Then You Hide

PROLOGUE

Charleston, South Carolina, 1978

"WELL, LOOK WHAT we have here. The prettiest little suspect in Charleston County." The fluorescent lights cast a sick, yellow shadow on the cheeks of the man who’d just entered the interrogation room.

Eileen Stafford straightened in the uncomfortable wooden chair and met his gaze. Where’s my lawyer?

He’s comin’, sweetheart. He’s comin’. Mind if I sit down? Across the table, he yanked out the other chair, flipped it around, and spread his legs around the back. You remember me, don’t you?

As if she could forget the man who’d tried to blind her with a flashlight, cut her with handcuffs, and insult her from the front seat of his squad car.

She sat silent. Because anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.

We met the other night out on Ashley Bridge. He lifted thick black eyebrows and crinkled his forehead, all friendly and social.

She glared back at him. Pretty convenient, you and your partner just cruising along looking for people driving away from crime scenes.

Oh, now, honey, you know what happened. Someone saw you running and called the cops. While we were following you lead-footin’ out of Charleston, Ms. Sloane’s body was found. He held out his hands to imply that this happened all the time to a good cop.

Or a very bad one.

Didn’t he realize this case was so flimsy you could see through it? She’d seen the murder; she’d witnessed it! She knew who did it, yet she sat here, sweating, waiting for a lawyer who was supposed to be here hours ago. When he came, she could tell him who pulled the trigger and who put that gun on the passenger seat of her car—a gun she’d never touched.

But would she have the nerve to tell the truth? To take on the most powerful man in the county? The thought made her stomach roll.

Why’d you do it, Miss Stafford?

She bit her lip to keep from saying a word.

"It is miss, isn’t it? Hazel eyes dropped to her chest. Sure it is. I’ve seen you around the courthouse. You’re a flirty little thing. Real friendly with all the lawyers and judges. You’re a legal secretary. Just like…the deceased."

Which makes me smart enough to know I get a lawyer before I talk to anybody.

He chuckled, propping his elbows on the table and locking his hands into a little shelf for his chin. And smart enough to know that the South Carolina legal system don’t always work as right as it should.

She fought a quiver, unwilling to let him see her fear. I’m not going to talk to you, Officer.

"Then how ‘bout you listen to me…Leenie."

Oh, God—only one person on earth called her that. Which meant whatever this cop was about to say was a direct message from him.

Listen real careful, okay? His look made her heart wallop against her ribs. I’m gonna offer you a fine deal.

A deal? Or her worst nightmare? The man who had destroyed her happiness, forcing her to make a decision she would regret until the day she died—that man could do anything. He could lie, cheat, steal, and, oh, Godamighty, he could kill.

Real simple, this deal. You tell your lawyer exactly how you killed Wanda, how you were hidin’ right there in that alley, just waitin’ to pounce on the gal who’d taken your place as the prettiest legal secretary in the courthouse, and—

I wasn’t waiting for—

—and we’ll make sure you don’t have to sit in the hot seat. One corner of his thin-lipped mouth slid up. You know what I mean by the hot seat, don’t you, Leenie?

There hasn’t been an electrocution in this state since 1962.

Capital punishment is alive and well in the state of South Carolina, darlin’. In the hands of—he bared straight, shiny teeth—the right judge.

Eileen closed her eyes. She’d known this was coming. Ever since she’d hidden behind that brick wall in Philadelphia Alley and watched her former lover put a bullet into Wanda Sloane, she’d known she couldn’t run far, and she couldn’t hide for long. Not from him.

It’s a simple deal. You tell the lawyer just what happened, Leenie. And in exchange… He shrugged, as if the rest were obvious.

Say it, she insisted hoarsely. You have to say it.

He leaned close. Sign the piece of paper pleading guilty…and nothing will happen to your baby.

She knew it.

I don’t have a baby.

That statement would be the truth in a deposition. She didn’t have a baby. She’d had three. But he didn’t know that. No one in Charleston knew that.

You have a child, he said in a patronizing tone. ‘Course, you sold the poor li’l fatherless bastard. But anyone can be… He took out a handkerchief, blew his nose, let the unfinished sentence hang in the air. …found with the right people pulling the strings.

