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Match Play
Merline Lovelace
Match Play
Merline Lovelace
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#ub3434fd2-6bda-518e-a779-2f715e3841f8)
Title Page (#uff0ac17a-d465-5d03-bd05-cf20a46057f6)
About the Author (#u87c5600e-611a-5af5-be3f-2ecda25ce492)
Dedication (#u1a4d49fa-ac11-5a40-919a-b820ff163100)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_1d04c3a8-5457-5cbe-962a-f895aedc619e)
Chapter 2 (#ulink_3675c186-41c4-5299-953c-35d33ac8f9ef)
Chapter 3 (#ulink_de1119a6-2fcf-5f46-a068-ccd56ae11320)
Chapter 4 (#ulink_b45954e2-d43d-5962-a48f-ae532dbb374f)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Merline Lovelace served at bases all over the world, including tours in Taiwan, Vietnam and at the Pentagon. When she hung up her uniform for the last time, she decided to combine her love of adventure with her flair for storytelling, basing many of her tales on her experiences in the service.
Since then she’s produced more than seventy action-packed sizzlers. Check Merline’s website, www.merlinelovelace.com, for news, contests and publication dates.
To my sweetie, with whom I’ve shared so many
wonderful adventures and jaunts around the world.
Here’s to all the fun trips yet to come!
Chapter 1 (#ulink_0f5006e5-6358-5af1-b99a-40db75115477)
“That’s all we have?”
Undercover operative Dayna Duncan lifted a sunbleached brow. Her green eyes, so vivid against her tanned skin, locked on her boss.
“Wu Kim Li is playing in the Women’s International Pro-Am Charity Tournament and whispered an urgent message to another golfer that her father is flying to Scotland to watch her compete?”
“That’s all we have,” Nick Jensen confirmed.
Nick, code name Lightning, had run the ultrasecret organization known only as OMEGA for more years than he wanted to count now. It was headquartered in a brick town house just off Massachusetts Avenue, in the heart of Washington, D.C.’s embassy district. A discreet bronze plaque beside the front door identified the building as home to the offices of the President’s Special Envoy—one of those meaningless titles given to well-heeled contributors to campaign war chests. Not more than a handful of insiders knew the Special Envoy also served as director of an organization so small and so secret that its agents were activated only at the request of the President himself.
One of those agents was preparing to go into the field now. Dayna Duncan, code name Rogue, had arrived at the town house via a secret underground access and been whisked up to OMEGA’s hightech Control Center mere moments ago. This wasn’t Dayna’s first op, by any means, but from the little she’d heard so far, it sounded as though it might be right up her alley.
Lightning’s next question confirmed her guess. “What kind of handicap are you carrying these days?”
“A two,” she replied, scrunching her nose in disgust. Golf was more of a hobby now than the passion it had once been, but Dayna still played to win.
“You do know,” her boss drawled, “most of us weekend duffers would kill for a two handicap?”
“I’ll be back to scratch by the Pro-Am Charity Tournament,” she predicted confidently. “You are sending me to Scotland to get close to Wu and her daddy, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“Yes!”
A former college all-star athlete, Dayna had twice won Olympic gold in the controlled mayhem known as white-water kayaking. She took her code name from the Rogue River in Oregon, where she’d first learned to run rapids. Her current job as a consultant at one of the nation’s foremost outdoor sports-training centers gave her both flexibility and the perfect cover for her OMEGA assignments.
Especially this one. Eighteen-year-old golf prodigy Wu Kim Li was one of those international celebrities everyone loved to hate. Incredibly skilled, obnoxiously temperamental, the North Korean won as many fans by sinking a long putt as she turned off by her tirades when she missed a short one. But it was the golfer’s father who had captured OMEGA’s attention.
“What’s the story on Dr. Wu?” she asked. “I know he’s some kind of a scientist working on hush-hush stuff.”
Nick flicked a switch and filled the Control Center’s wall-size screen with the intent, unsmiling face of Wu Kim Li’s father.
“This is our most recent photo of Dr. Wu Xia-Dong. The photo was hard to come by, as he hasn’t traveled outside North Korea in almost a decade. His government keeps him on a short leash. No surprise, considering he’s one of their foremost nuclear weapons engineers.”
“Uh-oh. I’m guessing that doesn’t make him real popular with the White House.”
“To put it mildly.”
Relations between the United States and North Korea, always shaky, had deteriorated steadily in recent months over Korea’s stubborn determination to develop nuclear weapons. The situation had become so tense that the State Department had warned U.S. citizens to think twice about doing business with or traveling to North Korea. As Dayna studied the face on the screen, she wondered how much Dr. Wu had contributed to those tensions.
“What’s the thinking?” she asked. “Why did Kim Li whisper that urgent message about her father’s attendance at the golf tournament in Scotland?”
“The CIA has picked up subtle vibes that Wu is chafing under the constraints his government imposes on him. They’re convinced he wants to defect. Your task will be to find out if that’s true and, if so, effect the escape.”
