hair pulled back in a high twist that emphasized her sculpted cheekbones. A decidedly aristocratic nose gave her an elegant air, at odds with that lush, sensual mouth.
When she got closer, Dodge saw that her eyes were blue, as her bio had indicated. A deep purplish-blue, almost the same color as the monkshood that blanketed the high valleys in spring—also known as wolfsbane, women’s bane, the Devil’s helmet and the blue rocket, Dodge reminded himself wryly. Highly toxic if the roots were ingested. Something he’d best remember.
Those intense blue eyes flicked over him, taking in his height, stance and uniform in a quick, assessing glance before moving to the two men with him. As she approached, Dodge spotted the puckered skin on the left side of her neck and lower jaw. Not even that spiderweb tracery of scars could detract from the overall package.
The look she gave him as he extended his hand was another story. It went past cool and hovered somewhere around icy.
“Welcome to Cheyenne, Major Petrovna. I’m Dodge Hamilton.”
She gave his hand a brisk shake, after which they took turns introducing the others. Then she got right to the point in heavily accented English.
“My team requires transportation to their quarters. You will arrange it, then escort me to call upon Colonel Yarboro so I may present my credentials.”
Although the clipped instructions coincided exactly with Dodge’s intentions, that imperious “will” had him lifting a brow. The lady was obviously used to being in charge.
“Lieutenant Tate and Sergeant Lewis will help your folks with the baggage and drive them to their quarters,” he replied. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll take you directly to the wing headquarters.”
Leading the way, he escorted his charge out of the terminal to the blue air-force sedan parked at the curb and opened the passenger-side door. Petrovna slid into her seat without so much as a nod or word of thanks.
If the grueling flight from Moscow and nine-hour time differential had sapped the major’s energy, she didn’t allow it to show. Sitting ramrod straight in the passenger seat, she answered Dodge’s polite question about her flight in curt monosyllables, and displayed no trace of weariness during the fifteen-minute drive from the airport.
Her blue eyes absorbed Cheyenne’s rolling landscape, then locked on the tall, white missiles standing sentry at the base’s front gate. When the gate guard had waved them through and the white-trimmed brick buildings of the old fort appeared, Dodge made another attempt to break the ice.
“The base started life as a cavalry post. It’s part of our wild-and-woolly Western heritage.”
“I know this,” Petrovna replied repressively. “I haf been …” She stopped, corrected herself. “I have been here before, on an inspection team under the old treaty.”
So much for that conversational gambit. Flicking the directional signal, Dodge turned into the parking lot beside the two-story brick building that housed the headquarters of the 90th Space Wing. Once parked, he reached behind him for a fat envelope.
“This contains your identification badge, a base directory and a paper copy of the slides that will be presented at the in-brief tomorrow.”
He passed over the package. The major accepted it without comment.
“You should wear the badge whenever you’re on base.”
With a look that said she was perfectly aware of the protocol, Petrovna clipped the plastic identifier to the lapel of her navy suit jacket and didn’t wait for Dodge to come around and open her door.
Her low-heeled black pumps beat a precise tattoo on the sidewalk as she led the way to the headquarters’ front entrance. Sturdy outer wooden doors opened into a glassed-in foyer, designed to break the force of Wyoming’s constant winds. Once inside the foyer, security forces checked their badges and handheld articles before waving them through.
Some kind of high-powered meeting had just broken up, Dodge saw. A small crowd of civilians in expensive-looking suits and power ties were just filing past the security checkpoint. The badges dangling from their suit pockets identified them as contractors. Dodge picked up bits and pieces of conversation as the group passed.
“The Pentagon’s still working the RFP.”
“… won’t release the initial specs until January.”
“We’re talking five, maybe six years for development, integration and testing.”
The last speaker had already passed, but his voice snagged Dodge’s attention. It was low and rough. Almost rasping. As if someone had punched the man in the throat and he was still getting his wind back.
“I don’t see it happening,” Gritty Voice was saying, “before …”
“Ummph!”
With a startled grunt, Dodge collided with the woman who’d stopped in her tracks just ahead of him. The force of the collision propelled Petrovna into a near free fall. He lunged forward and caught her just in time.
Whoa! There was a real woman under those layers of permafrost. Dodge didn’t exactly cop a feel. He had a little more class than that. Besides, there was the treaty’s explicit prohibition against touching. But he certainly registered a set of long, sinuous curves under her shapeless navy suit.
“Sorry ‘bout that.” Reluctantly, he set her on her feet. “Colonel Yarboro’s office is straight ahead.”
Instead of moving on, the Russian pivoted slowly.
“This way, Major Petrovna.”
She paid no attention. She stood rooted in place, staring at the backs of the departing men. Every trace of color had drained from her face. Her blue eyes were glassy with shock.
Chapter 2
“Major?”
Petrovna didn’t respond. She’d gone so pale that the puckered skin on her neck and lower jaw stood out like the shadowed craters of the moon.
“Major Petrovna? Are you okay?”
Dazed blue eyes swung toward Dodge. “Shto?”
“Are you all right?”
The blonde didn’t answer. She stared blankly at him for several seconds, then pushed past. Backtracking through security, she shoved open the door to the building’s exterior and searched the crowd now climbing into various vehicles. Whatever she saw didn’t appear to satisfy her. Spinning around, she fired off a torrent of Russian.
“Sorry,” Dodge said. “I don’t understand.”
With an obvious effort, she fought to recall her English. “Did you see him?”
“See who?”
“The one who speaks … How do you say? Like a … Like a …”
“You mean the guy who growled like a dog?”
“Yes! The one who growls like the dog. Did you see him?”
“I heard him, but I didn’t see him.”
“Do you know who he is, this one?”
Dodge didn’t have a clue, but he sure as hell intended to find out.
“From their badges,” he said slowly, “I’d guess he was part of a group of civilian contractors.”
He waited for her to explain. When she didn’t, he pressed her. “What’s with the growler? Have you crossed swords with him before or something?”
“What do you say?”
“Obviously, you recognized that guy’s voice. How do you know him?”
“I …”
Petrovna lifted a hand. The fingers she pressed against