING Callie dance. After some warm-up exercises, she started a modern dance routine. It was obvious she was completely absorbed.

When she switched from modern dance into ballet, performing a series of pirouettes across the floor, her body was perfectly upright, legs straight, and neck long, her head held just so.

In her, I could see greatness, the special quality only rarely seen, like Muhammad Ali floating on his feet in the boxing ring, or Michael Jordan with his grace on the basketball court, or Wayne Gretzky on ice; a quality that raised them above all others, almost magical and mesmerizing. She reminded me of Mikhail Baryshnikov performing ballet on stage. She had that same ability; the appearance of pausing in mid-air as she leapt, defying gravity for just a moment, almost hovering, only to land with grace on one foot, never wavering, confident. She was born to dance.

I wondered what her future would hold? Would she realize her dreams? Could I keep the promise I'd made to keep her safe?

Squirming in the hard chair, I accepted I might not be able to. However, I knew I would die trying and that was okay. She was worth it.

We returned to our stateroom. Callie blithely pulled her white leotard down proving she hadn't worn a bra. She did have panties on; skimpy, plain white string bikini style that hugged her privates like I suddenly wanted to.

Seemingly oblivious to my admiring gaze, Callie stretched her arms up, arched her back, then, with legs together, bent at the waist. Facing away from me towards the bathroom, her forehead touched her knees.

My pulse rate jumped. Blood flowed south, an erection slowly forming. But, Jesus! Her ass gained a sexy heart-shape, partially covered by her panties. The sight that had me riveted was her pussy. Coddled by white cotton, with a darkened damp spot, it oozed out between her thighs, a camel toe forming as cotton pressed tightly. Framed by her thighs and buttocks, Callie's pubis looked ripe, plump, and good enough to eat. Erection now uncomfortably constrained by jeans, I shifted in the chair and tried to surreptitiously adjust myself.

Callie giggled.

Pulling my eyes from her pussy, I looked lower. From between her legs, upside down pale blue eyes sparkled with amusement at me, her arms wrapped around her legs.

"What's the matter, Lightfoot? You look uncomfortable."

With a bright laugh, she straightened and strolled into the bathroom, her gorgeous buttocks moving up and down in counterpoint; so goddamned sexy!

Standing suddenly, I shucked my jeans, tugged off my shirt without unbuttoning it, and, moving towards the bathroom, dropped my boxers and kicked them off along the way. My erection led. The sound of the shower started.

Callie, head tilted back under the water to wet her hair, was shaking in quiet laughter. She didn't resist when I grabbed her. On the contrary, she moved into me, one arm rising to hook around my neck, and one leg rising to hook around my thigh, her other hand reaching for my erection.

Her quiet laughter faded, leaving her smiling at me, obviously pleased at her success. She let go of my cock.

Reaching behind her, I held her sexy buttock, my erection now pressed against her soft stomach.

"I've never known anyone like you," I admitted. "You're one of a kind."

Her expression softened. "You make me this way," she said, rising onto tiptoes to brush her lips against mine.

"I don't like it."

Her eyes opened wider. "Don't like what?"

"That you can control me so easily."

With a quick laugh, she replied, "Get used to it. Suck it up, Lightfoot!" Then, with sweet, gentle blue eyes twinkling, she added, "You're mine, Hunter."

Before I could confirm or deny, her hand gently grasped my erection again and squeezed, sending a pulse of desire through me and emptying my brain.

She stepped away from me just as I started groping her ass and handed me a bar of soap. "You can wash me now," she instructed, reaching for the shampoo.

Intimacy has many different flavors. It can be furtive in the dark and full of excitement at discovery; a tactile experience. It can be fun and playful, with groping and grabbing melting into sensual caresses. It can be quick and explosive. But, with the exception of intercourse itself, it can't be more intimate than washing each other.

It's a sign of absolute trust and acceptance, not diminished by embarrassment or shyness, of giving. It's a sensual act beyond any other; your partner allowing you explore every nook and cranny.

With soap, Callie's body was ever more beautiful. Washing her back let me feel each bump of her spine and the sensual swell where her back met her buttocks. She let me caress her narrow hips and enjoy the slender curves below. Her shoulders were fine-boned and almost fragile under my large hands, her neck so small.

I washed her carefully, slowly, enjoying every minute. Avoiding any erogenous zone, I washed her legs, then knelt to wash her feet. So absorbed in the wonder of her body, my erection waned.

It returned with a vengeance when, easing up behind her, her sexy bottom pressing back against me, I reached around and washed her stomach, loving that intensely feminine curve below her navel. My cock became rigid, pressed down along her butt crack when I cupped her petite breasts. I took my time, caressing gently, then circled her areolae with fingertips before carefully pinching her hard nipples. Callie sighed and eased her bottom away from me. My cock sprang up and she pushed back, trapping me in the valley formed by her firm cheeks. Leaning back, her hands settled over mine, pressing my palms to her breasts. I nuzzled her neck.

She took the lead by guiding my hand down across her stomach and pressing it to her sexy pussy. It was small and erotic in my hand, perfect, her mons padded, lush. She squeezed my erection with her buttocks when I touched her clit.

Probing deeper, soft labia hugged my fingertip. I touched her entrance and withdrew, returning to her clit, gently stimulating her.

Callie reached up behind to hold my neck, her other hand still on mine at her crotch, pressing my palm against her pussy.

My erection ached with stiffness. Desire for her was flooding me with warmth, my heart beating faster.

Without a word, Callie let my neck go, reached behind her and, easing her butt away, found my cock. She guided it, the tip slipping sensually down between her buttocks. Bending away from me, she guided my erection, nestling it to her pussy. Moving it around, she eased the tip into her cleft, positioning me, and pressed back.

The sensation of penetrating her from behind was exquisite. At first tight and reluctant to yield, her pussy oozed over my crown to grip it, snug, erotic. My cock swelled making her feel even tighter.

Her hands settled on the shower wall for support. I gripped her slender hips. With slow, short strokes, I penetrated her deeper and deeper.

The sight was amazing; two gorgeous buttocks framing my partially buried, thick erection. I loved the sight, my cock throbbing. Water cascaded down on us, noisy and warm. Holding her hips, I stroked into her, watching as my erection slowly disappeared into her young body, her sexy butt cheeks finally pressed to my groin.

When my cock throbbed, feeling so damned hard and thick, Callie clenched her vagina. One of her hands reached down underneath to touch herself. I felt her fingers explore where we were tightly joined. Unable to wait, I withdrew, my shaft glistening, her vagina almost everting it gripped me so hard, and stroked back into her. It felt too good. Withdrawing, I thrust into her again, slowly, loving each exquisite inch. We started fucking, a slow, lazy, intensely enjoyable pace. Callie's arm moved. I could tell she was rubbing her clit, her fingertip brushing against my shaft every so often. Staring at the arousing sight of fucking her from behind, relishing the perfection of her ass and her snug, velvety vagina, my orgasm stirred awake. Tenseness emerged in my body, weight in my groin, cock swelling. I tried to wait for her but, once again, couldn't. I just couldn't. Sex with Callie seemed to rob me of control.

Thrusting into her faster, her buttocks shaking as they slapped lightly against my groin, my erection ached, swelled. Pressure built. Gripping her narrow hips firmly, with a deep groan of pleasure, I came, exploding inside her, semen erupting in a pulse of ecstasy. Callie let loose a cute grunt, "Ngh," announcing her climax, her body shaking. She thrust back at me hard and I exploded deep inside her again, a massive, endless pulse of semen, sweet bliss making my knees weak. With faster strokes, with Callie shoving her bottom back at me, with her pussy massaging my cock with each wave of her pleasure, I came hard, hard, cum spurting, pleasure wracking my body and draining me of strength. Release was exquisite, my erection pulsing hot cum into her, bliss flooding me. I passed the crest and rode my orgasm down into relaxation, into love and adoration, into weak knees, my body empty, sated.

Chapter Twenty

PRESIDENT RICHARDS LOOKED UP from the briefing paper he was studying and removed his reading glasses when Lucas Smith entered the Oval Office.

"We have an update," Lucas said, sitting in a chair in front of the desk and crossing his knee.

Richards leaned back. "You've got them?" he asked.

"No. But we know where they're headed. They were spotted in Genoa. We confirmed he bought two tickets to Rome in Nice. Lightfoot worked in Rome for three months, two and a half years ago. He has contacts there."

President Richards nodded, then asked, "How do you know they're not contacting someone in Genoa?"

"He's never been there. They had to change trains for the connection. Our guys are sure it's Rome. We have our people heading down there from Paris."

President Richards nodded again. "Make sure the CIA is on top of it. Let's not lose them again. We need this situation resolved, Lucas."

"Yes, Mr. President." Lucas Smith stood and left the Oval Office, closing the door quietly behind him.

President Richards set the briefing paper aside and turned in his chair to stare out through the bulletproof green-tinted window. He was worried. So much was riding on shutting down the Hollister girl; peace in the Middle East, not to mention his own legacy. One girl stood between him being lauded in history or jailed in disgrace, and yet, it didn't sit easy with him. She was an innocent.

Who was this Hunter Lightfoot?

Reaching for the phone, he buzzed his executive secretary. "Have Lucas send me the file on Lightfoot, please."

"Right away, Mr. President."

Chapter Twenty-one

ON THE THIRD DAY of our journey, the Canada Senator passed through the Strait of Gibraltar and into the Atlantic. The change was immediately noticeable. The ship, despite stabilizers, acquired a gentle roll, a distinct lateral sway that, combined with slow plunging and rising movements as the ship plowed through ocean swells, proved challenging for Callie.

She woke up suddenly and made a dash for the bathroom, the sound of vomiting filtering through the closed door. For the next four days Callie wore a track in the carpet from the bed to the bathroom, throwing up even when she had nothing in her stomach. She turned a subtle shade of green, and yelled at me, castigating me for my insensitivity when I laughed at her.

She was vocal and full of predictions: "Stop having so much fun at my expense, Lightfoot! It's not funny!" and "What idiot invented sea travel?" and "Oh, God! I'm gonna throw up again!" She informed me vociferously, "I'm NEVER riding in another boat! EVER!"

She offered her opinion on the Captain, insisting, "He can't even drive a ship smoothly. How did he become a Captain?" Her eyes turned icy blue when she saw me smile. "Don't you dare laugh, Lightfoot!"

However, after four days of agony, Callie found her sea legs and, once I assured her she'd never suffer sea sickness again, decided she liked sailing.