Nick didn’t have to tell his agent how absolutely vital this op was to U.S. national security. Her low whistle indicated she’d grasped the implications immediately.
“What about the daughter? Is she in on this, too?”
“We think so.”
He brought another photo up on the screen. This one captured Wu Kim Li in midswing, displaying the perfect form and incredible power that had led the media to christen her Tigress Wu.
“As you well know,” Nick said, “she makes millions in product endorsements. Since she lives in a Communist state, however, only a fraction of those revenues come to her personally.”
“If that,” Dayna commented. “I’ve competed against athletes from Communist countries. The State produces them, the State reaps the reward. Particularly North Korea. They won’t let their athletes train anywhere but in their own country.”
“Precisely. And Wu has more than product endorsements to tempt her. She’s hinted that she’s interested in a possible career in the movies.”
“She certainly has the face and figure for it,” Dayna agreed. “Too bad she’s such a little bitch. Hollywood will have trouble casting her as anything but a werewolf.”
Nick left the photo on the screen as he studied his field agent. Wu Kim Li wasn’t the only athlete with the face and figure to make it big in Hollywood. Rogue’s shoulder-length tumble of honey-colored hair framed a face dominated by sculpted cheekbones and wide, forest-green eyes. Regular and strenuous exercise had honed her body to a perfect symmetry of line and curve. Posters of her lithe form molded by the wet suit she’d worn in her last run for Olympic gold still sold for megabucks on eBay.
“Think you can get past Wu’s bitchiness and gain her trust?”
“The first task, sure. The second task might be tougher. I’ll find some way to connect, though.”
Lightning nodded. Rogue was one of his top operatives. If anyone could crack through Wu Kim Li’s ring of bodyguards and watchdogs, she could.
“While you work the daughter, Hawkeye will work the father.”
Surprised, Rogue flicked a glance at the world map on the wall of the Control Center. Signals sent via GPS satellites pinpointed the exact location of the three OMEGA agents currently in the field. One of them was Mike Callahan, code name Hawkeye.
“Isn’t Hawk in Algeria?”
“He is, but he’s about to wrap things up there. He’ll fly from Algiers and connect with you in Scotland.”
“Good. We work well together.”
No surprise there, Nick thought. A former military cop and world-class sharpshooter, Mike Callahan had racked up almost as many trophies and titles in his field of expertise as Dayna had in hers. They had nothing but respect for each other—on and off the job.
Now, for the tricky part.
Hitting the switch, Nick took Wu Kim Li’s face off the screen and replaced it with an aerial map of Scotland. The town of St. Andrews sat midway up the east coast, at the tip of a peninsula that jutted into the North Sea. Zooming in, Nick focused on the Royal Air Force Base a few kilometers from the town.
“If you confirm the Wus want to defect, the best place for the extraction is here, at RAF Leuchars.”
Dayna agreed with his assessment. “It’s been years since I played St. Andrews, but I remember seeing British fighters landing and taking off from the base.”
“British fighters aren’t the only planes bedded down at RAF Leuchars. The U.S. also has a detachment of B-2 Stealth bombers there.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Few people do. The British government is under intense fire for its support of the Iraqi War. A growing antiwar movement doesn’t want to see that support continue or expand. When word leaked that the B-2s might go in at RAF Fairford, in the south of England, suspected al-Qaeda sympathizers infiltrated what began as a peaceful protest march and turned it into a near riot. As a result, the U.S. and U.K. governments decided to bed the B-2s down farther north, outside St. Andrews. So far the presence of the bombers at RAF Leuchars has remained an unconfirmed rumor among the local populace.”
He swiveled his chair, turning away from the screen to watch Rogue’s reaction to his next comment.
“We have a detachment of USAF aircrews and support personnel at RAF Leuchars. One of the pilots is Captain Luke Harper.”
Rogue was good. Damned good. Her green eyes showed only a bare flicker of emotion.
“Luke and I are ancient history.”
Not that ancient. The romance between one of America’s most promising—and photogenic—athletes and her handsome young lieutenant had made for great TV spots during the hype leading up to the 2004 Olympics. They were the perfect couple—the tanned, charismatic golden girl with the flashing smile and infectious enthusiasm for her sport and the air-force pilot she’d met while they were both students at the University of Colorado.
Their romance died an abrupt death six months before the Olympics. In subsequent interviews, Dayna had turned aside the inevitable questions about her love life with a laugh and vague references to the difficulty of sustaining a long-distance relationship. There had been no lack of men in her life in the years since, but none had lasted long or generated the kind of intense media interest as her first and very public love.
“I can have Harper transferred off the base if you think he might compromise this op in any way,” Lightning told her. “Just say the word.”
Rogue had been in the business too long to dismiss the suggestion without giving it serious consideration. Lips pursed, she examined the issue from all angles.
“The only problem I see is if the media picks up on his presence and connects him to the Stealth Bombers.”
“Security at the base is airtight. As far as the general public knows, the USAF personnel stationed there are attached to the RAF fighter wing as part of an exchange program. I’m more concerned that Harper’s presence might impact your performance in the tournament.”
