Gail Barrett - High-Risk Reunion

He wasn’t supposed to be framed for murder.

And he sure as hell wasn’t supposed to be embroiled in an espionage case involving his former lover—a woman he couldn’t trust.

“I want to see that message you intercepted.”

She blinked. “You still don’t believe me?”

“After everything you’ve done to me?”

Not bothering to answer, she headed toward the door. But he blocked her path. “I’ll only say this once,” he said. “I’m in charge here. From here on out, you do what I say.”

“I don’t take orders from you.”

“You do now.”

Temper flashed in her eyes. Then she pushed past him and stalked outside the hut.

She’d devastated him before, crushing any illusions he had.

And he’d be damned if she’d make a fool of him twice.

Dear Reader,

We all love to read about soldiers, those courageous, romantic warriors who charge into danger with their guns blazing, risking their lives to slay our enemies and keep us safe. But there are quieter heroes around us, too, people who use their covert skills for the greater good, usually without the fanfare or recognition they deserve. Those are the people I decided to highlight in this new series, the STEALTH KNIGHTS operating on the periphery of our awareness—semi-reformed thieves and spies, bad-boy heroes who defeat the evil in our world even as they steal our hearts.

I’m so excited to bring you the first of the STEALTH KNIGHTS stories, and am especially thrilled to set it in one of my favorite places on earth, the Pyrenees Mountains, a land of lush green valleys, medieval villages, and craggy peaks—the perfect setting for heart-stopping romance and high intrigue.

I hope you enjoy the adventure!

Gail Barrett

GAIL BARRETTalways knew she’d be a writer. Who else would spend her childhood grinding sparkling rocks into fairy dust and convincing her friends it was real? Or daydream her way through elementary school, spend high school reading philosophy and playing the bagpipes, and then head off to Spain during college to live the writer’s life? After four years she straggled back home—broke, but fluent in Spanish. She became a teacher, earned a master’s degree in linguistics, married a coast guard officer and had two sons.

But she never lost the desire to write. Her books have won numerous awards, including a National Readers’ Choice Award and Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Golden Heart.

She currently lives in western Maryland. Readers can contact her through her website, www.gailbarrett.com.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To my fabulous editor, Susan Litman.

Thank you for believing in me!

I’d like to thank the following people for their help with this book: Elle Kennedy, Judith Sandbrook, and Mary Jo Archer for their invaluable critiques; Kathy Lauten for her information about flash drives; and Joe Barrett for his expert computer help. Any mistakes are definitely my own.

País Vell, the Pyrenees Mountains, 11:37 p.m .

Rafael Navarro dangled from the wall of the medieval castle, the murmur of approaching voices drifting down to him in the inky, moonless night. He went dead still, slid his gaze to the void plunging forty feet below him, and wondered what had gone wrong with his plan. Those guards weren’t supposed to arrive yet. He’d spent weeks studying their rotation for the G-6 summit, counting off the intervals of the passing searchlight, calculating the exact time and place to break into the American diplomat’s room. And he should have had three more minutes to scale this wall.

Cold sweat beaded his forehead. His back and shoulders throbbed as he clung to the nylon rope. But he schooled himself to absolute stillness, knowing even the slightest shift could move a prong on the grappling hook, drawing the royal guards’ attention to him. Behind him, a cool breeze swept down the slopes of the Pyrenees Mountains, the slow, rhythmic clanking of cowbells tightening his nerves.

“You’re not seriously going to smoke that.” The man’s voice came from the wall walk above.

“Why not?” a second man asked. His voice had a belligerent edge. “It’s not going to kill anyone.”

Except Rafe .

“The hell it won’t,” the first guard said. “You heard the boss. Anyone who screws up tonight gets fired.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Rafe’s heart galloped against his rib cage. He’d be dead if he didn’t move. Now . In a few precious seconds, the searchlight would pass, illuminating him like a dark bug splayed on a silver wall.

But cigarette smoke wisped past. More crucial seconds ticked down. Rafe gritted his teeth, his biceps trembling, every survival instinct screaming at him to go. But he couldn’t move, couldn’t even change positions to relieve the pressure on his now-numb hands.

“Hombre. Would you come on? ” the first guard said, echoing Rafe’s thoughts. “The next rotation’s about to catch up.”

“Fine.” Disgust tinged the smoker’s voice. A glowing cigarette butt streaked over the wall, barely missing Rafe’s head. The guards finally pushed away from the ledge, the thud of their receding footsteps fading into the night.

Rafe eased out a breath, but forced himself to wait, counting off several vital heartbeats in case they circled back. Then he powered up the rope in a surge of adrenaline, glad he’d kept up the brutal workouts that enabled him to make this climb even though he’d retired from a life of crime.

Until now.

He reached the medieval battlement and paused again. Still clear . His arms aching, the desperate need to hurry flogging his brain, he hoisted himself over the edge. Then he yanked up the rope, pulled the grappling hook from the wall, and ducked—just as the searchlight skimmed overhead.

Too damned close .

His heart pounding, that addictive rush of danger streaming through his veins, he crawled to the ancient watchtower, careful to keep his head under the light’s wide range. Then he coiled the rope and tucked it against the wall for his descent. The high-powered beam swept back over the cylindrical tower, past a planked oak door dotted with iron studs.

Now . He leaped up and sprinted to the door. Skidding to a stop, he whipped the lock-pick gun from his back pocket, inserted a tension wrench into the lock and applied the gun. A series of sharp, rapid clicks rent the air.

The lock gave way.

Rafe squeezed through the door, careful not to let the hinges creak, into the darkened alcove that adjoined the diplomat’s room. At this height he didn’t worry about triggering an alarm. No one got past the armed guards, surveillance cameras and intrusion detection devices on the castle’s lower floors—except a third-generation master thief like him.