Halfway though our journey, at dinner, I smiled at Callie's bright laughter. Her beaming smile, eyes bright with delight, made her look so beautiful. With the crew singing happy birthday to her in a mishmash of accents, all off-tune, the cook, beaming broadly, placed a small white birthday cake in front of her, one full-sized candle flickering on top.

She ceremoniously blew out the candle when the song ended and immediately started serving, every crewmember in the dining room personally served by her. She charmed them. I could see it. The few that declined a slice were cajoled by her and they responded, grinning and accepting.

I listened to the conversations around us. Only Callie knew I could speak several languages. That fact I'd kept hidden from the crew. It made them relax and talk openly believing I didn't understand what they were saying. Three members continued to concern me. They were vulgar in the things they talked about doing to a girl like Callie. I kept a close eye on them.

"Here's your piece," Callie said, handing me a plate. She sat and tasted hers. "Not bad. Coconut vanilla. How did they know it's my birthday?"

I shrugged, even though it was my doing. I'd asked the chef if he could make her a cake. The word had obviously spread.

Three bites and Callie passed her plate to me. "You finish it."

I did, but only to avoid disappointing the chef. Callie had no sweet tooth. She rarely ate deserts. In fact, she didn't eat much of anything. Unlike me, she was a grazer. I was more a gorger - eat when the opportunity presented itself in case meals were missed later. Every morning at breakfast Callie gathered a variety of fruits and vegetable sticks from the dining room and, throughout the day, would nibble on them. It reinforced my perception that she was a little sparrow with hidden strength.

Eventually we left the dining room. The Atlantic was dousing the ship in rain from swollen gray clouds. Swells were big enough to test the limits of the stabilizers, salty spray hitting the deck as the ship muscled its way through the waves. Gusty wind buffeted the ship. A walk outside was out of the question; too dangerous.

In the stateroom, I brought out the backgammon board for entertainment. I'd taught her how to play over the last several days, trying to distract her from her sea sickness. She was hopeless at it but I let her win often enough to keep her interested and trying.

Halfway through the game, I went and dug through my duffel bag.

"For me?" she asked when I handed her a small box.

I nodded.

Smiling, she opened it. "Hunter, it's beautiful!" she exclaimed.

I'd bought the narrow, solid gold wrist band in Nice when running my errands.

She took it out and opened it, snapping it closed on her wrist. Holding her wrist up, she admired, touching the rectangular, baguette-cut sapphires that lined the upper half. They were a beautiful blue that suited her eyes.

Game forgotten, Callie came and settled in my lap, one arm around my neck, the other still held out to admire the band.

"I can't believe you did this," she said with a smile. "When did you buy it?"

"Before you yelled at me in Nice."

"How did you know it's my . . . Never mind. The file on me, right?"

I nodded.

Callie brushed her lips against my cheek and whispered, "I'll treasure it forever."

"We haven't finished the game," I pointed out.

"Who cares about the game?" she countered.

I did. "Let's make a bet on it."

"What bet?"

Smiling, I suggested, "Whoever wins gets to do anything in bed."

Callie's eyes opened wide. Then they narrowed, sneaky. "Anything?"

I nodded.

"Kay!" She jumped off my lap, sat in her chair, studied the board, and, after assessing her weak prospects for a win, announced, "We'll start over."

I smiled to myself. It was going to be easy to beat her and I had some lascivious ideas that had been rattling around in my brain, adventurous and new to her. Four days without her affections had been spent daydreaming of sex with her. Now it was time to realize some of them.

With the game in full swing, and Callie concentrating for a change, I dithered on my selfish plan. If she won, what would she want to do? I wondered how adventurous and creative her mind was. What turned her on? It would be interesting to find out.

She spoke suddenly, "Here's one for you. Brothers and sisters I have none, but this man's father is my father's son. Who is the man?"

"You trying to distract me?"

"Is it working?"

"Nope."

I lost the game.

Callie smiled with success, removing her last piece. "Ta-da! You lose. I win." Then, studying me, she accused, "You lost on purpose."

"I didn't. You won fair and square." Grinning slightly, I asked, "So, what do you want to do with me?"

Callie studied me suspiciously. Satisfied, she smiled. "I want you to dance with me."

"Dance?" I asked incredulously. It wasn't quite what I had in mind, that's for sure. "I told you, I don't dance."

Rising, Callie went to the radio and switched it on, finding something that sounded like elevator Muzak to me. "Come on, Lightfoot. It's easy. I'll lead."

She took my hand, moved close, her other hand on my back. "Just start moving with me."

I tried.

"Ouch! Take your shoes off," she ordered, my first step treading on her foot.

Surprising myself, I actually danced. It was easy with Callie, her cheek pressed to my chest. It felt good to hold her in my arms. I relaxed and inhaled the familiar scent of her; jasmine and plums.

Her hand left my back. I didn't notice until it settled over my groin. My body reacted, penis stirring. She fondled me gently as we danced, making me harder.

"I really like that I can arouse you," she murmured, her hand now caressing.

I had absolutely no control. None. She affected me like no one I'd ever met. Still dancing to Muzak, she fondled me into a full erection, uncomfortably constrained by jeans.

Callie stopped dancing. She put her arms around my neck and pressed her slender body against me, looking up, pale blue eyes smiling, and rubbed her lower body suggestively against the lump in my jeans. With a soft smile, she drew my face down and brushed her warm lips against mine, paused, and repeated the light touch. Her eyes closed. Her head tilted, her mouth settling over mine.

The kiss became sensual, tongue tips flirting. Then she moaned quietly. It thrilled me, as if kissing me was manna from Heaven. Her mouth opened, the kiss evolving into passion.

This time I didn't feel the driving urge, that disorienting arousal I'd had before. I felt something different, even more powerful; pulse-quickening adoration, the warmth of love. Callie was wrapping me in her love, anchoring herself to my heart, and I couldn't stop her - I couldn't stop myself, either.

So lost in her sensual kiss, I didn't even grope her ass. It didn't cross my mind until she ended the kiss, easing away from me.

She smiled. "Get undressed. I'll be right back."

"The man is me," I said as she hunted through a dresser drawer and I unbuttoned my shirt.

Her head turned. "What?"

"Brothers and sisters I have none, but this man's father is my father's son. Who is the man? I am that man's father."

Callie smiled. "Took you long enough. Be right back."

Sitting naked on the edge to the bed, my erection waned slightly. I was thankful. It was a bit weird sitting in the room, by myself, with a hard cock.

Callie emerged from the bathroom. She'd loosely brushed her hair and collected it in a hair band at the nape of her neck. She wore a simple pastel green, thin cotton nightshirt that ended at the top of her thighs. It draped over her small breasts, suggestive and sexy.

"Lie down," she instructed. When I stretched out on the bed, she stood at the side and studied me openly, unashamedly, from my face, down to my chest, then to my partial erection. "You've got a great body," she observed, kneeling on the bed.

Leaning over me, she smiled slightly and kissed me, a light brush of affection, her hand gently settling on my penis. She stroked me back to full hardness, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

"I love feeling you grow hard." Sitting back on her heels, she held my erection and studied it. "Is it weird that I think you have a beautiful erection?"

She released me and cupped my balls, my cock flexing. I caressed her bare thigh.

"I always thought I'd be embarrassed touching a guy's erection, but I'm not. I like touching you. I like exciting you." Her eyes returned to mine. "I like that I can arouse you, too." In a softer voice, she admitted, "Touching you makes me horny."

Before I could tell her how much that pleased me, Callie bent and slowly, very, very slowly, eased her lips over the tip of my cock. Her mouth opened wider and she took me in, my crown vanishing along with part of my shaft, her mouth warm and moist.

I pulsed in her mouth. Her hand tightened on my shaft in response. Then, in reverse, sucking slightly, she pulled off and looked at me.

"I've wondered what that would be like since I first touched you. I like it. Do you?"

I nodded, temporarily at a loss for words.

She bent down and, for the next couple of minutes, made love to my erection, her tongue caressing, mouth moving on and off, all at an excruciatingly slow pace. The wet sound of sucking drove me insane. I was hard enough to burst, shaft thick and tight and straining.

With a satisfied loud suck, Callie straightened, letting my erection slap onto my stomach. She straddled my thighs and I caught a peek. She was naked under her nightshirt, her young pubic bush so sexy. A flash of her clit and plump labia passed when her nightshirt covered her.

Bending, hovering over me with her hands supporting her at either side of my head, she smiled softly, eyes twinkling.

"I love you, Hunter Lightfoot," she whispered, kissing me.

My snort was involuntary, a sharp inhalation. Callie settled her naked pussy on top of my shaft and pressed. I actually felt her damp arousal.

Desire built. Wrapping my arms around her, she reached around and pried them loose.

"Not yet."

"What are you doing to me?" I asked, my pulse accelerating, cock throbbing.

Hovering over me, Callie smiled. "I'm making love to you." With a pelvic curl, she caressed my erection with her pussy.

My body shook with pent-up desire. "You're doing a very good job of it," I observed, reaching to tug her pastel green nightshirt up her body. "Maybe too good."

Callie smiled with pleasure, rose upright, and pulled the nightshirt off. Once again I was transfixed by her breasts, so perfectly formed, delightfully diminutive, firm and pert. Reaching up, I cupped both with my hands, each a wonderful palmful. Her eyes narrowed when I caressed them and squeezed gently, each so supple and sexy. I tweaked her nipples. She responded by caressing my shaft with her pussy. Glancing down, the sight drove my arousal up another notch. Callie's pussy pressed to my erection, her labia bulging where they cradled my shaft, her clitoris pressing. The head of my cock was red, inflamed, clear precum leaking. Her gorgeous, wavy dark pubes were glossy, a small bush reinforcing how young she was. I didn't care. It was so damned sexy.

Leaning over, Callie kissed me, her lips pressing. Pale blue eyes smiled at me. The kiss ended.

"Did I tell you how much I love kissing you?" she asked, humping my shaft.

I resisted the powerful surge of desire that almost took control. Instead, I caressed her bare back, edging my touch lower until I held her buttocks.

She kissed me again, lips active, warm, and silken, emitting a murmur that just about made me lose it, and then sucked my lip before ending the kiss.

"Delicious," she whispered, her hand reaching between her legs. She lifted off me and edged up, her hand finding my erection.

Staring into my eyes, she moved my erection, guiding the tip through her cleft, and pressed back, slowly, very slowly, positioning me.

"I like this part," she whispered, "feeling you stretch me."

She pressed against my rigid erection, her pussy resisting then yielding sensually.

"I love this part, when you're just inside me. It feels so good," she whispered.