Rogue didn’t hesitate this time. “Breaking up with Luke Harper didn’t throw me off stride in the Olympics. After all these years, the mere fact that he’s stationed at an air base a few kilometers away isn’t going to affect my game.”
Which brought them around to another touchy subject, one Lightning suspected might generate even more sparks.
The Women’s International Pro-Am Charity Tournament was open to any amateur or professional golfer willing to put up the ten-thousand-dollar entry fee. While the main object was to raise money for the International Red Cross, it was still a competition. All entrants could play the first two qualifying rounds. Only those posting the lowest scores would make the cut for the final two rounds.
“Barring some unforeseen disaster,” he said, bracing himself for the explosion he knew would come, “Wu Kim Li will compete in the final rounds. We need to make sure you do, too.”
“Make sure?” Deep creases slashed into her forehead. “You’re not suggesting we rig the tournament, are you?”
“Not exactly.”
“C’mon, boss! I’ve never cheated in my life and don’t intend to start now. I know my golf game is a little rusty, but I’ll make the cut.”
“I’m sure you will, too. Assuming worst-case scenario, however…”
“There is no worst-case scenario,” Rogue countered stubbornly. “I will make the cut.”
“Assuming worst-case scenario,” Nick continued with unruffled calm, “we need to make sure you at least tie with the last-place finisher in the qualifying rounds so you both go on to the championship round.”
She didn’t like it. He could see disgust written all over her face. She’d come around, though. She understood the stakes in this game and would balance her sporting instincts against the needs of the United States.
It took a few minutes. Her teeth stayed locked. A muscle twitched in the side of her jaw. Her fingers drummed a furious tattoo on the console.
“Okay,” she finally conceded. “Assuming worstcase scenario, how do we pull it off?”
A rueful smile spread across Nick’s face. His wife, the guru of all things electronic for OMEGA and several other government agencies, had jumped at this challenge. Mackenzie was huddled with the wizards in OMEGA’S Field Dress Unit now.
“Mac is waiting for you upstairs. She’s been working on several devices.”
“Uh-oh.”
Uh-oh was right. Thankfully, FDU’s labs were sound-, shock wave- and bombproof. Its walls would contain the blast when Rogue saw what Mac and her diabolical geniuses had come up with.
Hours later, a fuming Dayna paced the first-floor reception area.
“You won’t believe what Mackenzie wants to stick in my golf bag! GPS-guided balls. Distance-finding sunglasses. A super-charged three iron, for God’s sake.”
Lightning’s temporary executive assistant sat behind her elegant Louis XV desk. Gillian Ridgeway, daughter of two of OMEGA’s former superstars, played a mean game of golf herself. Amusement and sympathy lit her blue eyes.
“You won’t need any of those aids.”
“Damn straight, I won’t.”
Jilly continued to make sympathetic noises until Dayna worked through her snit.
“Sorry,” the agent said with a wry smile. “I just needed to let off a little steam.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
Actually, Gillian Ridgeway was there to fill in for Elizabeth Wells, longtime executive assistant to several of OMEGA’s directors. Elizabeth had undergone hip-replacement surgery the week after Jilly returned from a State Department assignment in Beijing. On leave from State and unsure whether she wanted to become a career bureaucrat, Jilly had offered to fill in for Elizabeth.
Black-haired, blue-eyed and as stunning as she was vivacious, she soon wrapped OMEGA’s male agents around her little finger. The female agents liked her, too, which said even more for her sparkling personality.
She and Dayna had grown especially close. The two women were almost the same age and both enjoyed sports. They teamed up for golf or tennis whenever Rogue was in D.C. and routinely skunked their opponents. They’d also shared a few locker-room secrets. So Dayna wasn’t surprised when Gillian made a too-casual observation.
“I understand Hawkeye is working this op with you.”
“That’s right. He’s flying in from Algiers. We meet up in Scotland.”
“Say hi for me, will you?”
“I will, but only if you promise to stop torturing the poor man.”
“Torturing him?” Gillian assumed an expression of wide-eyed innocence. “Moi?”
“Come off it, Jilly. You know you lay on a double dose of sultry whenever Hawk’s around. Despite that, he still thinks of you as the gawky teenager he taught to shoot.”
“Maybe,” she replied with a small smirk, “and maybe not. Just tell him hello for me.”
When Dayna hooked up with Hawk in her suite at one of St. Andrews’ venerable old hotels, she dutifully relayed the message.
“Gillian said to say hi. And you look like hell.”
Hawk shot her a surprised look from sunken, redrimmed eyes. “Jilly said that?”
“The last bit came from me. What happened in Algiers?”
“Sand, sand and more sand.” A smile slipped through the bristly beard sprouting on his cheeks and chin. “But we got Mustafa.”
Whooping, Dayna leaned across the coffee table to punch her fellow agent in the shoulder.
“Score one for our side!”
His smile took over the rest of his face. No one would classify Hawk as handsome. His features were too rugged and his tough, don’t-mess-with-me demeanor too intimidating. But when he relaxed and let the real Mike Callahan show through, Dayna could understand why Gillian was so determined to make the man see her as something other than a gangly teen.