She stared at him.

He folded his hanky and stuffed it into a breast pocket. And you know, sweetheart, those black-market babies are not always the healthiest. They’ve been known to just die in their li’l cribs.

That murdering, lying son of a bitch. Would he kill his own daughter?

Of course he would. He was capable of anything. He bought cops like this sleazebucket, bought juries, bought witnesses, bought loyalty. Hell, he’d bought her.

But he only knew she’d gone to the farmhouse on Sapphire Trail to have a baby. No one except the nurse, the lady who owned the place, and one of the sets of adoptive parents knew she’d had triplets that night eight months ago.

Three tiny, helpless baby girls who were all sold to strangers. He only knew of one, but she didn’t know which one. Any of those tiny babies could be his victim, unless she…

Make this deal. Impatience edged his voice. Or she dies.

Right now, her daughters were safe and loved. And marked. If they ever found one another, would that tell them the story of what their mother did and why? All that mattered was that they lived. Her life was worthless without them, anyway.

Okay, she said in defeat.

He pushed away from the table and sauntered to the door with a lazy, cocky grin. I heard you were a very smart girl, Leenie. Guess it’s true. He pulled the door open, and she heard him say, The suspect is ready to bargain.

Eileen dropped her head into her hands. Maybe someday, her babies would forgive her for selling them to strangers. And if they ever discovered who gave them birth, maybe they’d understand why, eight months after they were born, she’d shouldered the blame for a crime she didn’t commit.

CHAPTER ONE

Astor Cove, New York

The Hudson River Valley

Summer 2008

"I’M NOT IN the business of killing people anymore." Wade Cordell slid the contract across Lucy Sharpe’s writing table, his defined jaw and steel-blue eyes hard in contrast to his soft Southern drawl.

Bullet Catchers don’t kill people, Wade. We protect them. If pushed to the absolute limit and forced to save the life of a principal, we do what needs to be done. And we do it better than any other security and investigation firm in the world. She slid the paper right back and tapped the signature line with one red nail. That’s why I want you on my staff full-time.

Call it what you like, ma’am, but killing is killing, and I have murdered my last person.

"It’s not murder when the world is a better, safer place and thousands of people are alive because of your skills."

He shifted his muscular frame in the antique chair and nailed her with his deadly sniper’s gaze. I had no problems pulling that trigger as a Marine, Lucy. It was my job, it was war, and it was right. But those other times…

Special assignments for the CIA are as much an act of war as anything you did in Iraq, and you know that.

Spoken like a true former spook.

She acknowledged her background with a nod. But you aren’t in the CIA, you’re a free agent. And I want you as a Bullet Catcher. Not because you’re the best damn sharpshooter the Marines ever produced but because your overall instincts are masterful.

He snorted softly. Yeah, that last kill was pure genius.

You did what had to be done. I heard the details from the top of the agency, and you may think it was a mess, but—

"It was a mess."

They were pleased with the outcome. But not so pleased that you’ve refused every assignment since. I, however—she picked up the pen and offered it to him—am thrilled.

He leaned back and stretched out his long legs. I like consulting occasionally for you, Luce. It suits me to drop in quickly, then disappear. I don’t want to get too…close to anything. He treated her to a grin as sweet as pecan pie. That’s just the hunter in me, I guess.

That’s just your inability to commit to anything but a clean shot, she replied, instantly erasing his smile. You need to commit to an organization. This one.

He pushed himself up to amble over to the window and studied the summer green hills of the Hudson River Valley for a long time. Finally, he turned back to her. You have any assassins on your payroll, Luce?

Wade, you are not an assassin. You are a man with an extraordinary sniper’s skill, a hunter’s eye, and a powerful sense of duty. You briefly combined those abilities to rid the world of a few evil beasts. It didn’t work out for you, and now it’s time to do something else. She tapped the contract. Be a Bullet Catcher.

I’ve been one, he replied.

You’ve done special projects for the last five months, and you’ve been brilliant. Now it’s time to belong.

He returned to the view, undoubtedly thinking and deliberating, as he always did before making any decision.

Bullet Catchers’ clients are some mighty high-profile people, he finally said.

They can be. Some are just enormously wealthy.