Lowering her mouth to my ear, she pressed back further, my cock oozing into her, heat, moisture, a tight sheath slowly taking me deep, very deep, her buttocks settling on me.

"And I love this the best, Hunter. I love having you inside me, being full with you."

"Jesus, Callie," I groaned, my erection swelling dangerously. I'd never experienced anything like it. Her words intensified every sensation. She was bombarding me with love and sweetness and I didn't think I could take much more.

Moving her pelvis, Callie massaged my cock, a sexy, sensual, circular movement that stimulated my crown deep inside her.

In my ear, her breath warm against me, she whispered, "It's like dancing only better, sexier. We're together; one. Do you like dancing with me? Do I feel good?"

Fuuuck me!

Lifting her pussy off me, my shaft suddenly cool, she settled down again, taking me in fully, a slow, agonizingly slow motion. She did it again, my cock almost bursting, my heart thumping loudly in my chest.

Callie stared into my eyes and fucked me slowly, sensuously, pulling up until I almost breached, sinking down, her velvet pussy massaging me, tight yet slippery, so Goddamn arousing.

We watched each other, never losing eye contact, until I couldn't hold back any longer, her seduction too powerful.

"Ayasha," I whispered, cock swelling. A wave of pleasure hit me. I exploded, semen spurting deep inside her, bliss flooding me.

Watching me intently, Callie fucked me and I exploded again, hard, erection throbbing, cum spurting, soft and sensual ecstasy flooding my body. She rose and fell, riding my pulsing cock, each stroke bringing an aching, glorious spurt of semen. She fucked me languidly, never changing pace, her pussy milking me, and it felt like I filled her up I came so much, the pleasure intense, never-ending. Pulses finally slowed and faded leaving me drained, done, sated. She settled on me and stopped, her pale blue eyes locked on mine.

As my heart rate calmed, I drew her down and hugged her, love for her almost overwhelming me. I knew she hadn't climaxed. She'd done this for me, for my pleasure, selfless and giving.

"I felt you cum," she whispered. "Was it good?"

"I've never experienced anything like it," I admitted. I hadn't. Ever.

"Good," she murmured.

While Callie slept quietly, nested to my side and breathing softly, her arm comfortably across my chest, and her aroma of jasmine and plums wafting at me, I suffered real fear for the first time; deep, gut-churning fear. My brain couldn't grasp my world without her in it; without her with me. She was in mortal danger with the might of a powerful government threatening her. How could I live without her? Could I really protect her? Doubts assailed me.

Despite my grand plans and my best efforts, the element of danger was still so acute, especially for her. I wrestled with it. Was there another way? Was there a way I could guarantee she lived through this?

Sleep, the refuge of peace, defied me. With every action Callie was charming and seducing me. I'd passed the point of no return.

It attacked me in the middle of the night at my most vulnerable. The nightmare was intense and horrifying. I'd been out and left her safe in an apartment. Returning, opening the front door, I found the furniture in disarray; chairs overturned, cushions on the floor, dining table on its side. It looked like a tornado had visited. Then I saw a pool of blood on the floor. My heart palpitated. No, Ayasha! God no! Frantically searching the apartment, panic growing, I couldn't find her. She was gone, taken in a violent struggle. A sense of hopelessness and frustration took over. I wanted to scream! For some reason I was frozen in indecision. I couldn't formulate a plan. I didn't know what to do, where to look. I couldn't think. I was helpless and it terrified me to my core. I'd failed! I hadn't protected her! Callie was gone!!

"Wake up! Hunter! Wake up!"

The dark, moonlit stateroom swam into my vision. My heart was racing as if I'd run ten miles and I was sweating. Panic still coursed though me. Callie, propped up on one elbow, stared at me, worry in her washed-out blue eyes.

Jesus she was beautiful! Relief flooded me. She tugged me towards her and hugged me, wrapping me in her arms. I hugged her back tightly, very tightly. I couldn't get her close enough. Inhaling her scent, calm slowly returned.

"You were moaning and thrashing. Was it a nightmare?" Callie asked.

I nodded.

"What was it about?"

"Nothing."

"It helps to talk it out," she suggested.

I hadn't had a nightmare since I was a kid. It was not a pleasant experience.

"It was nothing, Callie. It's gone," I lied. It hadn't. It was very real in my head.

Chapter Twenty-two

Montreal was a real contrast. The outskirts, from the commercial port where we'd docked to the center city, was an industrial wasteland mixed with depressing, drab homes in characterless neighborhoods. The city center was charming and full of character, old buildings mixed with modern office blocks, broad avenues and quaint side streets, café, bistros, and restaurants giving the city a European feel.

We had time for a delectable lunch of Nova Scotia lobster before catching the Greyhound bus. Passage into Vermont was without incident, telling me our cover IDs were still holding up.

Callie, after the excitement of being off the ship and experiencing Montreal, fell asleep leaning against me. My churning brain didn't allow me to sleep. The nightmare haunted me as we traveled towards New York.

By nine-thirty we were settled in a nondescript hotel in the Bronx. We made love again, slow and sensual, unadventurous, tender. With soft caresses and loving kisses our arousal built. Now familiar with each other, I rolled on top of her and Callie reached down and guided me to her pussy, her thighs cradling me. I penetrated her gently, again experiencing the exquisite sensation of her snug pussy, warm, welcoming. We moved together, fucking slowly, kissing gently, sighs of pleasure drifting in the air. I loved her tightness, her fine-boned body, and the way she responded, so full of pleasure, her kisses so loving.

Gradually our urgency emerged, slow firm thrusts, erection swelling, Callie murmuring, undulating underneath me. Her arms tightened around me as she curled her pussy up taking me deep, curled back, then took me deep inside her body again. I whispered, "Ayasha." She sighed, "Hunter," in response and climaxed, her pussy gently clenching, and I came with her, erection swelling, semen pulsing into her, sweet bliss blossoming. With gentle motions, we fucked, cumming with each sensual stroke into her, semen pulsing, exquisite, beautiful, and too soon, we slowed, movement ceasing, my face buried in her neck inhaling her aroma.

I fell asleep in her arms, a dreamless sleep without nightmares.

By late afternoon we were in Virginia, close to my home. Washington beckoned not far away. It was there the endgame would be played out and Callie's future would be determined. Tension returned, body taut. I was alert and watchful.

"Where are we going?" Callie asked.

"Home," I told her.

"Is that smart? Won't they be watching your place?"

I nodded. "They will. But we're not going to my official home. We're going to another place, one registered under a friend's name."

"When we get there, you're going to explain your plan to me. Every detail."

When I didn't respond immediately, Callie grabbed my sleeve. Her eyes turned Arctic-ice hard. "Lightfoot, you're going to tell me everything, you get that? Everything."

CALLIE HAD NOTICED HOW Hunter had tensed up. Ever-present in her mind was waking up to him thrashing in his nightmare. He'd claimed it was nothing but she knew better. She'd heard him cry out in anguish, "No, Ayasha. God no!" and it had scared her.

She hadn't probed when he'd refused to talk. He'd been shaken and sweating, for the first time looking vulnerable, so she'd done the only thing she could think of - try to wrap him in her love, holding him tightly. She hadn't slept for the rest of the night, worried he might have another nightmare.

Making love with him last night had been very different. For the first time she'd felt his love, his arms holding her carefully, his actions tender, kisses soft, and his whisper, "Ayasha," had sent tremors through her. Climaxing together had felt wonderful; as if they were one body, souls joined. Hunter loved her. She had no doubt. None. Thank God. She couldn't imagine living with her love for him not being reciprocated.

Now, however, she could see his tension and it was different from the tension she'd seen in him before. His eyes were obsidian-dark and foreboding, narrowed, restless and ever watchful. He moved like a big cat, staying close to her, protective, his hand resting on her back. His mind was occupied.

He hadn't smiled once since the nightmare and his tension was contagious, rubbing off on her. She had to know the plan. She needed to know for her own peace of mind.

Callie climbed into the taxi he hailed and let the urban landscape pass, still deep in thought. Worries assailed her. Lost in the excitement of her new, intimate relationship with Hunter, she hadn't given any thought to the future. Now, with how she felt about him, she worried. What would happen? Would they stay together? What about school and dance classes in Paris? Would she ever see Paris again?

The taxi cruised down Eagles Nest Lane, deep green forests on either side. Hunter leaned forward and tapped the driver's shoulder, then pointed to the right. The taxi slowed and bumped down a rutted dirt drive, curving around. An old, very large cabin appeared, wooden sided and weather-distressed, small windows, a wrap-around veranda protected by an overhanging roof. Deciduous trees pressed in from all sides. To the right was a wooden shed, also large. Maybe a garage, she thought.

After the taxi left, Hunter, reaching into the overhanging roof, pulled out a set of keys and opened the wood front door, the inset glass panes dusty. He ushered her in.

It was rustic inside. Polished pine floors had the odd rug here and there. The roof soared up. Basic pine furniture with colorful cushions matched the cabinets in the open kitchen to the back, a country island counter separating the kitchen from the living area. To the right in the cabin, she could see a short hallway with three doors.

But, what caught her attention were the framed photographs on the walls. She left her overnight suitcase and meandered over.

To the sound of Hunter moving around, water turning on and off, cabinets opening and closing as if he was checking everything, she studied the pictures.

The photos were landscapes; vast open spaces with dusty-brown buttes in the distance, scrub brush covered land, huge clear sky above. One showed a small family home, rough and worn, with an older man and woman standing proudly in front. It was obviously Hunter's father and mother. She was arresting: long thick, straight raven hair, dark obsidian eyes, slender, high cheek bones, long calf-length skirt and beaded blouse. Hunter's father surprised her. He was not Cheyenne: light brown hair cut neat and short, a goatee, and taller than his wife. He wore used, faded jeans, a checked shirt, and stood with a familiar stance, languid and at ease, loose-limbed; the same stance Hunter had.

She studied other photos: Hunter as an eleven-year-old with two younger brothers. In it, she saw Hunter had inherited his mother's features, both brothers taking after his father.

In a progression of photos she saw the three of them growing up, his father aging, and, noticeably, his mother missing from the images.

Leaving the photos, she explored the hallway. The first door opened into a bedroom decorated with pine furniture; dresser, side tables, and bed. The next room was the bathroom. A white enamel claw-foot tub and shower with a clear shower curtain sat to the left, a toilet to the right, the enamel sink in-between. The third door opened revealing wooden steps leading down into a dark cellar. She closed the door.

All in all, the spacious cabin was rustic but comfortable.

"Are you thirsty? We have water," Hunter offered.