“It took a little longer than expected,” he admitted ruefully. “I had to leave the bastard hanging across the saddle of a camel to get here in time for this tournament. Speaking of which…”
Scraping a palm across his bristly chin, he made the abrupt mental shift so necessary for survival in their business.
“Any more definitive word on whether the Wus really intend to defect?”
“None. All we have to go on is that cryptic message from Kim Li.” Dayna shuffled through the folder of material she’d prepared for him. “Here’s your registration packet and a detailed agenda.”
The International Pro-Am Charity Tournament had grown into one of the biggest events in women’s golf. Spread over an entire week, the schedule was crammed with money-raising activities. The public could watch the practice round, first two preliminary rounds and final championship rounds—all for a fee, of course. Fans and participants alike could also take part in the slew of silent auctions, continental breakfasts, autographing sessions, high teas and photo ops salted into the schedule.
“Our first official function is the kickoff banquet tonight,” Dayna informed Mike. “That’s when they’ll draw for the initial pairings and course assignments.”
She’d registered him as her personal guest, which would give him access to VIP seating at all events and, subsequently, to Dr. Wu. Along with the banquet ticket and laminated pass, she’d also prepared a thick binder.
“Mackenzie digitized the layouts for all five St. Andrews’courses. You can call up a three-dimensional topography of any hole, anytime, on your cell phone.”
“Yeah, I took a look at the layouts during the flight from Algiers. They’re pretty slick.”
“They are, but I thought you might also want hard copies to study. They’re easier on the eyes.”
Particularly eyes showing a whole lot more red than white. Hawk accepted the thick binder with heartfelt relief.
“Bless you, my child. I’ll go through the schematics this afternoon. What’s on your agenda until the banquet?”
“Wu Kim Li reserved a bay at the driving range at three o’clock. I snagged the one next to her at three-thirty. I figure it’s as good a place as any to make the initial contact.”
“Sounds like a plan. Do we need to do a comm check?”
“We should be good to go. Mac synchronized our emergency signals.”
To demonstrate, Dayna pushed one of the knobs on the stainless steel chronometer banding her lift wrist and sent a silent jolt through the identical watch on Hawk’s tanned wrist. Other knobs allowed the sophisticated devices to provide two-way communications or send data transmissions.
Assured their signals were in sync, Hawk hefted the binder and shoved out of his chair.
“I’ll see you later. Good luck with Wu.”
She’d need it, Dayna thought as she pulled on a butterscotch-colored windbreaker. Although late-May sunshine illuminated the wavy glass windows of her suite, she knew from previous experience that the breeze off St. Andrews Bay could slice like a barnacle. It could also wreak havoc with an otherwise perfect golf shot.
Zipping up the jacket, she collected her accessories. Field Dress had designed the slim, ultrachic fanny pack studded with Austrian crystals that clipped snuggly around her hip. One compartment holstered the sleek little Kahr PM40 micro-compact double-action pistol she’d cleared through British security. Others housed a spare ammo clip, her ID and credit cards and a tube of lip-gloss. A matching ball cap also studded with crystals shaded her face and contained her hair in a loose ponytail.
With her golf bag slung over her shoulder, Dayna left her two-room suite and walked to the elevators. After today she’d leave her equipment at the clubhouse storage facility for cleaning and repair. For now, its weight settled over her shoulder like an old familiar harness.
Although the hotel was a local landmark and one of the oldest in St. Andrews, it had been well maintained and modernized over the years. The elevator that ferried Dayna down four floors did so with quiet efficiency.
The lobby was a masterpiece of Victorian grandeur. High ceilings and dark paneling provided the perfect backdrop for red-tufted settees and antique sporting prints. A smoking room, book-lined library and glassed-in conservatory allowed guests to mix and mingle in the public rooms.
And mingle they did. Women dominated the milling crowd. Female corporate execs, commercial airline pilots, TV personalities, even a member of the Danish parliament—all had jumped at the chance to play with the great women golfers from around the world.
A good number of sportscasters and TV crews were also present, conducting impromptu interviews prior to tomorrow’s official media day. They’d come armed with the printed list of participants and pounced on the Olympic gold medalist the moment she appeared.
“Dayna! Dayna! Over here!”
She gave two interviews, greeted a number of friends and acquaintances and autographed a program for one of the bellmen before finally making it to the hotel entrance.
The view through the revolving glass door was enough to take any golfer’s breath away. Directly across the cobbled street lay the undulating fairways, man-eating gorse and killer sand traps of the fabled Old Course, known throughout the world as the Home of Golf. The gray granite bulk of the Royal and Ancient Golf Club ruled over the first tee with majestic splendor. Both course and clubhouse were framed by the salt marshes and sparkling waters of St. Andrews Bay.
Her gaze fixed on the panoramic vista, Dayna pushed through the revolving door and inadvertently plowed into a group of passersby.
“Excuse me. I wasn’t looking…”
The rest of the apology stuck in her throat.
