Prologue Dave St. Clair awoke with startled suddenness. Ex perience warned him to stay perfectly still. Moving nothing but his eyes, he scanned the campsite, searching for anything out of the ordinary. The Jeep was still where he'd parked it, facing back up the trail through the dense jungle beyond the small clearing. Protection, dubious but all they had, was the international press flag dangling limply from the Jeep's radio antenna. A bulging camera bag leaned against the base of the tree that had sheltered him and his photographer for the night. Everything was exactly where it was supposed to be. He tried to relax and shake off the chilling pre monition of danger. Frowning, he listened. It was dawn. The sun was barely over the horizon, but already the air around him was hot and oppressive. The stench of rotting vegetation in the nearby jungle filled his nostrils. It was quiet, too quiet. No birds called. No animals rustled through the underbrush. Not a single sound, save the ever-present hum of insects, revealed the life teeming in the tropical rain forest scant yards away. Dave rolled out of his sleeping bag. If his instincts were correct, one of two things was about to happen. Either they were going to get the scoop they'd come for or they were about to have company. Considering the reason that had brought Dave into the interior, he doubted the goodwill of any "company" that might suddenly drop in on the campsite. Anticipating the scoop, Dave felt the adrenaline pump through his body as it always did when he was first on the scene of a big story. "Ramsey," he whispered, nudging the lump within the other dusty sleeping bag. "Wake up and get that camera ready." "Coffee." "Forget it," Dave called softly over his shoulder. He was already stretched out on his stomach near the edge of the ridge, his binoculars trained on the open plain below. "No room service this morning, unless you think that's the reason for that below. "No room service this morning, unless you think that's the reason for that government car on the road down there." While the photographer scrambled for a camera, Dave spoke quietly into a small tape recorder, de scribing the scene unfolding below him. The long black sedan, its government flag identifiable now even without binoculars, left the road and headed straight toward the ridge where the journalists had made camp. Suddenly, at least a dozen heavily armed rebels appeared and halted the car, mere yards be low Dave. Dave didn't need to command his companion to keep complete silence. The esteemed K.C. Ramsey had twice as many years of experience as he had. Lowering the camera, K.C. held up two fingers. Re luctantly, Dave nodded agreement. A second roll of film was loaded and the soft whirr of the shutter began anew while Dave concentrated on the meeting taking place below them. "El Santos." Dave recognized the rebel leader im mediately, as well as the gaudily uniformed officer stepping gingerly out of the sedan. General Miguel de Lupas, commander of the army, cousin to Presi dent Palacios. The pieces fell together. The tip that had brought Dave deep into the interior was con firmed. A military coup was in the offing, and the conspirators wouldn't welcome discovery by the press. It was time to get the hell out while the getting was good. Dave tapped his companion's shoulder. They grabbed only their knapsacks and the camera bag and tossed them in the back of the Jeep. Not risking starting the engine, they pushed the vehicle toward the trail. Dave sent up a silent prayer at every creaking noise the ancient vehicle made as it rolled into the jungle. At the same time he cursed his own body's shortcomings. Every part of him ached. His back hurt from the strain and from too many nights spent with only a thin layer of kapok between himself and the hard ground. Dysentery twisted his guts. The three days' growth of beard on his face itched. His whole body was covered with angry welts from insect bites. He was definitely getting too old for this kind of thing and most every thing else that went along with being an overseas news correspondent. went along with being an overseas news correspondent. His respect for the photojournalist accompanying him grew. K.C. had at least ten years on him and yet was still flying around the world with obvious relish. Some people must take better to this life than oth ers. At one time he would have lain there on his belly until the meeting had broken up, gambling all for the big story. Once he'd actually brazened it out and walked right into the thick of it to get the scoop. Those days were past, long past. He'd finally admit ted to mortality. Now, all he wanted to do was file the story and go home. Hoping they were well beyond hearing range, Dave jumped behind the steering wheel and started the engine. The usually recalcitrant Jeep sputtered to life, then backfired. Viciously, Dave swore through his teeth, then rammed his foot on the accelerator. The Jeep lurched forward and they were off, bounc ing over the curving, rutted trail that would lead them to safety. Coming around a sharp bend, Dave's breath caught in his throat and his heart slammed against the inside of his ribcage. In a split second he figured the odds and transferred his foot from the