"No thanks." Callie wandered into the kitchen and opened cupboards, checked the fridge - it was warm.

"We have to shop this afternoon. I don't have anything," Hunter admitted.

"No kidding. Your fridge isn't even cold."

"Just turned it on."

She moved to the living area and settled onto the couch. "Where's your real home?"

"Near Washington. I have an apartment there."

Watching him, she said, "Come over and sit down. It's time you explained your plan."

He studied her intently and finally nodded. Sitting next to her, he said, "I'm going to blackmail the President."

Callie waited for the details. When he didn't speak, she frowned. "I know you're conversationally challenged, Lightfoot, but I'm going to blackmail the President isn't enough. In case you've forgotten, it's my life on the line, too. I deserve more."

He nodded. "Okay. While you're safe here I'm . . ."

"Stop right there!" Callie interrupted, suddenly angry. "You're NOT leaving me anywhere. You're NOT hiding me away. Where you go, I go. That's all there is to it."

"Callie . . ."

"Don't want to hear it!" she said, closing the discussion, glaring at him, angry he'd even consider leaving her behind.

Hunter shrugged. He continued.

"I sent three USB memory sticks to different people here, people I trust. I sent the microdot to a lawyer.

"The day after tomorrow . . ."

"Why not tomorrow," Callie interjected.

Hunter frowned with annoyance at her interruption. "The President isn't back in Washington until Thursday. Let me finish, Callie."

"Okay. Go ahead. Finish. All the details."

He sighed in frustration. "I'm going to offer the President, the Chief of Staff, the Secretary of State, and the Director of the FBI the microdot in exchange for a guarantee for your safety."

"Why would they accept it?"

"They won't."

"Then why . . ."

"Callie, shut up and let me finish. It'll be quicker," he said sharply.

"No need to get snarky about it! You're not much fun like this, Lightfoot."

Callie noticed the slightest tick at the corner of his mouth. Amusement. It made her smile to herself. "Go ahead. Continue. I won't interrupt."

"Yeah, right! As I was saying, I'll offer them the microdot and tell them you haven't seen what's on it. I have. When they refuse to believe me, I'll inform them I have two copies and . . ."

"I thought you have three copies." He gave her a hairy eyeball. "Sorry."

"I will give them the microdot to prove we have the information and offer up the memory sticks for a personal, written guarantee from the President for your safety.

"Tomorrow, we get the microdot and contact the Chief of Staff."

After pondering it, Callie asked, "Are you sure it'll work?"

He nodded.

"So it'll be over soon?"

He nodded. "By the weekend."

"Okay then. Let's go shopping for food."

I BREATHED A SIGH of relief. Callie hadn't picked up on any of the weaknesses in the plan, the lack of a backup option being an obvious one. And nothing ever goes according to plan. It worried me.

We shopped for basics at a local Whole Foods Market. Callie amused me by not arguing with my selections, just calmly removing them from the shopping cart and returning them to the shelves, adding color commentary: "That isn't healthy," "I don't like broccoli," "We don't need so much," "You'll like this better."

She distracted me from our troubles so successfully, I started adding ridiculous things; a bag of marshmallows, Nabisco chocolate chip cookies, and other unhealthy sweet items. It was fun to watch her frown and remove them. She must have caught my grin.

Stopping in the aisle, she glared at me. "Stop it! You're making fun of me."

With a smile, I nodded. "It's fun."

She smiled back at me. "You can be a royal pain in the butt, Lightfoot."

Loaded with fruits and vegetables, whole-wheat pasta, skinless boneless chicken breasts, cold-pressed extra virgin olive oil, garlic and onions, low fat milk, low fat yogurt, and ground coffee, we headed back.

That night, the toilet flushed and Callie entered the bedroom. I was in bed waiting, and admired her in her plain white, ribbed cotton camisole that emphasized her lovely breasts, and matching string bikini panties that hugged her pubis rather beautifully, her midriff bare, legs so svelte and long. She'd tied her hair back and braided it into a loose tail. Smiling at me, she slipped into bed, moving to my side.

"You should kiss me. You'll feel much better," she advised.

I did. And I did! I felt tension melt away with the heat of her lips. She did her murmur thing, kissing me, and I slipped into arousal and desire, fondling her panties, caressing her gorgeous bottom.

Callie searched and found my erection, her hand easing inside the waist of my boxers, her fingers wrapping around my shaft.

"I really like your erection," she whispered, squeezing it. "It's like it's alive."

"It definitely has a mind of its own," I commented, earning a soft giggle. Slipping my hand inside her panties, I cupped a bare buttock, caressed it, then teased her butt crack, tracing fingertips down. Deep between her thighs, I discovered silken moisture - Callie was horny. Soft, warm labia cradled my fingertip when I slipped it along her cleft to touch her clit.

Callie moaned quietly and curled her ass back seeking more stimulation. I didn't. Withdrawing my hand from her panties, I rolled her onto her back. Leaning over, I kissed her gently, teasing her lips, and slowly eased her panties down.

She rolled her hips to help, her eyes watching mine, her hand firmly gripping my shaft. When I moved away, surprise entered her eyes.

Bending, I pushed the hem of her camisole up and kissed her stomach, then eased my way down between her legs. She watched as I settled between her thighs, and shuddered slightly when I kissed her silken pubes, pressing my mouth to her supple mons. I caught her scent, exciting, clean, with a hint of sexy arousal. My erection surged.

Callie watched me intently until, when I slid my tongue along her cleft, she sighed and relaxed, her eyes closing.

I studied her pussy. It was perfection. Her long clitoral hood was cradled by sexy labia, full and plump with a thin coating of silky soft, wavy, dark pubic hairs. Below her clitoris her inner lips were small and thin. Pale pink glistened in her cleft, and at the base, above where her buttocks swelled against the bed, the entrance to her vagina, unbelievably small. How had she taken me before?

With a kiss of her small clit, I moved lower to explore the smooth inside of her cleft and taste her arousal. She was delicious, subtle, almost sweet yet musky; addictive. Probing, her entrance resisted my tongue, skin glassy smooth, warm, slippery.

Turning my attention back to her clitoris, first I teased it with my tongue, then closed my lips around it and sucked. Callie groaned. Her thighs twitched. With gentle caresses, soft licks, careful sucks, I slowly brought her arousal higher.

Her progress towards her climax was obvious. Her eyes closed tighter. Eyebrows knit in a frown. She cupped her breasts over her camisole and squeezed, her body trembling. Tonguing her clit faster, I eased my fingertip into her vagina. It gripped me, hot and slippery. Callie was very aroused.

Her nostrils flared when I penetrated her deeper. Turning my hand, I touched her G-spot and rubbed. Callie gasped. Her thighs touched the sides of my head and I felt small tremors in her muscles.

Easing off, I kissed her clit, withdrew my finger and stroked her slippery cleft. She calmed, her thighs relaxing. Then I started again, tonguing her clit, two fingers slipping into her easily, tight and warm. Gradually, with her G-spot being stimulated, sucking and teasing her clit faster, I brought her up, her thighs trembling.

A frown emerged on her face, her lips parting to pant. Her pelvis curled, pressing her pussy against my mouth then easing back. Callie started humping my mouth, her thighs trembling, body taut. A grimace formed on her face. Her hands curled into fists, gripping the bed sheet. She held her breath and suddenly fell into her climax, body shaking. She grunted quietly, "Ngh," her body heaving. Another cute grunt, "Ngh," and she suddenly started shaking, thighs snapping to trap my head. She grunted quietly, the sweet agony of an intense climax emerging on her face. Her pussy became wet and slippery as she humped my mouth. At the peak, her body arched and froze.

She reached down and pushed my head. "Enough! Dear God, enough!"

When I stopped, she still shook and shivered. Her hands covered her pussy as if in pain. Legs curling, she rolled onto her side.

Moving up, with a raging erection, I cuddled her from behind. It played through my mind. Callie, in an extreme climax, was beautiful. I loved her unrestrained pleasure, the cute grunts, and body shakes.

Minutes passed. She finally calmed, small tremors fading away. Her hands caressed my arms I'd wrapped around her.

In the quiet of the night, she said in a small voice, "I don't think I can handle ever doing that again. It felt like I was going to die."

"That's why it's called la petite mort, the little death."

Callie lifted her leg. My erection nestled to her pussy and she lowered her leg, trapping me and applying gentle pressure.

I was very aroused. But, when she moved her hips I stopped her with a hand. "Don't. Let me just enjoy it like this."

She whispered, "Kay," and hugged my arms.

With her gorgeous ass pressed to my groin, my erection sandwiched between her warm thighs and pressed along her pussy, I relaxed and found intimate comfort in the closeness.

Eventually, I fell asleep, comforted by a girl I was hopelessly enamored with.

Chapter Twenty-three

Opening the door to the large shed, I was pleased to find the Mercedes G55 SUV still here. Theft was easy given a simple padlock was the only security. I like the boxy shape of the G55. It looks serious and capable. It is.

Callie climbed up into the passenger seat. She was dressed casually; well-worn jeans and a lavender T-shirt, but wearing old-fashioned high-top basketball sneakers.

The day was starting warm. Skies were cerulean blue. Occasional clouds looked like cotton balls that God had haphazardly pulled at, forming individual, interesting shapes.

Two and a half hours of rush hour traffic tested my patience, but we finally entered Washington. When a car darted out in front of us on DuPont Circle, I slammed on the brakes, Callie emitting a scream as she flew forward against the seat belt.

The car passed, I resumed.

"Jeez Louise, Lightfoot! Learn to drive!"

It struck me that I'd never heard Callie use a real swear word. "Do you ever actually swear?" I asked.

Studying the traffic ahead, she answered, "Nope."

"Why not?" I asked, turning onto P Street NW.

"I was taught swearwords were crude. One time, I complained to Dad. Swearwords worked for other kids at school. He told me I didn't need them. Then, he showed me how to use an expression and my eyes to scold or show anger. Believe me, if I want someone to know I'm angry, they'll know."

I smiled to myself. There was no doubt she could use her pale blue eyes to lance into anyone. I'd been on the receiving end often enough.

Turning, I drove the Mercedes into underground parking, taking a ticket. After parking, I turned to Callie. "You'll wait right here. Don't even open the window."

A frown formed. "I . . ."

"Right here! I'll be ten minutes."

Put out, she crossed her arms and turned away from me. "I'll give you ten minutes. No more," she asserted.

Opening the door, I paused. "You're stranded in a deserted place. It's freezing outside. You discover an old cabin. In it, you find one match, a newspaper, a candle, and some hay and twigs. Which one do you light first? You've got ten minutes to figure it out."