Well, hell! Her first day in St. Andrews and she had to run smack into the one man she’d hoped to avoid.
“Dayna! I’ll be damned.”
An all-too-familiar grin hiked up the corners of his mouth. Before she realized his intent, he hooked an arm around her waist and swooped in for a kiss.
His mouth covered hers, and for an instant, for one searing instant, the years rolled back. She was in college again. So hungry for this man she couldn’t get enough of him, in or out of bed. So much in love she wanted the whole world to share her joy.
Reality returned with a crash. Remembering the bitterness that had followed her joy, Dayna jerked out of Luke Harper’s arms.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_948f4262-470e-5529-a691-6a737cd9fb51)
She was even more vibrant than he remembered.
The realization slammed into Luke as the woman he’d once thought he’d spend the rest of his life with backed away from him.
Her face was thinner than in their college days, her honey-colored hair lighter than he remembered. But her skin still had that healthy glow that came from regular exercise and hours spent outdoors while her eyes…
Christ, those eyes! How many times had Luke lost himself in their shimmering green depths? They’d been filled with such love and laughter then.
They weren’t now. Flashing from fury to disdain in a single heartbeat, they raked him from head to toe.
“Harper.”
That was it. No “Hey, Luke. Been a long time. Hope you finally got your head screwed on semistraight.”
“Hello, Pud.”
The pet name sent red flags into her cheeks, but before she could slice into him for using it, one of his buddies jabbed him in the ribs.
“Jeez, Harper, introduce us. Not that you need any introduction, Ms. Duncan.” Elbowing Luke aside, the lanky American thrust out his hand. “I was on leave in Athens during the last Olympics and saw you paddle across the finish line for gold. The name’s Alan. Alan Parks.”
She shook his hand and relaxed into a smile, looking so much like the woman Luke had fallen for that his stomach pitched into a ninety-degree roll.
“These clowns,” Parks said, “are Gabe, Tucker and Dweeb.”
“Dweeb?”
“His call sign. Short for dumb-ass dweeber, after he missed a direct approach to a well-lit runway at a location that shall remain nameless.”
“So you’re all flyboys?”
“We are,” Parks confirmed. “We’re on an exchange tour, attached to RAF Leuchars.”
By now the response was so automatic that it sounded authentic even to their ears.
“We saw some of the advance PR on TV about the women’s Pro-Am International,” Parks said, eyeing her golf bag. “I didn’t know you were competing in it, though.”
“I’m a last-minute entrant. And I’d better hustle over to the driving range if I want to make it past the qualifying round. Nice meeting you all.”
When she turned to Luke, all he got was a cool nod. He should have let it go with that. Like a fool, he didn’t.
“Good to see you, Dayna.”
“Sorry I can’t say the same.”
She walked off without a backward glance, leaving a stone-cold silence in her wake. Dweeb broke it with a low whistle.
“Damn, Harper. What did you do to the woman?”
Parks jumped in with a reply. “You haven’t heard the story? Dayna Duncan and our boy here used to get all hot and heavy.”
“No kidding?” Eyes wide, Dweeb followed her progress as she crossed the cobbled street. “What happened?”
“Woman got smart and dumped him. Best I recall, it happened a few months before the 2004 Olympics. That right, Harper?”
Parks had the year right but the rest of it wrong. Luke didn’t bother to correct him.
Like a radar lock, his gaze stayed fixed on Dayna’s hip-swinging stride, trim rear and long legs. All the while his mind churned up memories of how those legs used to hook around his.
They’d met during the last half of his senior year at the University of Colorado. Luke was in air force ROTC and had been selected for pilot training. Dayna was a junior. A star athlete in both golf and kayaking, she was already a prime contender for the Olympic kayaking team.
They’d dated throughout the spring and into the summer, while Luke waited for an undergraduate pilot training slot to open up. Just the memory of those long, hot days and even hotter nights had him sweating under his leather bomber jacket.
Dayna began her senior year about the time Luke left for pilot training at Columbus AFB, Mississippi. They continued a long-distance love affair throughout the fall and into the winter—until Dayna’s coach contacted Luke and bluntly informed him that she stood to lose both her scholarships and her spot on the Olympic team if she didn’t cut out the cross-country commuting and focus.
Luke knew how desperately she wanted to make the team. He also knew he was about to enter the most intensive phase of pilot training. Following his head instead of his heart, he suggested they take a break. Hurt and angry, Dayna suggested he take a flying leap.
Judging by the acid dripping from her voice a few moments ago, she obviously thought he hadn’t fallen far enough or hit anywhere near hard enough.
With a spear of regret for what they might have had, Luke thrust his hands in the pockets of his jacket and turned away.
“I need to head back to the base,” he told his buddies. “I’ve got mission prebrief in a couple hours.”
More rattled than she wanted to admit by the encounter, Dayna stalked past the Old Course’s eighteenth green. Workmen were busy erecting bleachers and scaffolding for camera crews, but she barely noticed these modern scars on the face of the ancient course.