I imagine they want to know exactly who is protecting them.

They aren’t privy to the backgrounds of my specialists and bodyguards, Wade. And believe me, not every Bullet Catcher can wear a halo, including me.

He turned to give her a slight smile. Yet what could be more on the side of the angels than this operation?

Which is exactly why I want you. Lucy waited a beat. I run a tight group, and a sense of community and trust is critical to our success on every assignment. As the owner of this business, I prefer full-time staff to consultants.

Because you can’t control consultants.

True. I want you full-time, committed to the job and the company. You’ll make an outstanding Bullet Catcher, and you’ll get tremendous satisfaction from the work. She folded her arms and leaned back in her chair. But I’m not going to push anymore. The decision is yours.

He strolled back to the desk. I need some more time.

To do what? she challenged. Beat yourself up for what happened in Budapest?

I shot a man in the face from two feet away, Lucy. I watched his skull crack. He looked me in the eye as he died. He dropped into the chair, his wide shoulders slumping. That’s a whole lot different from taking a shot from fifteen hundred yards, peering through a rifle sight. And I doubt you can promise that I’d never have to do that again, as somone’s paid protector.

I won’t lie to you, Wade. You might have to kill someone again in the line of duty. But most of the time, you’ll be saving lives and protecting people. You may be looking for missing persons, and hunting is another of your proficiencies—along with a keen mind and a steady hand. Honestly, what else are you going to do with your life?

He lifted one impressive shoulder. I haven’t figured that out yet, but I will. I like to take my time and plan things.

All right. Disappointed, she was sliding the unsigned contract back into his file when her fingers grazed the paperwork for her next meeting…and lightning struck. She plucked the folder out and held it to her chest, regarding him. I was going to send Donovan Rush on this case as his first official assignment, since it’s a gimme.

An assignment so cushy they should pay you to take it?

Precisely. She handed him the file. My gift to you. Go take a few days in paradise, and find a woman.

Humor glinted like ice in his eyes. So everything your men say is true.

That I have a kind, understanding heart, and I’m a goddess to work for?

He laughed at her sarcasm. That you have elevated manipulation to an art form and don’t take no for an answer.

Oh, that. But I’m not manipulating you. I’m giving you time and a lovely place to think and plan. You’ll never have to touch your Smith and Wesson. The only talent you’ll use is charm, she added with a wink.

Wade opened the folder and glanced at the top page. Who is Vanessa Porter, and what sins has she committed?

Nothing but being born and adopted on the black market. We need to find her.

He glanced up. I thought that case was closed after Adrien Fletcher located Miranda Lang out in California a few months ago. I did some backup for him on the takedown. The cult leader who was terrorizing Miranda Lang was turned over to the FBI.

Yes, and Miranda went with Fletch to South Carolina and met the birth mother, who, as you may recall, is in jail for murder.

He nodded, returning to the file. The mother needs a bone-marrow transplant to live, right?

Correct. But Miranda isn’t a match. We hope Vanessa Porter is.

He studied the photo clipped to the file, intrigued. How’s that?

She’s Miranda’s sister. Eileen Stafford, the birth mother, revealed that Miranda was one of triplet girls sold through the Sapphire Trail operation. Vanessa Porter is another of the three.

Wade looked at the photo of an impeccably dressed blonde striding down Wall Street, a cell phone pressed to her ear, a sleek briefcase clutched in her other hand, no-nonsense black glasses completing the look. He skimmed through a few more pages, which described a single, workaholic money manager living in Manhattan.

According to your men in California, Jack Culver thinks this Eileen Stafford might be innocent.

Jack is not one of my men, Lucy said coolly. He’s simply a PI who initially launched this investigation on behalf of Eileen Stafford. Her guilt or innocence isn’t my concern. Nothing that involved former Bullet Catcher Jack Culver was her concern. I promised to locate Vanessa Porter, and I have. She’s a passenger on a Utopia Cruise Line sailing clipper, currently cruising the Leeward Islands. The next stop is St. Kitts. I’m offering you a few days in the islands, a pretty blonde to persuade to meet her birth mother, and a chance to think about what you want to do with your life.

He glanced at the pages again, returning to the photo. How much time do I have?