Shutting and locking the door, I smiled to myself. Then my mind turned to Malcolm Edwards, the lawyer I'd sent the microdot to. I'd met him casually at an American embassy party in Jakarta. We'd chatted and that was that. He wasn't a friend. He wasn't close to me. There was no way anyone could link us.

Fifteen minutes later I unlocked the door and slid into the Mercedes. Callie's cold eyes glared at me. I shrugged. "Sorry. He talked a lot."

"Fifteen minutes!"

"Suck it up, Callie," I suggested, starting the SUV. "So, what's the answer?"

"It's obvious. The candle might blow out. Hay and twigs would take too long to catch fire. Therefore, you light the newspaper first. Easy."

"Nope."

"What do you mean nope?"

"Nope. You're wrong."

Turning back onto P Street and merging with traffic, Callie sat silent in thought. Eventually she assured me she was right.

"You're not."

Defiant, she demanded, "So what's the first thing you light?"

Holding back a grin, I told her, "The match."

She laughed. "Well, don't I feel stupid? Thanks a lot!"

The drive back was faster. Rush hour traffic still filled the roads heading into Washington. We sailed along until Callie suddenly pointed.

"Pull in over there," she said, indicating a Walgreens drug store.

"Why?"

"Jeez, Lightfoot. Just do it! I need some feminine stuff," she told me, exasperated.

Callie jumped out and disappeared into the store. I waited. Was it her period? No. It couldn't be. She'd had it when we sailed on the Canada Senator. Then what?

By the time she returned with a plastic shopping bag, I couldn't hold my curiosity any longer. "What did you buy?"

Cool blue eyes studied me. "Stop being such a control freak. It's none of your business."

By the time we arrived back at the cabin it was lunchtime. The weather was warm, sunny, and I was restless. There was that itch of inactivity that unsettles me; the wait before a storm you know is coming.

"Let's go for a walk," I suggested.

Callie bounced up. "Good idea! I could use the exercise."

We entered the forest behind the cabin. To the east, about half a mile away, luxury homes fronted the Potomac. However here, neighbors were far apart. The old-growth forest provided isolation and privacy.

Dead foliage crunched underfoot. The tall trees formed a green canopy over our heads. We walked in cooler, dappled shade, wending our way around large trunks with gnarled bark, birds chirping, the strong, pleasing scent of mulch.

For the first fifteen minutes we walked in silence, both lost in thought. I noticed Callie rubbing the locket around her neck and knew what she was thinking about.

Out of interest, and to distract her from sad thoughts, I asked, "Why Allah's Tears?"

"Mom was Lebanese. She believed in the Islamic faith. She used to tell me that jihadists and extremists were using religion as a cloak, to hide the truth - that they only wanted power. She was horrified by all the innocent people killed. She couldn't understand how anyone in the world could hurt innocent women and children in the name of religion."

After a short silence, Callie continued. "I saw her crying once. She was watching the TV. A suicide bomber had killed twenty-four people in the small town where she grew up. I told her she shouldn't cry. Mom said, "Don't worry, Callie. These are Allah's tears. He's weeping at the evil done in his name.""

Silence followed. I was moved and felt sadness settle over me. To change the subject, I asked her, "How did a Muslim woman end up married to an army general? It seems odd."

"Dad was stationed in Beirut. He met Mom there. I guess love doesn't recognize any social or religious barriers. They fell in love."

"Still, your father represented armed conflict. It sounds like that would be in direct opposition to what your mother believed."

Callie laughed. "Dad was a pacifist."

"And he joined the army?"

"Uh-huh. He used to tell me that there comes a time when the only solution is an armed response. I argued with him that there was never a time for force. He told me about the genocide in Ruanda, the indiscriminate slaughter of innocents in Somalia, Boko Haram killing men and women and kidnapping young girls. He had a long list of crimes against humanity and asked me, "Is it right for us to stand by and let the slaughter happen? If not us, who will stop it? If not an armed response, how would you stop it? With politics?" He was a pacifist at heart. He hated the invasion of Kuwait and Iraq, but he supported the war in Afghanistan. Iraq was based on lies. Afghanistan was different. The Taliban, you know. Anyway, Mom understood. Dad had this locket made for Mom and gave it to her when I was born."

Two hours later, we arrived back at the cabin. In easy comfort, the afternoon passed into evening. Silences were frequent; Callie pursuing old, out of date magazines and watching the ancient tube television, while I mulled over my plans for the endgame that would commence tomorrow.

When Callie came to bed, this time topless with her plain white panties on, she turned to her side, her back to me. I cuddled up, spooning her, draped my arm over her waist, and inhaled her scent deeply; jasmine and plums. It calmed me to have her with me. It felt so good to have her against me.

The silence was broken by Callie saying, "Put some effort into it, Lightfoot. This isn't the way to seduce me."

I smiled when she grabbed my arm and guided my hand to her lovely, pert breast. Having a bit of fun, I did nothing, just let it rest against her.

"At least show some enthusiasm," she complained.

Still smiling, I groped her sexy boob.

"Wait!" she exclaimed.

"What now?"

"Let's get undressed. I like feeling your naked body against me."

Rolling onto my back, I shucked my boxers. Callie wriggled under the covers. When I rolled towards her, spooning her once again, cool buttocks settled against my groin. Reaching around her, I held her petite breast.

"Okay. Start," she directed me.

I laughed. "How come I have to do all the work? Why don't you?"

She pressed my hand to her. "You're the guy. You're biologically programmed to do the pursuing."

"If memory serves, you did all the work after our backgammon game."

"That was different. I was making love to you. I just want some fun sex this time."

I laughed again.

"Make me horny enough and I have a surprise for you," she enticed.

Giving in, I caressed her breast, gently squeezing, then teasing by running my fingertip around her areola. She wiggled her ass against me when I tweaked her nipple. Brushing her thick, lustrous hair aside, I leaned over her and sucked on her earlobe, then kissed her neck.

When I started sucking her neck, she asked, "What are you doing?"

"Giving you a hicky."

"Hey! I've never had one! This'll be fun!" Callie said brightly.

Chuckling, I returned to my task, sucking her neck. I have no idea why, but it aroused me, my penis waking, thickening, lengthening. Callie felt it press against her thighs and reached down, lifting her leg. She positioned me along her pussy and lowered her leg, giving my erection a gentle squeeze. The squeeze turned into a slight stroke, her bum undulating.

With easy familiarity, I let her breast go and reached down to fondle her pussy, my tip sticking out. When precum leaked from a strong throb, I gathered it and spread it along her cleft, finding her clitoris and rubbing.

"Much, better," Callie murmured. "There's hope for you yet, Lightfoot." A couple of minutes later, after emitting an "Mmmm," she announced, "I think you've earned your surprise." She rolled away from me and left the bed.

"Where are you going?" I flipped onto my back and watched her, loving the sight of her slender, naked body and gorgeous ass. Her buttocks undulated suggestively as she left the bedroom.

"I'll just be a minute."

The wait seemed interminable; definitely more than a minute. Water ran. The toilet flushed. She returned with something hidden in her fist, smiling at me. I indulged and appreciated her amazing body. She was perfect, absolutely perfect! Slim-hipped with a sexy gentle flare at her ass, breasts that, despite being on the small side, were perfectly formed, firm and upright, with dark areolae and small nipples. She moved with such grace, so light on her feet, her pussy moving suggestively, her young pubic bush so sexy.

Sliding into bed, she turned her back to me. "Where were we?" she asked, fishing for my erection when I spooned her.

With my cock safely cradled by her crotch and thighs, I asked, "So what's the surprise?" I reached for her breast and caressed again, tracing the slopes, testing the suppleness; enjoying myself.

"Remember when I told you I wanted to try everything with you? Well I bought this."

She showed me a small bottle over her shoulder. Personal lubrication! So that's what she'd bought at the pharmacy!

"I'd like to feel what anal sex is like. Would you like to try? Do you like anal sex?"

My erection pulsed. As it happens, I very much enjoy anal sex for the variety. "Are you sure?"

"I think so. We'll stop if I don't like it. How do we start?"

Still a bit stunned by her forwardness, although I shouldn't have been by now, I asked again, "Are you sure?"

With a light laugh, she replied, "I suggested it, Lightfoot." She wiggled her sexy buttocks against my groin. "So?"

"Give me the bottle. Turn onto your front. Don't move."

Callie laughed, catching the smile in my voice. She rolled onto her front, passing the small bottle behind her. I took it and tugged the covers down. Her arms crossed under the pillow.

Jesus she had a great ass! Sexy buttocks swept up from the dip at the base of her spine and swelled out in a sensual sweep, horizontal creases where they met her thighs giving them extraordinary shape. Her butt crack disappeared down between her legs.

Straddling her closed legs, my erection jutting up, I admired the diamond-shaped gap at the confluence of her buttocks and legs, her pussy nestled deep. It was so damned sexy!

Leaning over her, I massaged her shoulders, the tip of my erection finding the sexy diamond gap. Callie murmured her pleasure, giving me a little wiggle of her butt.

I kissed her shoulder, drew her hair aside, and kissed her neck. A small smile played across her lips, her eyes closed. Massaging her gently, I worked my way down her back to her buttocks, slowly sitting upright. For a couple of minutes I caressed her cheeks, her buttocks parting and closing, her tightly closed anus winking at me.

When I dribbled lubricating gel into her crack, she shivered. "That's cold."

Anal sex isn't as simple as a bit of lube and shove it in, especially the first time for a girl. To be enjoyed, you need to be relaxed and have time to adjust to new sensations. I started by caressing her anus, then slowly probing in to the first knuckle. She clenched her buttocks at the intrusion. With a fingertip inside, I used my other hand to stroke her cleft, finding her clit. Callie relaxed and my finger slipped deeper. Rubbing her clitoris, I fucked her slowly with my finger. She clenched her buttocks again when a second finger was added, stretching her. It took time. Eventually, she started moving with my fingers. When she murmured, "Mmmm," I knew she was ready.

My erection jutted up, the tip glistening from precum, throbbing. Excitement ran through me making my heart beat faster. Applying more lube to her butt crack and spreading some on my cock, I pressed my shaft down.

The tip nestled to her crack, her buttocks soft and sexy. Pressing, the tip oozed between her cheeks, the sight so arousing. With care, I pressed against her ass. Nothing. I pressed slightly harder and slowly, ever so slowly, her bum dilated, a tight ring squeezing along my crown. With an almost popping sensation, I penetrated her.