She’d known Luke Harper was stationed at the RAF base, dammit. She should have been more prepared for a chance meeting with her old flame.
That was as good a description as any for him, Dayna thought with a stab of self-disgust. She’d gone off the deep end, but Luke Harper had never loved her. Lusted for her, yes. Driven her half out of her mind with his muscular body and his busy, busy hands, certainly. Yet he’d cut the cord fast enough when their romance began to interfere with their respective training regimens.
Something to remember, she told herself fiercely as she hailed a shuttle. The gaily decorated carts ferried golfers between the five courses, two clubhouses, modern golf academy and state-of-the-art practice center that comprised the St. Andrews Links complex.
“G’day to ye, Ms. Duncan.” The trolley driver greeted her with the rolling Scots burr that required careful attention by the listener or the services of an interpreter. “Are ye gaein’ oot for a bit o’ practice?”
“Yes, I am. Would you take me to the driving range, please.”
“I wud indeed.” Relieving her of her bag, he stowed it on the rack at the rear of the cart. “Off we go, then.”
Dayna used the short drive and the stiff breeze coming in off the bay to blow Luke Harper out of her head. The man was history. For the next week her sole focus would be Wu Kim Li.
Kim Li and this course, she thought, eyeing the rolling fairways and deep sand traps. It was the oldest course in Scotland, the playground of kings and commoners, covering a stretch of land beside the sea like an old, crumpled carpet. Unlike the manicured fairways and lushly landscaped grounds of most U.S. courses, St. Andrews pitted man against the elements. There were no stands of pine or oak to blunt the often gale-force winds that blew in from the bay, no banks of colorful azalea or rhododendrons to separate the holes.
The fairways had been planted centuries ago in a stubby, scruffy native grass that put its roots deep into the sandy soil and sent shock waves through wrists and arms when hit with a club at the wrong angle. Worse, there wasn’t a level patch anywhere on the course. The burns, sways, gorse-topped hummocks and treacherous sand traps required intense concentration on every shot. Dayna would have a real challenge to keep her ball in play and Wu Kim Li in her sights.
She found the North Korean holding court at the practice center.
A modern facility devoted to the art and science of golf, the center’s driving range boasted sixty bays with air-cushioned mats and automated power tees. Wu Kim Li occupied the center bay—in full view of television crews crammed into the glassed-in viewing area, naturally.
By shamelessly playing on her name and former Olympic glory, Dayna had snagged the bay next to the teenaged megastar. She waited patiently until the golfer who had it before her finished, then walked out to the open-sided booth. Removing the head cover from her driver, Dayna hooked the club at the small of her back and did a few stretching exercises.
The movement snagged the attention of a woman two stalls down. Obviously an amateur, the observer violated range etiquette by calling an excited greeting.
“Hi, Dayna! I’m Ann Foster. I saw you were registered for this tournament. Hope we get to play together.”
Reluctant to disturb the others’ concentration, Dayna merely smiled and tipped her club in response. The golfer in the next bay, however, wasn’t nearly as restrained.
“Tak-cho!” Wu Kim Li followed her disgusted exclamation with an immediate translation. “That mean be quiet. We practice here.”
Kim Li turned her back on the now thoroughly embarrassed amateur. Eyes narrow, she raked Dayna from the brim of her ball cap to her soft-spike shoes. She was sizing up the competition obviously, or trying to pysch her out.
No stranger to the guerilla warfare of sports, Dayna teed up a ball and swung. Her driver connected with a solid whap. The ball soared in a high, smooth arc. With another loud crack, it bounced off the metal sign designating the two-hundred-and-fifty-yards mark.
Not bad for a first practice shot. Not bad at all—unless, of course, you were trying to worm your way into the good graces of a rival sports star like Wu Kim Li.
Dayna could feel the competitive vibes eddying across the stall as the North Korean addressed her ball. With a whoosh, Wu’s driver sliced through the air.
Two seventy.
Dayna teed up, swung again.
Two seventy-five.
Wu’s driver descended, connected.
Three hundred, or close enough to generate an outburst of spontaneous applause from the women who’d interrupted their practice to watch the impromptu competition. Wu accepted the ovation as her due and unbent enough to offer Dayna a grudging compliment.
“Your swing very good.”
“Not as good as yours.”
“I young,” Wu said with a careless shrug. “Have more strength.”
Yeah, right. Dayna would love to plunk the little twerp into a kayak, drop her in Alberta’s Castle River during the spring runoff and let her see what kind of strength it took to finish the course.
Trying her damnedest to sound friendly, she teed up another ball. “They draw for the initial pairings at the banquet tonight. Maybe we’ll play together.”
Wu turned away with another shrug.
The kickoff banquet was held at the venerable Royal and Ancient Golf Clubhouse.
Showered, shaved and looking ruggedly handsome in tan slacks and a navy blazer with an embroidered Military Marksmanship Association patch on its pocket, Mike escorted Dayna into a banquet hall lavish with eighteenth-century crown moldings and intricately patterned parquet floors. Tables laden with glowing candles and sparkling crystal added to the elegant atmosphere. The waiters wore tuxedos, the women were in cocktail dresses and many of the Scottish tournament officials sported kilts. The talk, however, was all sports.
