well be nothing more than her own paranoia at work. The burden of her own secrets wearing on her nerves.
Ostensibly, she was one of hundreds of young women who’d poured into the area seeking employment on the government reservation. But, in reality, Camille had been sent to observe a smaller and even more highly classified entity known as Project Rainbow. The unit was run by Dr. Nicholas Kessler, a world-renowned scientist whose research into electromagnetic fields had attracted the military’s attention at the start of the war.
He didn’t know it yet, but Dr. Kessler’s future was irrevocably tied to Camille’s. She had been sent to protect him, but if her cover had been compromised, the whole mission could be in jeopardy. It would be difficult to insure Dr. Kessler’s safety if she ended up dead in an alley somewhere.
Grimacing at the image, she shot another glance over her shoulder as she approached the gate. Flashing her pass at the guard, she waited for him to lift the barricade, then smiled and waved as she drove through.
Outside the barbed-wire fence, she relaxed a bit as she headed north toward Ashton, a small community five miles away where she’d been fortunate enough to find a cottage for rent. The massive influx of workers to the area had quickly eaten up all the government housing so that newcomers were forced to seek accommodations outside the reservation. Those commuting back and forth not only had to contend with the resentment of the locals, but with gas rationing and long lines of traffic to and from the project.
Camille had been worried at first that living away from the city might hamper her ability to carry out her mission, but so far it had worked out rather well. Ashton was a small, close-knit community, and she knew that if anyone suspicious showed up in the vicinity asking the wrong questions, she was bound to hear about it.
She’d also quickly come to appreciate the tranquility of the cottage. The house was situated on a lake, and the breezes blowing in from the water at night reminded her of happier times. When Adam was still alive.
Even after all this time, the thought of her son still brought quick tears. He’d been gone for over a year, but the pain was still as sharp and deep as the day she’d lost him. The only thing that had changed was her anger. It seemed to grow stronger and more consuming with each passing day. Anger at herself for not being able to protect him. Anger at the person who was ultimately responsible for his death.
And anger at the one man who might have been able to prevent it.
An image of that man slipped through the walls Camille had built around her heart, and, for a moment, she remembered too much. Dark eyes and a deep voice. Strong hands and a knowing touch.
The way he’d held her in the darkness. The way he’d kissed her, caressed her, moved her in ways no man had ever moved her before.
He’d been the love of her life.
And now he no longer remembered her.
But there had to be something left of his feelings for her, Camille thought bitterly. Some buried remnant of emotion that she could use to her advantage when he showed up here.
And he would come. She knew it without a doubt. That was the reason she’d been sent here, after all. To find out what he was up to and then, if necessary, stop him at any cost.
At any cost.
Her hands gripped the wheel as she thought about what that might entail. Lies. Deception. Murder.
Camille began to tremble. Taking a life, even in wartime, wasn’t something she contemplated lightly. Taking the life of a man she’d once loved so deeply would surely earn her a very special place in hell.
So be it. He was the enemy now.
God help her—God help them all—if she forgot that fact even for a second.
Chapter One
Philadelphia,
Present Day
It was the fourth night in a row the old man had come into Blue Monday’s. Zac Riley supposed he should be grateful the club had attracted a new customer. God knows there’d been few enough of those, young or old, in recent months, and if traffic didn’t pick up, he’d soon be out of a job. Again.
Still, a guy who looked to have one foot in the grave was hardly the target clientele of a waterfront blues club. And there was something about the man, apart from his age, that gave Zac the creeps. He didn’t know why, exactly, but he figured it had something to do with the dream. The sudden reoccurrence of the nightmare coincided with the old man’s first appearance in the club. And Zac had had the dream every night since.
The details never varied. He was always trapped in a cold, dark, windowless place with no way out. He could hear the clanking of metal, the steady drip of water and, in the distance, screams.
But upon awakening, what Zac always recalled most vividly about the dream was his fear. A mind-numbing terror like nothing he’d ever known before.
Afterward he would lie awake for hours, not daring to fall back asleep. But sometimes he’d drift off in spite of himself and that’s when she would come. A woman shrouded by mist. A temptress who beckoned and enticed but always remained maddeningly elusive, just out of Zac’s reach.
He had no idea if she was real or not. Maybe she was someone he’d known a long time ago—a lifetime ago—before the accident had wiped out a good portion of his memory. Or maybe she was nothing but a fantasy, a dream lover conjured out of fear and desperation.
Whoever she was, whatever she was, she’d haunted Zac’s sleep for years.
And now he had the sudden, unaccountable notion that she and the old man were somehow connected.
A chill rode up his spine as he tracked the man’s labored progress to the end of the bar where he perched, with no small effort, on a stool, then sat with arms folded, head bowed, waiting.
What’s your story? Zac wondered.
What was a guy like that doing in a place like this? The drinks were watery, the atmosphere gloomy, the location on the dark and sleazy fringes of hip and pricey South Street. There were hundreds of bars scattered all over the City of Brotherly Love. What had brought him to this one?
Zac didn’t think the old guy was homeless. He tipped too generously to be down on his luck, but he had the look of a man that time had forgotten. His heavy wool overcoat was threadbare in places, but Zac suspected it had once been quite elegant, perhaps custom-made for the man’s tall, slender physique.
Zac waited a couple of beats, then ambled to the end of the bar. Wiping off the mahogany surface, he said cheerfully, “What’ll it be tonight?”
“Whiskey,” the man muttered without looking up.
His raspy voice was like nails on a chalkboard to Zac. He poured the whiskey, then slid the drink across the bar. As the old man’s skeletal fingers closed around the glass, he glanced up. His eyes were the color of night. Dark, cold, scary.
Disconcerted by the man’s stare, Zac started to turn away, then paused. “Do I know you? Have we met before?”
The old man lifted his whiskey. “Do you think we’ve met before?”
Zac tried to laugh off his uneasiness. “Now you sound like a shrink.”
The old man lowered his empty glass. “I’m not a shrink. I’m a scientist.”
“A scientist, huh? We don’t get many of those in here.” Zac scrubbed at an invisible ring on the bar. “So what brings an educated man like yourself to a dump like this?”
“You do, Zac.”
The hair at the back of Zac’s neck rose. “How do you know my name?”
The dark eyes gleamed in the murky light. “I know a lot about you. Probably more than you know about yourself.”
“Is that right?” Zac felt the first stirrings of anger. And