Callie gasped. Her butt clenched, almost painful, her buttocks indenting.

"Okay so far?" I asked.

"Give me a minute."

I loved the sight. With my helmet gripped tightly and her sexy cheeks pressed to my shaft, the view of my thick erection penetrating her aroused me unbelievably, cock throbbing.

Leaning over her, I slowly settled on her. She felt so slender and young underneath me. I kissed her cheek. She murmured and smiled softly, and reacted by pushing her ass up, a signal she wanted to try more.

With infinitely slow movements, I pressed and eased off, and slowly my erection penetrated her bottom deeper and deeper until her sexy buttocks rested fully against my body. Then I stopped.

God it felt good.

"How does it feel?" I asked, nuzzling her neck, drawing her scent deep into my lungs.

"You feel much bigger this way." She shifted her butt slightly. "I like it."

"Lift your hips." Reaching down and under her, I cupped her pussy, found her cleft, and rubbed her clit.

Callie emitted another, "Mmmm," and moved her ass.

It seemed effortless. One minute we were still, the next I was stroking into her, a buttery warm sheath, her anus a tight ring. We glided easily. I rocked myself on her buttocks, erection withdrawing, stroking in, and nuzzled her neck. For several minutes I drowned in the erotic delight of fucking her butt, Callie responding with sexy undulations. All too soon, desire gained the upper hand, urgency, a driving need; caused in no small measure by Callie groaning with pleasure.

Movement increased, strokes becoming longer, almost all the way out and plunging into her, our bodies slapping.

Lifting my body, I glanced between us and groaned at the sight of my thick cock plunging between her sweet buttocks.

Still rubbing her clit, Callie gasped, "Oh God!" and started shaking, the sign of her climax arriving. I fucked her ass harder, bouncing off her sweet buttocks, thrusting and straining. When she grunted her cute, "Ngh," her body writhing underneath me, I let my full weight down on her, fucked her hard, and, after an agonizing pause, my body taut, I came.

Like an explosion, bliss swamped me, cock swelling, hot semen jetting out into her bum. Before I could catch my breath, another painful eruption slammed into me, cum spurting. "Jesus!" I gasped and came again. The fury of my orgasm took control. Fucking her beautiful ass hard, I came and came, erection pulsing, flooding her bowels. My orgasm raged to a painful peak and released me suddenly, the maelstrom passing.

We stilled.

Lethargy took over. My heart slowed. Peaceful relief flooded me. I felt sleepy, drained of energy.

Eventually, I rolled off Callie.

She opened her eyes and grinned at me. "I think we should practice this some more. What else haven't we tried yet?"

I chuckled and pulled her to me. Naked, pressed together, we fell asleep.

Thursday morning we headed into town. I needed a disposable cell phone and found it at the Walgreens pharmacy she'd shopped at yesterday. Callie was bright and fidgety the whole time. We ate a late breakfast at a health food café, chatted, and made plans for a hike along the Potomac after I'd placed my first phone call to set the endgame in motion. It was the calm before the storm, a last chance to enjoy ourselves. Callie seemed eager, shifting restlessly in her chair.

But, when she fidgeted once too many times in the car on our way back to the cabin, I asked, "What's wrong? Worried?"

"No. I'm sore thanks to your big . . ."

At her sudden silence, I glanced across at her and started laughing hard. "You're blushing!" This was a first.

"Stop laughing! You're making fun of me!" she yelled.

Seeing her icy blue glare and flushed cheeks, I laughed harder, tears starting.

"Stop it, Lightfoot!!"

Wiping my eyes, I suggested, "Why don't you finish that sentence?"

Callie crossed her arms and, still blushing hard, turned her face away from me. "I'm not talking to you."

Teasing her, I asked, "My big what?"

"Shut up, Lightfoot! I'm not talking to you!"

Too distracted, I only glimpsed the flash of white hurtling out from a side road. A white Ford Transit van slammed into the side of our car. It hit with such force the Mercedes was shoved sideways across the road. Callie screamed. Glass shattered, showering us in small shards. Airbags exploded violently. The Mercedes wheels hit the berm on the other side of the road and tilted precariously, my head slamming viciously against the doorframe. I lost consciousness as the Mercedes dropped back onto all four wheels.

Awareness returned to the sound of Callie screaming, "Hunter!", a door slamming shut, and a squeal of tires. I opened my eyes just in time to see the Ford Transit racing around a bend in the road. No license plate.

Callie!!

Panic hit me. Shoving the deflated airbag aside, I tried to start the Mercedes. Three endless, exasperating tries later, my heart now racing, fear making me cold, it fired up. Wrenching the steering wheel, I slammed down on the accelerator and, with a screech of rubber, took off after them, my mind furiously assessing my options. How did they find us? Why wasn't I more cautious? Why had I relaxed? FUCK Hunter! What have you done?

All my carefully crafted plans had gone to rat shit in a blink of an eye!

Chapter Twenty-four

CALLIE SHIFTED ON THE hard wooden chair. Her shoulders ached. She tried to ease the ache but couldn't; the plastic cuffs were too tightly closed around her wrists behind her and biting into her skin. Fear made her shake. She felt like crying but wouldn't give the two men in front of her the satisfaction.

The plastic cuffs around her ankles were cutting off her circulation, her feet tingling with numbness.

Defiantly, she stared back at the two men; one wide and bulging with muscles, the other slimmer and taller, both with frighteningly flat eyes.

"Where are the documents your father gave you?" the bodybuilder asked again.

"I don't KNOW! Are you slow or something?" Callie answered forcefully, still shaking with fear. She WOULDN'T let them intimidate her! She smiled instead.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"I've never seen two dead men walking. Lightfoot's going to kill you both when he finds us."

The bruiser moved closer. "I'll ask one more time. Where are the papers your father had?"

Using every ounce of strength from years of dancing, Callie kicked both feet up into his balls. His eyes bulged before he bent and slowly collapsed onto his knees.

The thinner man stepped up and, before she could turn away, slapped her face with his open hand so hard she saw stars, her cheek erupting in fire. She tumbled off the chair, hitting her head hard on the concrete floor. A wave of dizziness washed over her. Unable to stop herself, she started crying. The bitter iron taste of blood in her mouth almost made her gag.

Rough hands hauled her up and shoved her back in the chair. Tears falling, she watched the big guy slowly stand. Now his eyes were beady, dead, and mean.

"Where are the documents?" he demanded, sounding vicious.

When he raised his hand, Callie shied away, her face still hurting. It was too much. She didn't have the strength. Please don't hate me, Hunter.

"Lightfoot has it. It's contained in a microdot."

The big, thick-necked guy lowered his hand. "How many copies?"

"Two," she claimed. "On memory keys."

When he raised his hand, she yelled, "Two! That's all!"

The thinner man stepped away, pulling a cell phone from his pocket.

IN THE WHITE HOUSE, Lucas Smith answered his direct line. He listened for a minute and frowned. "That's not good enough, Paulins. Hold her. Lightfoot will be calling me. We'll figure out what to do then."

Lucas hung up. He shifted in his chair, acid reflux returning with a vengeance. Shit! How could one man give them so much trouble?

Maybe he shouldn't have taken the initiative without consulting the others. But an aggressive, proactive stance was what was needed to resolve the situation. He had no idea why, out of the blue, Callie Hollister had used her credit card in a Walgreens pharmacy, and didn't care. It had created a short window of opportunity and he'd taken it, decisively.

This whole situation started with the President's overinflated ego; wanting to change history, be the greatest American President. It was compounded by James Kington's ineptitude at the CIA. How could America spend so much on that agency and accept such incompetence? Perhaps it was time for a change in Director.

But, worst of all was the Secretary of State. How in the name of sanity could he have let those documents fall into General Hollister's hands? Fuck!

And here he was cleaning up the mess . . . again.

The intercom sounded. A tinny voice announced, "Mr. Smith, there's a Mr. Lightfoot on line three. He says you'll take his call."

"I will, Judy. Thank you."

Inhaling a few times to calm down, he picked up the receiver. "Lightfoot. I thought you might be in touch."

"You have someone I want."

Wary of security, Lucas cut in. "Not on the phone. We'll meet."

"West Mall. Six-thirty. The Washington Monument. And Lucas, bring proof she's alive."

The phone went dead. Lightfoot had sounded like he was growling, his voice deep and threatening. No matter. I'm better at this than he is, Lucas thought.

Picking up the phone, he dialed. When it was answered, he instructed, "Take a photo of the girl and send it to me," and hung up.

At six, Lucas left his desk. He informed his secretary he was going to stretch his legs. He'd be back within the hour.

Lucas took his time. The evening was warm. Walking down 15th Street NW, he crossed Constitution Avenue and wended his way towards the monument. He saw Lightfoot from a distance and checked his watch: six-twenty, early.

Taking his time, he studied Lightfoot as he approached. Lightfoot stood absolutely still, no fidgeting. Dressed casually in jeans, a white shirt and sneakers, he could easily be taken for a tourist if it wasn't for his face.

Even from a distance, Lucas could see the hard set to his expression. Lucas' confidence faltered slightly when intense obsidian eyes looked directly at him, before returning to scan the area. Lightfoot's eyes were dangerous. Photos of Lightfoot in the file hadn't prepared Lucas for the reality of him.

Girding himself, he approached. "Lightfoot."

"I want the girl back."

"I want the microdot and the two USB memory sticks," Lucas countered.

He nodded, his eyes intense. "Where's the proof she's alive?"

"I'm having a photo taken. I'll send it to you."

"Here's how it's going to go down. Ten-forty-five tonight you'll have Callie Hollister waiting at Mt. Olivet Cemetery. I'll exchange the documents for her. I'll check the area first, so don't try to play above your ability. Here's the email address to send her photo to."

Before Lucas could respond, Lightfoot took his wrist and turned it, his grip surprisingly strong, and placed a piece of paper in it. He turned and walked off, moving with an ominous cat-like grace.

The file and photos, Lucas decided, didn't come anywhere close to doing him justice. This was a dangerous man, made more so by his stillness.

Chapter Twenty-five

I SAT AT THE Internet café waiting. Anger coursed though me; anger at myself for letting them grab Callie. It mixed with a fear I'd never experienced, almost but not quite paralyzing me. I hated it. Fear clouded my clarity. It could make me hesitate at a critical moment, and Callie's life was at risk.

I'd failed. Grand plans had been overly optimistic. I'd been naïve. I'd let myself relax and actually enjoy myself. I'd been unprofessional in the extreme and Callie was paying the price for my mistake. Fuck! What an idiot!