Dayna introduced Mike to some of the greats in women’s golf, many of whom said graciously that they hoped to draw her for a partner. She also met a number of the amateurs who, like her, had interrupted busy professional lives to play in this charity tournament. All the while she and Mike kept steering toward their targets.
“There they are,” Dayna murmured, indicating the Wus with a small nod.
The Koreans stood in the middle of a swarm of TV execs and tournament officials. The group also included Kim Li’s support team—her manager, her trainer, her agent, her PR rep, her bodyguards. Every one of them, Dayna knew, charged with ensuring that North Korea’s darling and her father returned home after the tournament.
Kim Li spotted their approach and summoned them into her royal presence with a lift of her chin. Her dark eyes were all over Mike as Dayna made the intros.
“This is my friend, Mike Callahan.”
“This my father, Dr. Wu Xia-Dong.”
Both Mike and Dayna shook the scientist’s hand. She didn’t need more than a touch of Wu’s clammy palm to sense his nervousness.
“You must be very proud of your daughter.”
The flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes told Dayna he’d understood the compliment, but he waited to respond until a North Korean with a badge that identified him as an official interpreter had murmured in his ear.
“So sorry. My English very bad.” Wu turned a smile on his daughter. “Kim Li make all Korea proud.”
The girl returned it with the first genuine warmth Dayna had seen on her face. Whatever else the teen had going on in her life, she obviously loved her dad.
They couldn’t have spent much time together. The detailed dossier OMEGA had assembled on the Wus indicated Kim Li had lived at a government-sponsored athletic training center for thirteen of her eighteen years. Dr. Wu’s work had kept him isolated at the center of a small, highly select cadre of scientists. Kim Li’s mother was the one who’d made periodic visits to the training center until her death a few years ago. Yet the bond between father and daughter seemed as strong and unshakable as the report had suggested.
Any defection would definitely have to be a package deal.
That thought stayed with Dayna throughout the banquet and the pairings that followed. By the luck of the draw, she was teamed with Eleanor Tolbert. A longtime member of the Ladies Professional Golf Association, Eleanor was one of its biggest money-winners. She and Dayna would have been the team to beat in scratch golf, but this was a charity event so handicaps were used to level the playing field. The ranker the amateur, the higher her handicap and the more strokes deducted from her final score.
Wu Kim Li drew one of those high-handicapped amateurs for her partner. An Irish neurosurgeon, as it turned out, with little time for golf but a wild enthusiasm for the sport. Flame-haired Brianna Kilkenny towered over her partner during the media barrage that followed the drawing. Unwilling to stand in anyone’s shadow, Wu adroitly sidestepped and took the cameras with her.
To Dayna’s intense satisfaction, the links draw put her and Eleanor on the same course as Kim Li and her partner for the initial qualifying rounds. They weren’t in the same foursome and would tee off at different times, but she would make opportunities to connect with the girl while Mike worked the father.
The two agents reconvened in Dayna’s suite after the banquet.
A cold, damp fog had rolled in off the bay. Rather than up the room’s thermostat, Dayna put a match to the kindling laid in the brick-and-tile fireplace. The neatly stacked logs soon caught the flames. Snapping and crackling, they filled the sitting room with a pine-resin scent.
Mike had studied the course layouts Dayna had given him earlier that afternoon. He’d also annotated a detailed map of the St. Andrews area. Together, they went over emergency escape routes and formulated options for detaching Wu and his daughter from their watchdogs.
“Assuming they really want to defect.”
“Yeah,” Mike agreed. “Big assumption. We’ve got the next week to find out if it’s true.”
“If it is, I don’t think Kim Li will want to pull a disappearing act until after the tournament. She’s too competitive.”
“That’s my assessment, too. We can move sooner if we have to, but for now we’ll plan to whisk her and her Papa Wu away immediately following the trophy presentation. We’ll use the crowd and the media to run interference with their handlers. I’ve coordinated with our counterparts in the CIA and British Intelligence. They’ll provide back-up, transport vehicles and escort to our departure point.”
He thumped a knuckle against the air base just northwest of the town of St. Andrews proper.
“One of the crews from the USAF detachment at RAF Leuchars will fly us back to the States. I figure I’d head over there before your practice round tomorrow and bring the detachment commander up to speed.”
Dayna hesitated. She hated to introduce the subject of her failed romance, but Hawk needed to know it might present a complication.
“Before you talk to the detachment commander, you should be aware that I used to date one of his pilots. Captain Luke Harper.”
Mike cut her a surprised look. “I remember the hype about you and some flyboy. He’s here, at Leuchars?”
“He is. Matter of fact, I bumped into him this afternoon.”
Bumped, as in locked lips. To Dayna’s profound disgust, the memory of Luke’s mouth on hers sent heat seeping into her cheeks. She fought to keep her expression neutral but Hawkeye hadn’t earned his code name by missing subtle signals. Nor had he stayed alive as long as he had in this business by shrugging off even small, seemingly innocuous incidents as mere coincidence.
