Gabriel West: Still The One. Fiona Brand

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      Carter braked at an intersection. Cars had begun to fill the streets—early morning commuters and taxis heading for the airport to catch passengers off the red-eye flights. A truck loaded with melons shifted down a gear and eased through the intersection, heading for the markets. Port Moresby was waking up.

      An aging ambulance screamed past them, lights flashing. A cold chill chased across West’s skin, twitched deep in his belly, even though the ambient temperature was warm. He lifted a hand to his face, rubbed compulsively at his temples.

      A fine tremor ran through his hands. He let out a breath. That was shaky, too.

      He was going into shock.

      Oh, jeez…damn. Tyler.

      A hot pain burst to life in the center of his chest. That’s what had done it. He’d thought it was her, and now he was going to pieces.

      He closed his eyes and let his head drop back onto the cracked vinyl of the seat. The breath sifted from between his teeth. Tyler.

      He was going crazy. The psych team would chew him up, spit him out, and that was if he didn’t get himself committed first.

      Lately—the last couple of months—as hard as he’d tried, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

      Chapter 2

      One month later, Auckland, New Zealand.

      Gabriel West was back in her life.

      Dr. Tyler Laine’s fingers slipped on her laptop keyboard. The machine beeped, and a cartoon character popped onto the screen. A little balloon message sprang out of the side of its head, politely asking if she needed help.

      For long seconds, Tyler stared blankly at the ridiculous creature with its cheerful face, her overtired mind abruptly incapable of grasping the simple actions required to close the help file.

      She’d been making lists, staring at lists, for hours, trying to shed some light on the mystery of who had walked into her family’s vault and stolen a set of ancient jade artifacts that had been under her care for the past three months, before her reputation and her career were shredded beyond redemption. She needed to make sense of a burglary that didn’t make any kind of normal sense.

      The jade pieces were unique, priceless, but it wasn’t so much the quality of the objects, but their age and the mystery shrouding them that had caught and held the attention of experts and collectors alike.

      Jade, like many minerals, could generally be traced to its country of origin. It was simply a matter of profiling the mineral content and then matching it up with the characteristics exhibited by jade from different countries or locations. Sometimes the jade could even be traced to the particular mine it had come from. The set of three objects had been analyzed and identified as extraordinarily high-quality nephrite, originating from the Sinkiang region in China. The objects: belt and scabbard accoutrements, and a round vessel carved in the shape of a bird, had also been dated. They were neolithic in origin and had been carved approximately three and a half thousand years ago, during the Shang dynasty. All three pieces were old enough, and rare enough, to be the jewel in any collection without the added mystery of how they had come to be included with Maori grave goods on the small island nation of Aotearoa, New Zealand, thousands of miles away from China.

      It wasn’t unusual for artifacts to be stolen from museums, or looted from archeological sites. The theft of artifacts from war-torn countries was rife. But it was unusual for anyone to want to steal artifacts that were so world-renowned they could never hope to display them.

      Anger flickered, warming her, but even that emotion had become faded, distant, as exhaustion closed in on her, sucking the last remnants of her vitality so that she simply sat, motionless, her eyes fixed on the screen until the minute irritation of the electronic flicker made her blink.

      A fine tremor ran through her, jerking her back to an awareness of just how punchy she’d become. Her mind was functioning, barely, but her body was closing down; her pulse slow, viscid—her breathing shallow and long-drawn-out.

      She hadn’t slept more than four hours in the last seventy-two, and she couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten anything that could remotely pass for a square meal. She could remember taking a few bites of a sandwich in the half-hour respite she’d had between police interviews that afternoon, but she couldn’t for the life of her recall what had been in the sandwich. She’d been having trouble concentrating all day, her mind blanking out for short periods of time. If she closed her eyes now, she would fall asleep in her chair.

      Her hand found the mouse, her fingers stiff and clumsy as she moved it on the pad until she located the electronic cursor on the screen, then centered it on the cartoon character.

      Help.

      She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “If you’ve got an FBI unit on hold…maybe.”

      She clicked the mouse, bringing up the menu, then closed the file, sending the little intruder back into its hidey-hole.

      Right now she could use the FBI, Interpol, the CIA, a SWAT team…whatever.

      Letting out a breath, she hooked off her spectacles, sat back from the bright glow of light pooling her desk and ran a hand over her sleek knot of hair to loosen the tension.

      The list of private collectors she’d been compiling from Laine’s sales records dating back for the past ten years was starkly illuminated by the bluish glow of the screen. The names could have been written in Chinese characters for all the good it did her.

      Her eyelids drooped again, and a picture of West strolling toward his car as she’d left for work this morning floated into her mind and she blinked, banishing the image.

      She desperately needed to work, to focus, but the fact that the husband who had walked out on her five years ago was now practically her next-door neighbor kept distracting her, so that she found herself staring into space, precious minutes out of her long working day lost.

      Her stomach rumbled. Frowning, she checked her watch. Almost eight. Past time she was out of here.

      “Cancel the FBI unit.” She smothered a yawn as she saved the file to a disk. “What I need is an analyst.”

      The tawny gleam of light off an egg-shaped tiger’s-eye worry stone caught her eye as she waited for her computer to shut down. Absently, Tyler picked it up, her fingers smoothing the silky curves, her mind abruptly shifting back to a time, eight years ago, when she’d been mesmerized by eyes that had burned with the same intense shades of gold.

      Gabriel.

      Dispassionately, she examined the tension that held her motionless when all she wanted to do was leave the office, drive home, ransack the fridge for a snack, then crawl into bed and forget that the world she’d so carefully constructed around herself since she was eight years old was coming apart.

      She was crazy even to examine the past. Five years ago she’d asked West to leave, and the husband she’d never been able to tame had packed his bags and walked, leaving for another secret assignment in some foreign country—preferring the edgy danger of the SAS, the hardship and the uncertainties—maybe even a bullet in the dark—to spending time with her.

      For months she’d clung to the fantasy СКАЧАТЬ