I replayed the conversation with Lucas Smith. Something he'd said bothered me. It took a while before I got it. He'd asked for the microdot and two memory sticks. Two!

Pride rushed through me. Trust Callie, the hardheaded, opinionated, stubborn girl that she was, to lie convincingly! Maybe there was hope. I had three.

An email icon flashed, drawing my attention to the monitor. I clicked on the email and opened the attachment.

Everything changed. Everything!

Sounds around me faded to be replaced by roaring in my ears. Hot rage, like acidic lava, boiled up inside me, choking me.

Callie, hands bound behind her back, looked stricken, her pale blue eyes awash in fear. Her hair was disheveled. But, what made me want to throw the monitor across the room, was the split lip, the bloody contusion on her right temple, and the ugly purple bruise on her left cheek. She'd been beaten!!

Fuck! FUUUUCK!

This changed everything. Someone was going to pay!

An icy calm descended. Someone was going to pay with their life for harming her. Tonight.

Deleting the photo from the temporary email account - it was burned into my memory forever - I left the café, returned to the damaged Mercedes, and checked my supplies. After losing Callie earlier today, I'd returned to the cabin. In the basement, I'd opened a gun safe and made my selections. One of those selections was going to see some action tonight, even if it was overkill.

Unwrapping it, I checked it over. The Accuracy International L115A3 AWM sniper rifle is British made and considered by many to be one of the finest in the world. This one, chambered for the .338 Lapua Magnum round, gave it a range of over fifteen hundred yards, and when it hit, it destroyed with brutal force. Combined with the night optic sight, it was one of the deadliest guns in the world.

I hadn't lied to Callie when I told her I was useless with a pistol. I was. But sniper rifles require completely different skills; utter calm, keen eyesight, an understanding of atmospheric conditions, and knowledge of trajectories, distances, terrain. I grew up with rifles shooting rabbits and snakes. I was very, very good with a rifle and Lucas Smith was going to find out tonight.

At nine-thirty I was in position, ready. Through the scope, I could observe the parking lot and the cemetery. I waited. I couldn't shake the picture of her. It haunted me and blamed me mercilessly. I'd brought it down on her and I couldn't forgive myself.

Time passed slowly and painfully. Darkness fell. At ten-thirty, headlights appeared. I tracked the black Suburban. It parked, engine running. Headlights winked off.

Through the scope I saw two occupants in the front seats, neither of them Lucas Smith.

The passenger door opened. A heavily muscled man stepped out and opened the back door. Reaching in, he manhandled Callie out. She stumbled, falling to one knee and he hauled her up carelessly by the arm. I noticed plastic cuffs binding her wrists, her hair in disarray. Fury threatened to overwhelm me. Breathing deeply, I found calm, icy calm.

Moving my aim, I checked the driver, then swung back to the muscle. Less than two inches movement from this distance. One second.

Concentrating - there was no room for error - my heart rate slowed. Hands stilled. Body relaxed. Rifle butt snug to my shoulder, I aimed at the driver, stopped breathing, and gently squeezed the trigger.

The shot was loud, echoing across the cemetery, the rifle butt shoving back at me. The Suburban's windscreen cracked like a spider web around a hole. Without breathing, before the second man could react, in under a second, a second shot exploded. Through the optic scope I watched the muscled man's head explode like a ripe watermelon, the kinetic force of the .338 Lapua Magnum physically tossing his body backwards.

I didn't check the driver. I knew he was dead. Scrambling up, I ran towards the Suburban carrying the rifle and fishing in my pocket for a Swiss army knife. Callie stood stock still. As I neared, I saw her face, as white as a sheet, her eyes vacant in shock. She didn't register my presence until I grabbed her ice cold hand, cut the plastic cuff, and forced her to run. She stumbled after me.

Two minutes later I tossed the rifle into the back seat of the Mercedes and physically lifted Callie into the front passenger seat, attaching the seatbelt around her. She stared at nothing; no expression, no recognition. Hunting through the glove compartment, I found an old chocolate bar, Snickers, tore the wrapper open and put it in her cold hand.

"Eat this," I demanded a bit harshly from concern, closing her door. A minute later, we were off.

It was late. The roads were clear. We made good time. Callie nibbled at the chocolate bar like a robot and I began to worry she was in more than shock. I might have traumatized her with my anger driven action.

Suddenly, she groaned, "Pull over."

As soon as the Mercedes came to a halt, Callie stumbled out and, bending, threw up. I jumped out and ran around, held her around her waist and rubbed her back while she heaved, nothing coming out, her body convulsing.

Half an hour later we were back at the cabin. Callie sat at one end of the couch, her legs bent, sneakers on the cushion, and hugged herself, making herself small. In the kitchen fridge I pulled out orange juice and poured a glass, taking it to her.

Settling next to her, I handed her the juice.

"Drink this, Ayasha," I said softly, placing the glass in her hand. With an arm around her stiff shoulders, I pulled her against me.

Her face lost its pale white color with half the glass finished. The relief I felt was huge. Taking small sips, sometimes with my encouraging nudge of the glass to remind her, she finished it.

Eventually, Callie turned to look at me, her eyes damp.

In a small voice, she spoke. "They hurt me, Hunter."

"I know. I'm sorry." What more could I say? The bruise on her cheek infuriated me. Coagulated blood on the contusion at her temple accused me. Her cut lip yelled condemnation at me. I felt like shit and had no outlet to release the anger that still burned bright.

In a stronger voice, she repeated, "They hurt me." Then cold fire hardened her blue eyes and she let out, "Those bastards hurt me!"

I almost smiled with relief. Callie was fighting through and it was the first time I'd heard her swear.

"They'll never hurt you again. I promise."

Her body relaxed and melted against me. "You killed them, didn't you? I knew you would come for me. I told them you would kill them but they didn't believe me."

Comfortable silence ensued. Yet, every time I saw the raw red welts on her wrist and the dark purple bruise on her cheek, rage burned like a blowtorch inside.

Standing suddenly, I went to the kitchen, put ice in a plastic bag, wrapped it in a kitchen towel and, returning, sat next to her and pressed it to her cheek. She let me hold it there, leaning against me. My other hand tried to comb through her disheveled hair with no success. Meanwhile, my rage refused to subside.

An hour passed.

Finally she spoke. "I need to shower." Standing, holding my hand, she tugged. "Come take a shower with me. I don't want to be alone."

As I washed her, she stood still letting me do the work. Did she know I needed to touch her? Did she understand that it was calming my rage? I wasn't aroused in the slightest. It was pure comfort, nothing more. With her clean, I washed myself after Callie stepped out to dry herself.

I found her in bed. She was naked under the covers and, face to face we hugged. Kisses were gentle, tender; I was afraid of hurting her split lip. The kisses were loving, not sexual. Callie hooked her leg over my thigh and pressed against me.

She complained, "You're not close enough," even though there was no space between us. "I need you closer." Then she whispered, "I want to feel you inside me."

I wasn't even erect, wasn't horny. But somehow, when she reached down and started fondling me, she brought me erect, slow strokes, her thumb teasing the tip, and sighed when I strained in her hand.

Despite being erect I still wasn't horny, but went with her, letting her draw me on top, her thighs rising to cradle my hips, her hand guiding my erection, rubbing the tip against her cleft, then, with a side to side movement, nestling me to her entrance.

Satisfied, she hugged me tightly and pressed herself against my erection. I added small pushes, my hands slipping behind her to hold her shoulders. Gradually her pussy yielded and encompassed my crown in a snug, warm grip. We moved together, no rush, no urgency, until I was buried inside her, my cock pulsing slowly.

"Much better," she murmured.

We made love slowly, short, languid strokes, no rush. We fucked gently, calmly, my groin rubbing against her clit. Callie's breath was warm against my cheek. Her eyes were closed, her face relaxed. I felt her climax stir; her breath deepening, a murmur, "Mmmm," her hips moving rhythmically underneath me. When she came, it was almost silent, a quiet gasp, a whisper, "Hunter," and gentle pulses in her pussy. She took me over the top and I came, semen spurting with a flush of loving pleasure. I came softly, cock throbbing, cum pulsing, her pussy clenching gently, encouraging me. The peak arrived and passed. Our bodies stilled, filled with sweet relief. Neither of us was breathing hard.

Four hours later, I was still awake. Callie slept peacefully nested to my side. My mind was too active for sleep so I planned. It became clear what needed to be done; what had to happen to ensure her safety, and that's all that mattered to me.

When my mind inadvertently returned to the image of her beaten up and cuffed, and I pictured what might have happened - her shot in the head and sprawled lifelessly on the ground - I tumbled out of bed, raced to the bathroom, and threw up, stomach heaving.

Cleaned up, back in bed, I understood. Callie had changed me. She'd woken up something inside me I wasn't aware was missing; caring for someone more than myself.

Chapter Twenty-six

Callie was still sound asleep, gone to the world, when I rose at five-thirty.

In the kitchen, with a mug of freshly brewed coffee, I got to work. Phone calls to acquaintances led me to Paula Tasker, only twenty-five, yet her reputation was already widely respected. I told her what I was looking for. We bargained over the fee. She accepted. Calls to acquaintances in Switzerland solved another part of my plan.

And, at six-thirty in the morning, Friday, I called the White House.

Lucas Smith answered the phone.

"The terms have changed and are non-negotiable," I informed him without introducing myself.

He recognized my voice. "To what?"

"This morning, before noon, you will have five million dollars wired into Callie Hollister's account in the Cayman Islands. The account number 231-22578-2287-35. Transit number 0452. Upon confirmation of the deposit, a FedEx package will be delivered to you containing the microdot and one memory stick so you can see the extent of the threat I'm going to hold over you, the President, the Director of the CIA, and the Secretary of State.

"A copy of the documents will be held by a third party. That person will check in with Callie every six months. If once, just once, she doesn't respond, the contents will be emailed to all major news outlets. You'd better pray she doesn't get run over by a car, because the documents will still be released.

"Callie has never seen the contents. She won't either. My eyes and her father's are the only ones that have seen the documents."

"We don't have five mill . . ." Lucas started saying.

"Shut up," I interrupted. "I said non-negotiable. It's your decision. Money is wired or documents released. The Panama Papers will look mundane next to these documents. Your administration will fall. You'll all be indicted. You'll cause a war to erupt in two parts of the globe. Five million is chump change."

"You won't get away with this, Lightfoot," Lucas assured me. "You've killed three men now. You're a murderer. The Hollister girl may be safe, but now you've got a target on your back and a shortened lifespan. I'm going to make it a priority. Enjoy your last few days alive."