Not much. Stafford is in a coma and fading fast. If we’re going to reunite her with her daughters and try to find a bone-marrow match, we have to move quickly. There may not be time for Vanessa to finish her Caribbean cruise—which could be a sticking point, since she evidently hasn’t taken a day off in six years.

What if she doesn’t believe me? A financial wizard will probably demand irrefutable proof. We have, what… He pulled a paper out. A list of babies born in this farmhouse and sold sometime in the summer of 1977. No birth certificate? No legal docs?

We have something. She touched her nape. Under her hair, there should be a small tattoo. Evidently, all three girls got them at birth. Once she hears the story, her sister Miranda is hoping she’ll have a soft heart.

This Wall Street high roller doesn’t look like she has a soft anything.

You’ll never know until you find her.

He closed the file and stood. All right. I’m in. Tell Donovan I’m sorry I stole his gimme job, and thanks for the R-and-R.

Lucy stood to shake hands. Thank you, Wade. Sage will arrange for the Bullet Catchers jet to get you down there, and she’ll hook you up with an international phone and a password for our locator system to track you. She’ll also have all the necessary paperwork for you and a bodyguard’s license to carry concealed anywhere in the world.

There was skepticism in his smile. And here I thought I’d never have to touch my S-and-W.

She came around her desk and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. Only in extreme situations.

Exactly what I’m trying to avoid.

After Wade left, Lucy reread the confidential report on Budapest she’d managed to get from the agency. It had been a wreck, but they still believed in Wade Cordell, and so did she. This trip to the French West Indies was a brilliant way to remind him of how great the Bullet Catchers job could be. Then he’d sign, and they’d both be happier.

If not, she’d still be looking for a fearless, intelligent security professional with unparalleled sharpshooting skills for her staff. And Wade Cordell, a man she admired and respected, would still be trying to make peace with the fact that his greatest talent was killing people.

Vanessa Porter was not his type.

Not that Wade didn’t appreciate a tall, sexy blonde as much as the next male, especially when her black tank top and white shorts hugged some sweet curves. But something about her irritated him—even from fifty feet away with clusters of tourists separating them across Port Zante.

The horn-rimmed glasses? A power play. The speed of her trajectory? That screamed Yankee to him. The little left-right sway in her backside that grabbed the eye of every man she passed? He despised women who drew attention to themselves. Her generous breasts were more than the requisite handful, her hair needed a six-inch trim and something to keep it from flying all over the place, and those thighs? They didn’t quite touch at the top, as if there were room for…someone else in there.

She was plenty womanly, all right, but not feminine. He liked a sweet, tender peach, all squeezably soft and fresh. Vanessa Porter was no peach.

She was a tart.

And just for the record, this tart was not on vacation. He didn’t have to scope her for ten minutes to figure that out. She’d disembarked a water taxi from a sailing ship anchored a half-mile away and held a brief conversation with an older woman who wore a ridiculous orange sun hat and a matching muumuu. Discussing an itinerary or shopping and lunch plans? But then she took off at the speed of light, leaving the big orange hat looking vaguely disappointed.

Wade followed her, easily matching her speed and agility but marveling at it.

She navigated packs of tourists on the promenade, sidestepping street vendors who hawked their wares, heading straight into the crowded streets and clogged sidewalks of Basseterre. Carrying only a huge handbag, her flip-flops snapping on the pavement, she moved like a heat-seeking missile with no camera or guidebook in sight. She was on a mission, all right, and it wasn’t to sightsee in the capital of St. Kitts.

But whatever she had on her agenda, Wade was about to change it.

He planned to get the adoption-and-dying-mother announcement over with as quickly and cleanly as possible. Find the target, scope out the situation, take a clean shot, be done.

If he got lucky, she’d take the Bullet Catchers plane to South Carolina all by herself, and he could hang around the tropics with no shirt, no shoes, no problems.

Watching her buzz through Basseterre, that fantasy faded fast. Everything about her body language was uninviting and closed. Her delicate jaw was set in the direction she strode, her left arm clutching her bag like a warrior’s shield, her right hand pressed protectively to her side as she barreled along. What was so dang important?

