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Praise for the novels of
GINNA GRAY
“Jealousy, treachery and characters one loves to hate…Gray cleverly weaves unexpected twists and turns into the narrative…. This page-turner from a seasoned romance novelist boils down to deliciously wicked brain candy.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Prodigal Daughter
“[Gray] gifts readers with a well-crafted mix of intriguing suspense and provocative romance.”
—Rendezvous
“Ginna Gray…is the perfect prescription for readers desiring strong-willed characters, emotional depth and fiery ardor.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“It’s a real pleasure to watch how cleverly Gray brings these wonderfully well-drawn characters together in this pleasurable read.”
—Booklist on The Trophy Wife
“Ginna Gray always delivers an emotionally poignant love story that is a keeper.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Ms. Gray is one of the most consistently excellent writers in the genre today.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
GINNA GRAY
The Prime Objective
Many thanks to Patricia Smith, the editor (and friend) who bought my first book all those years ago, launching my writing career. I also want to thank my agent of twenty years, Denise Marcil. She has been my champion, mentor and friend every step of this long journey, and I will forever be grateful for her unfailing encouragement and support.
And of course, as always, I dedicate this book to my husband, Brad—the love of my life, my best friend, my rock.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
One
He blended into the night like smoke.
His movements were nothing more than subtle ripples in the darkness. The only sound was the soft hiss of his breathing through the black ski mask.
After testing the strength of the utility pole bolted to the flat roof, Jackson Prime pulled a rope from the canvas bag slung across his chest and secured it to the metal upright. He gave the rigging a hard tug, then another. Satisfied, he moved to the roof’s edge and settled down to wait.
Through the slits in the ski mask, Jack’s piercing blue eyes fixed on the entrance to the shabby apartment building, four floors below where he knelt.
The open-air markets and shops were closed, and the bustle of the day had faded with the coming of night. Only a few groups of men, some dressed in robes, others in Western garb, strolled along the narrow streets. Few vehicles moved.
It was early yet—only a little after seven. The fierce cold of winter had set in, but the building on which he stood and the others all around still held a vestige of heat from the sun. He could feel the warmth wafting up around him, along with the sharp smells of cooling stucco, tar and dust from the surface of the roof.
A block or so away a dog barked. As customers came and went male voices spilled from the cafés and coffee-house and floated to him on the night air. Against the dark sky he could make out the faint silhouettes of three mosques rising above the low skyline of the town.
Time drifted by slowly, yet except for his gaze constantly sweeping the street below, Jack remained still. If matters were running true to form, the four men would be leaving for dinner soon.
Beneath the ski mask Jack’s mouth twitched. People were such creatures of habit. Even those who thought they were exercising extreme caution.
After almost a half hour his patience paid off. Four men exited the building and cut across the street, talking among themselves, their heads swiveling the whole time, checking out the street around them. Not once did one of them look up.
The quartet disappeared around the nearest corner. Jack waited, just in case one of them forgot something and decided to double back for it. After five minutes he grabbed the rope and went over the side.
It took him only seconds to rappel down to the third-floor balcony. Soundlessly, he slipped over the railing, secured his line, then knelt and went to work on the lock with a narrow pick. A sharp click, and he was inside the apartment.
He didn’t have much time. He’d watched the subjects for weeks and learned that they were never gone longer than a half hour. Moving through the darkened apartment on cat feet, he worked with quick efficiency. Even so, it took him a little over twenty minutes to conceal the listening devices throughout the three rooms. He was installing the last bug when he heard footsteps on the stairs and murmured conversation.
Jack’s nerves jumped, but he continued to work at a calm, steady pace. The instant he completed the job, he stood, hefted his canvas bag and slung it over his head and shoulder across his body. On his way to the door he made a visual sweep of the room to be sure he hadn’t left any signs of his visit—nothing out of place, nothing left behind that shouldn’t be.
A key clicked in the lock. Jack slipped out onto the balcony, grabbed his rope and swung over the iron railing as a light came on inside the apartment. With his feet braced against the side of the building he pulled himself up, hand-over-hand.
The instant Jack gained the roof and untied his rappelling line, he coiled the rope around his bent elbow and hand, stuffed it into his bag and took off across the rooftops.
As fast as possible, he put distance between himself and the apartment building. Nearly a block away, he stepped off the roof of a one-story structure onto a lean-to shed at the back and jumped down into the alley.
The instant his feet touched the ground he whipped off his ski mask and stuffed it into the canvas bag. Running his fingers through his flattened hair he made his way to the alley entrance and peered around the corner.
A half a block down the street three robed men walked in the general direction of his hotel. Jack stepped out onto the sidewalk and fell in step behind them, careful to keep his pace casual and maintain the distance between himself and the men.
One of the trio glanced back over his shoulder and spotted him. He nudged the man nearest him and murmured something. The other two looked back, as well.
Jack pulled out his cell phone and pretended to become immersed in a conversation as he strolled along.
The men’s murmuring began again, this time punctuated by hand gestures.
After a few blocks they turned a corner onto a street that headed into a residential area. Jack pretended unconcern, but in his business it paid to expect the worst. Just in case the three were waiting to waylay him, as he approached the corner he slipped his hand inside