"By noon," I reminded him curtly and cut the connection.

Checking, Callie was still sound asleep. I wanted to take a run to burn off restless energy but couldn't risk her waking up alone. Instead, I emptied the Mercedes of all arms and cleaned them, storing them back in the basement gun safe, my mind mulling over Lucas Smith's comments. I had no doubt he could carry a grudge and that created problems. I wrestled with it and, despite every bone in my body, I knew what I was about to do, what I'd understood last night that I had to do, was the right thing, no matter how hard.

"Where are you?" echoed down to me.

"Be right up."

She was standing at the window looking out. Back in her faded slim jeans, a v-neck light blue sweater with nothing underneath, sleeves pulled up, her hair tied back into a bushy tail, and barefoot, she again reminded me of the painting in the Louvre. Turning, she smiled at me.

"Feeling better?" I asked.

She nodded.

I braced myself. Now came the hardest thing I had ever done, the part I'd been dreading. I had no choice. Callie's safety came above everything. "We have to talk," I said, and plunged into the explanation.

Callie's face fell as I talked. She hugged her body. When I fell silent, she looked stricken, appalled, her blue eyes full of anguish. They suddenly glistened with unshed tears.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "No. Please, Hunter. Please don't do this to me," she pleaded.

"I have a target on my back. They'll never stop. It's too dangerous for you to be with me."

Her moist eyes dropped twenty degrees, now icy. She stood taller, determination emerging. God she was spectacular.

Her hand came up. A finger jabbed towards me, threatening. "NO! You DON'T get to run away from me, Lightfoot! I won't accept it! I won't allow it!"

Trying to make her see reason, I explained again. "You're not safe with me. It's better for you to get on with your life, live long, be happy. I have a great lady, Paula Tasker, who will live with you in Paris. It's only for two years, Callie. You'll be eighteen, free to pursue a dancing career. There's no future with me. It's the only way," I reasoned.

"NO!" she yelled. "Fix it, Hunter! You can fix it! You HAVE to fix it! I know you can fix it!" she babbled, her tone full of growing desperation.

I shook my head and answered her quietly. "I don't know how, Ayasha."

Her face fell. Tears tumbled. "I can't do it," she whispered. "I'd rather have you. I can't face a lifetime without you. Don't do this to me, Hunter. Please. Don't do this to me."

"Ayasha, you can't sacrifice everything, even your dancing. You were born to dance."

My chest went tight, so tight breathing was hard. Callie broke my heart, silently crying, her eyes full of agony, tears tumbling. I felt my resolve waver and tried to steel myself.

"Please, Hunter," she whispered, pleading. "I love you!"

I couldn't take Callie's agony. I hated the pain I was causing her and hated how I felt; as if I'd betrayed her.

I was angry, too. Why couldn't I fix it? Why couldn't I see a solution? Why?

Frustrated, I announced, "I'm going for a walk. I'll be back later."

"Let me come," Callie pleaded.

"No! I need to be alone and think, Callie."

Striding out, I headed into the forest. Dappled morning sun slanted through the canopy. The air was fresh and cool, full of the scents of hidden blossoms, dark tree bark, earthy composting leaves.

Without a destination, I walked, ducking under low branches and around trees. What the fuck could I do? Nothing. I'd killed. I'd blackmailed the American government.

Sure, I'd protected Callie, but at what cost to her? To me? The idea of running, of hiding, and Callie with me sounded better and better. But I was fooling myself. We'd never be safe, never find peace, never be able to relax.

Fuck! Come on, Lightfoot! Think!

Like a puzzle, I played with the pieces. Were the authorities actually searching for me now? Had they identified me? How? Had Lucas Smith told them?

In fact, what could he have said without implicating himself in the kidnapping of Callie? Was President Richards in on her kidnapping? Why? All he needed was for the documents to disappear forever. Anything we'd say to the media without proof would be considered wild ravings, we, conspiracy nuts.

What if the President wasn't involved in Callie's kidnapping? If not, Lucas must have taken the initiative himself. Could that an opportunity?

Walking faster in frustration, brushing by branches, I wondered how I could find out? Simple. Talk to the President.

No. Not so simple. It would have to be face to face, and I'd never get to Richards without Lucas knowing.

Shit!

Wait!

Maybe there was a way. Mike. Did he know anyone close to President Richards?

Pulling out the disposable cell phone, I dialed from memory.

"Mr. Lister's office."

"Maggie, it's Lightfoot. Is he in?"

"Hunter! What's going on? Are you all right?" Maggie asked with worry in her voice.

"I'm fine. I need to talk to him. Is he in?"

"Hold on. He's on the phone. I'll interrupt him," Maggie said.

Waiting, I mulled options; they were weak, really weak and depended on President Richards sense of decency and willingness to compromise; something he didn't have to do.

"Hunter! Where the Hell are you?" Mike yelled.

"Close. I . . ."

"What the fuck's going on?" Mike interrupted in a slightly calmer voice.

"I can't tell you."

"Why not? Do you have any idea how big a shit-storm you've caused in the White House?"

I took a deep breath. How did Mike know what was going on in the White House? "Mike, I know exactly what's going on. I can't explain it, but I need to see the President privately, preferably away from the White House."

"Are you kidding me?" Mike exclaimed. "Why would he let you near him? You're toxic!"

"I think he'll see me. Somehow, I need to get a message to him without Lucas Smith knowing."

"Why? Is Lucas involved?"

I sighed. "Mike, I can't tell you. It's for your own good. Do you know anyone who can pass a message to President Richards?"

There was silence. Eventually, Mike spoke. "Maggie knows Susan Hill. Maybe she could pass a message over."

A brief wash of relief hit. Susan Hill was Richards' executive secretary. "Okay. Have her tell the President Hunter Lightfoot needs to meet privately with him. That I have a proposal."

"That's it? And Richards will understand?" Mike asked.

"I think so."

In a very serious tone, Mike asked, "Hunter, does this mean this problem, whatever it is, goes all the way to the Oval Office?"

"Yeah."

"Fuck! Don't tell me anything! I'll call you back. Give me your number."

For an hour I wandered, planning, assessing options. But, when it came down to it, I only had one, and damn it was as weak as a day-old colt. There was no reason on Earth for President Richards to agree, but it was all I had.

The cell warbled. I answered.

"This afternoon. President Richards is going to the George Washington University to give a speech. At three twenty-eight exactly, you're to be on the north side of H Street, west of Pennsylvania Avenue by the park. He'll have the Secret Service stop the motorcade briefly for you to get in. You'll have ten minutes with him."

"Thanks, Mike."

"Yeah. I hope it works out, whatever it is."

Mike hung up.

Turning, with a renewed energy, I headed back to the cabin. I found Callie sitting on the couch, her feet on the cushion, hugging her knees, and looking awful, her eyes red. She looked at me, expressionless.

Sitting next to her, I spoke. I promised nothing. I downplayed the plan. It didn't stop hope from springing into her pale blue eyes.

Icy hardness entered her enchanting eyes when I told her she was staying at the cabin. We argued. When she finally agreed, it proved how desperate she was.

For two hours, we sat in silence, Callie hugging my arm and leaning against me, not a word spoken. It might be the last time we'd be together and I wanted to cherish every moment of it. Finally, checking my watch, I stood.

Callie finally spoke. "Please come back, Hunter. Don't leave me alone. I don't want to live without you." Tears welled in her enchanting eyes. She brushed one away as it spilled.

I nodded, bent, and kissed her gently, praying I'd see her again. The odds were against it

Epilogue

The Rue du Temple was bustling with life. Familiar aromas of freshly ground coffee, espresso, cigarette smoke, and delectable meals filled the air.

The spring sun made Paris alive and vibrant.

At the tightening of her arm through mine, I glanced down and smiled at Callie. She was touching the small gold locket at her throat, the solid gold band on her wrist winking sparkling blue saphires. "How does it feel to be back where it all started?" I asked.

Pale blue eyes twinkled. "It feels good. I've always liked Paris. It holds great memories. Three years here is going to be wonderful."

Callie hadn't changed. The last thirty years had little effect on her. As I'd know long ago, she'd carried her slenderness, dignity, and beauty well into life, still walking like a dancer. Now forty-five, a few silver hairs had begun to appear in her dark, lustrous hair. She had smile crinkles radiating out from the corners of her eyes. Yet, to me, she hadn't changed one iota, still making my heart thump in my chest, still gorgeous; the one girl I loved.

"Let's go back to the apartment," she suggested. "We can have some alone time. I'm feeling romantic."

"What about Kenzie?" I asked, feeling a familiar stir inside.

"She'll be fine. Orientation will take the rest of the day."

We started strolling. "Do you ever regret . . ."

"Stop right there, Lightfoot!" Callie said, interrupting me. She turned to face me, pedestrians forced to dodge around us. Her finger came up, pointing at me, eyes cool blue. "I told you long ago, I chose you. I haven't changed my mind once. I don't regret anything."

Her eyes softened. "Besides, can you imagine a world without our daughter in it? Don't you know how lucky we are?"

I did. I knew I was blessed. Kenzie, now fifteen years old, had taken after her mother in almost every way. She was slender and beautiful, just slightly taller than Callie. And she had just as much innate talent for dancing. In her, I could see my wife. Callie had given up everything for me. She'd never danced again except with me. She'd never complained, either. Never. Not once. Instead, she'd trained to become a midwife.

I'd found peace and contentment working with my father in his garage, and took over when he passed away. I'd have found peace and contentment anywhere, doing anything, as long as Callie was at my side.

Kenzie was the light of our lives. She was opinionated, hardheaded, headstrong, and had no fear of challenging me. She was a daily reminder of her mother when she was young. Inevitably, Callie would smile and side with our daughter, asking me, "Would you want Kenzie to be any other way?"

Callie knew me too well. Despite my frowns of disapproval at Kenzie's intransigence, inside I drowned with pride.

Callie looked up at me, smiling. "You should kiss me, Hunter. You'll feel much better." Her beautiful, pale blue eyes sparkled, unchanged in thirty years.

I did. Right there. On the sidewalk in front of the Paris Marais Dance School, the first place I met her.

As we resumed walking, her arm linked with mine, she commented, "You've never told me what happened when you met with President Richards. Why not now? Maybe now's the time."

I shrugged and changed the subject, the memory of those events, of almost losing Callie, still too painful. "Ponder this. When you have me, you immediately feel like sharing me. But when you do, you no longer have me. What am I?"

Callie laughed brightly. "A secret."

"There's your answer, Ayasha."