Maybe that was just the walk of a New Yorker, as observed by a man who grew up fifty miles south of Alabama. Still, he followed her easily, his interest notching up. After years of stealthily tailing targets, Wade had gotten very good at surmising what someone was up to.

And Vanessa Porter, thirty-one-year-old Wall Street high flyer who hadn’t taken a vacation in six years and pulled in a quarter-mil a year—base pay—as vice president and director of mergers and acquisitions at Razor Partners LLC, was definitely up to something.

Every few minutes, she whipped out a handheld device and angled it to the sun, touching the screen and muttering to herself. Once, just for fun, he circled around and brushed by her and heard what his mama called the dirtiest of dirty words when she didn’t get whatever she wanted from the little computer.

She’d glanced up and met his gaze, holding it longer than any Southern girl who’d been schooled in the art of averting her eyes. She gave him a thorough checking-out before she zoomed on. She didn’t pause to admire the landmark tower, inhale the sweetness of the frangipani that hung over the whole island, or toss some change to the herds of barefoot children pleading for pennies on every corner. She sailed right past candy-colored buildings and marched over cobblestones and bricks with the focus of a woman who knew exactly where she was going and why.

Wade stayed right on her tail and watched those white shorts hitch left, right, left, like her own military march.

Not far from the Circus clock she slowed her step, glanced up and down the busy intersection of Fort and Banks Street, then crossed to enter the Ballahoo Restaurant. The tables were outdoor, under umbrellas, mostly peppered with the early lunch crowd, and she snaked through them straight to the bar, where she levered herself into an empty stool and whipped out that handheld again.

Wade followed, murmuring some Excuse me’s she’d no doubt skipped, and stood close enough to her to hear but not draw attention.

The bartender placed an empty cocktail napkin in front of her. CSR and Tang? It’s the official drink of St. Kitts, you know.

No, thank you. She slid something across the bar. Have you seen this man in here in the past few weeks?

So that’s what she was up to. On the hunt for the one that got away.

The bartender raised his brows a little, glanced at the picture, then at Vanessa. No, sorry.

Wade saw her shoulders sag in frustration. She pushed the picture forward again. Are you sure?

The man’s smile faded. I’m sure. And if you’re going to sit here, you need to buy a drink.

Are you absolutely positive?

The bartender glowered at her. To be fair, the man had barely looked at the picture, and Wade would have wondered the same thing. Only he’d have taken the time to get friendly first, to make a connection with the potential informant and probably get a better response.

Listen. She leaned closer and reached for the bartender’s hand. I know about this place.

Wade glanced around the bamboo bar and its higher-end clientele. What about the place?

The bartender’s black eyes narrowed. I have never seen your man in here. Sorry. He turned away.

She stared at him for a second, then turned in her stool to survey the patrons. She lingered over a table of four young men, tanned, toned, and dressed in the tourists’ uniform of khakis, T-shirts, and flip-flops. One of them said something; they all laughed and toasted frosty mugs of beer.

She watched for another few seconds, gathered her giant bag, her phone, and her picture, and headed straight for the table. The laughter died down when she reached them, changing to a look of surprised interest.

If she was out to get lucky, maybe she didn’t realize she’d gone to the wrong side of the street. That group was more interested in one another than in a woman in short shorts and a tight top.

Wade moved to the other end of the bar and leaned against the last stool. He couldn’t hear the conversation, but he had a direct view of the table and their interaction.

Out came the picture again, passed from man to man. The first three shook their heads. The last one studied it and said something, eliciting laughter from the others.

Except for Vanessa, who gave them a tight, impatient smile. Then she crouched down and spoke again, her mouth moving as fast as her feet had, and whatever she said definitely held the men’s attention. One nodded. Another put a sympathetic hand on her arm.

Buy you a drink?

Wade turned from the scene to an older man who stood next to him, quickly taking in an impression of wealth and confidence.

Unless you’re more interested in that table of playboys you’re ogling, the man added.

His target had led him right into a gay bar.

No, thanks, he said, but the other man eased into the next barstool, forcing Wade to move his arm.

You on vacation?

Business. Wade turned away, just in time to catch one of the men at the table write something on a paper napkin and hand it to Vanessa.

"What business are you in? Modeling? You’ve got the build for