accelerator to the brake. The Jeep shuddered and screeched to a stop. He started to point to the press flag, but the sullen faces and cold steel aimed at him changed his mind. Instead, his hands went to the top of his head. "Follow my lead and stay calm," he said even though his blood was roaring though his veins at an alarm ing speed. "The worst that can happen is well be their guests for a while." That assurance was hollow even to his own ears. As the blindfold covered his eyes, an image came to him, haunting him. Lush ebony hair. Blue eyes that could see into his soul. Translucent ivory skin. Soft lips, moist and inviting. Gentle, melodic speech that could soothe and excite. Maggie. Maggie. He'd made a terrible mistake. Now it was too late to correct it. One Voices rose sharply in a stormy duet, ending abruptly with the slamming of the front door. The heavy oak and beveled glass shuddered in its frame. Vibrations rippled all the way to the back of the house, shifting the sampler on the kitchen wall to an awkward an gle. The Tiffany lamp over the table swung once, twice, jingling merrily before steadying. In the aftermath, there was an expectant silence, broken when Maggie St. Clair pushed open the kitchen door. The wood banged violently against the wall. The jewel-toned prisms of the lamp jingled again. The sampler lurched, hung precariously for a sec ond, then crashed to the floor. Shards of glass skit tered in every direction. "Lawsy! What else?" Maggie stared down at the crumpled frame and broken glass that had protected Great-Grandmother McPherson's sampler. "The per fect ending to a perfect day! My models don't show up. I have a wingding fight with my daughter—and now this." She gritted her teeth when the roar of a motorbike sounded from outside the house. Looking to the ceiling, she asked, "Where was my head when I bought Laura that moped?" Disgusted with herself for half expecting an an swer, she rechanneled her energy toward cleaning up the mess on the floor. Her temper continued to simmer as she picked up the remains of the frame, stored away the sampler, and swept up the glass. Slamming the door of the broom closet, she caught her hand between the door and the frame. Cursing her own stupidity, she thrust her bruised fingers under the kitchen faucet and turned on the cold water. The water relieved the throbbing, but the rising level in the sink set off her ire again. Laura hadn't run the disposal when she'd done the supper dishes. It was a small oversight of no real consequence, granted, but after all the other events of the day, it was the last straw. day, it was the last straw. Maggie flipped on the garbage disposal and the appliance whirred into action. The standing water gurgled and swirled, but went nowhere. Thunk! The swirling water and the humming motor stopped. Damnation! Drumming her uninjured fingers on the sink, she glared at the bits of carrots, celery, and potato peelings floating in the murky water. Turning the disposal off, she pushed up her sweat shirt sleeve and fished around the debris-strewn water for the offending obstacle—the dishcloth that Laura had neglected to wring out and hang safely away. Maggie gave the cloth a vicious yank and the fab ric ripped. The sudden lack of resistance caught her off guard and she stumbled backward. Fighting for balance, she tripped over the book bag in the middle of the room, and landed solidly on her behind. Furi ous and frustrated, she hollered, "Laura Eileen St. Clair! How many times have I told you to pick up your belongings!" Getting to her feet, Maggie rummaged under the sink for the disposal tool, and went to work. "It's a good thing you're at your grandparents' house, little girl," she vowed to her absent daughter between tugs on the cloth and the tool. "Or, you'd be getting a plumbing lesson." Eventually, after several minutes of tugging ac companied by muttered curses, the cloth was dis lodged and the blades were moving freely. However, the water in the sink didn't drain when Maggie tried the disposal again. Resigned to one of the not-so-charming features of her charming old house with the elderly plumbing, she headed for the basement. He couldn't sit out here in the car much longer. It was cold and darkr and he was beginning to shiver. His bones ached. His head throbbed. His eyes burned. He should have agreed to another day at Walter Reed Army Hospital. Inside the house he'd been watching so intently, the lights were on. A warm glow beckoned from the porch light, all the rooms on the first floor, and one window beckoned from the porch light, all the rooms on the first floor, and one window on the second floor. Even the basement was lighted. Home, hearth, and family— exactly what he needed most. His hand closed around the cold chrome of the door handle, but he didn't pull back on the lever. Instead, he uncurled his hand and shoved it back into the pocket of his trench coat. Pulling his hat down further over his face, he slouched into the questionable warmth provided by his turned-up col lar. He cursed himself for being ten kinds of coward and an even greater number of fools. He should have called, sent a wire, something. Some sort of notice of his arrival would have broken the ice, made it easier for both of them. In an attempt to relieve the pounding in his brain, he closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the car seat. This wasn't at all the way he'd planned this reunion and heaven knew he'd had plenty of time to plan it. Time. Too damned much of it. He cursed the length of time and the circumstances that had separated him from his wife and daughter. At the same time, he offered up his thanks to the Almighty that time still existed for him. Time and a second chance. How hard had he prayed for both? Cold gripped Dave's spine, not from the tempera ture but from remembered fear. In an attempt to rid himself of the images that flashed through his mind, he straightened his back and prepared again to get out of the car. His hand shook. Again, he hesitated. Pull yourself together, St. Clair. You've been in tighter spots. You're about to face your wife—cor rection: ex-wife—not a firing squad. He shuddered. How he hated thinking of Maggie as his ex-wife. Not for long, he vowed, reaching for the door handle again. Maggie was beauty, warmth, gentle love . . . and she held his life in her hands as certainly as those guerrillas who had leveled their guns on him. Armed with a wrench Maggie attacked the base ment plumbing. She'd wrestled with the pipes just long enough to slop muck all over her pink sweat shirt and with the pipes just long enough to slop muck all over her pink sweat shirt and white pants when she heard a heavy bang ing at the front door. Alarmed by the insistence of the heralding, Maggie hastily wiped her grimy hands on the seat of her pants, raced to the stairs and took the steps two at a time. In seconds she was through the house and flinging the front door open. A man in a trench coat and crumpled hat was leaning against the porch. Maggie froze. The world tipped and shuddered, then seemed to open up and swallow her. Pushing up the brim of his hat, the man straight ened and took a step toward her. "Hello, Maggie," he said in a roughened, whispery tone. A strangled sound pushed past her lips. "Dave . . . ?" "The prodigal husband in the flesh." Clinging to the door, Maggie stared at him, ea gerly drinking in every detail. Old habits and in stincts died hard. Her muscles geared up and her senses tingled. A surge of joy spread through her at the sight of him, safe and sound, and home. His hair glimmered gold beneath the porch lamp, swept away from his square face, finishing in short, crisp curls at his nape. Maggie's fingertips tingled involuntarily at her memory of the texture and warmth of his hair. Her lips followed suit, remem bering brushing across his neck and forehead where his hair lay in waves. It had been his hair, that wavy gold-and-silver mass catching the light of an afternoon sun, that had first caught her attention the day they'd met all those years ago. And then she'd seen his eyes—golden brown, sparkling with mirth. Now her breath caught, but not from the excitement that had always filled her at the sight of him. No mischievous twinkle brightened the depths of those marvelous eyes of his this evening. They were glassy and bloodshot. Quickly, she inventoried the rest of his features, startled at the changes she saw. His skin, above an unaccustomed beard, was pale, drawn tightly across his high cheekbones. His generous mouth was set in a thin, grim line. His shoulders, always held so straight and proud, were slumped. Involuntarily, she started to open her arms in wel come and comfort. Then, remembrance returned full force. Maggie quickly wrapped her arms around her self defensively. "You mean, prodigal ex-husband, don't you?" she snapped, immediately contrite. It was childish to be so peevish after such a long time. immediately contrite. It was childish to be so peevish after such a long time. Dave had been her husband for thirteen years. Their divorce was two years old. It was long past time for arguing. She swallowed hard and took a deep breath before proceeding more civilly. "I'm sorry, Laura isn't here right now. If you tell me where you're staying, I'll have her call you as soon as she gets home." "That's some comfort at least," Dave mumbled, sagging downward until he sat on the railing of the narrow porch. Maggie had only a second to wonder at his com ment before he demanded, "Who in the hell was that punk kid who just roared out of our driveway on a motorcycle? How could you let such a bum in the house? It's a good thing Laura wasn't here. I don't want her anywhere near guys like that." Maggie dropped her mouth open then closed it quickly. How dare he arrive unannounced and im mediately start tearing into her for letting some "bum" in the house. Civility be damned. She wasn't his wife anymore and this wasn't his house. As for the "bum" she'd allegedly entertained in Laura's absence . . . Boy, was Dave in for a deserved surprise. "The one with spiked red-and-purple hair?" she asked in a deceptively innocent drawl. "Yeah," he said. "That was a moped, not a motorcycle," she in formed him, still keeping her delivery as smooth as a magnolia petal. "What have you been doing? Spying on the house?" Through slitted eyes, Dave glared at her. Maggie returned his glare, lifting her chin in defiance. Damn! Dave cursed inwardly. She was right. He had been spying . . . sort of.