“Are you sure it was a chance meeting?”
Like Hawk, Dayna had learned the hard way that training and experience were no substitutes for gut instinct. She went with hers now.
“I’m sure. I was a last-minute entry in this tournament. Harper didn’t know I was coming to St. Andrews and he doesn’t have a clue I work for the government. The problem is, he isn’t supposed to be here, either.”
When she indicated he flew the super-secret Stealth bomber, Hawk grasped the implications immediately. The material he’d studied on the flight up from Algiers had included a brief detailing of the antiwar movements in Britain and the sensitive issue of the presence of U.S. nuclear-capable bombers on British soil.
“If the media gloms on to his presence and tries to resurrect your old affair, it could jeopardize both his mission and ours.”
“Lightning and I discussed that,” Dayna replied. “Our initial assessment was that the air force has sufficient measures in place to keep their operation at Leuchars under wraps, but…”
She blew out a long breath. The unexpected encounter this afternoon had forced her to reevaluate the situation. St. Andrews was a small university town, crammed at present with newshounds from around the world. Any one of them could sniff out the story of her old flame.
“You’d better lay out the problem when you meet with the detachment commander in the morning,” she told Hawk. “Get his take on the threat to his operation.”
“Will do.” Those too-keen eyes studied hers. “What about the threat to ours?”
“I’ve been thinking about that, too. If the media does latch on to my old romance, we could use the hype to deflect attention from our efforts to get close to the Wus.”
“Something to consider,” Hawk agreed, “but you don’t sound too thrilled about letting this character back in your life. Just say the word and I’ll take him out of the picture.”
Lightning had already made that offer. Once again, Dayna turned it down.
“No need. The meeting this afternoon caught me by surprise. I’ll be prepared if it happens again.”
She was still trying to convince herself of that some four hours later.
Lifting her head, Dayna glared at the digital alarm beside her bed. When she saw the hour, she let loose with an expletive that would have earned her a warning if she’d muttered it during the tournament. Still swearing, she dropped her face into the goose-down pillow.
This was ridiculous. She was playing a double game of golf and deception tomorrow. She’d have to make every stroke count while keeping tabs on Wu Kim Li. She needed sleep.
“Get out of my head, Harper!”
Chapter 3 (#ulink_d0ac85ab-95ae-50d8-ad92-3e5d33df57c6)
Why couldn’t he put the woman out of his head?
Luke shifted restlessly in the mission commander’s seat of his bat-winged B-2. The pilot whose performance he’d been evaluating occupied the left seat, breathing easier now that he’d completed most of his check ride.
Outside the cockpit a star-studded night sky stretched to infinity. Inside, the instrument panel gave off a muted glow shielded by specially screened and darkened windows.
“Thirty-two thousand and holding steady on course niner-three-six,” the other pilot reported.
Luke acknowledged their position and rolled his shoulders to relieve the strain of his seat harness. They’d been in the air for seven hours now, a mere hop compared to their normal missions. Tonight’s training run had taken them out over the Atlantic for an in-flight refueling. They would return to base before dawn, gliding in with the same stealth that made the B-2 invisible to the world’s most sophisticated radars—and to antiwar protestors hoping to obtain photos that would prove beyond any doubt the bomber’s presence in the U.K.
The B-2 crews and support personnel were every bit as determined to remain as stealthy as the two-billion-dollar aircraft they flew. Hence the night-only takeoffs and landings and the fiction that their detachment was part of an exchange program at Leuchars.
So far the ploy had worked. Would it still work if the paparazzi sniffed out the fact that Dayna Duncan’s old flame just happened to be in St. Andrews?
From past experience, Luke knew how the media rooted around for personal tidbits to salt into their coverage of otherwise impersonal sporting events. He and Pud had once provided just the mix of glamour and romance the tabloids loved.
The nickname tugged his mouth into a lopsided grin. Pud, short for the puddles he’d teased her about paddling around in. The teasing had lasted only until she’d taken Luke for his first white-water run.
The experience had been as exhilarating as any he’d every experienced. It had also scared the crap out of him. When they’d gone over Horseshoe Falls, his stomach had dropped right through the bottom of the fiberglass kayak. He could still hear Dayna’s joyous whoop, still see her hair flying under her helmet and wet suit molded to her curves as they…
Well, hell! There she was again. Front and center in his thoughts.
Resigned, Luke checked the instruments and gave up trying to shove the woman out of his head.
She was still there, hovering around the edges of his mind, when he finished his mission debrief. Slinging his flyaway bag over his shoulder, he exited the debriefing area and was headed for the crew room to change out of his flight suit when one of other pilots hailed him.
“The old man wants to see you, Harper.”
Nodding, Luke detoured to the suite of offices tucked in one corner of the massive hangar. He figured the colonel was waiting for an update on the check ride just completed and prepared a rundown in his mind.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
Colonel Don Anderson waved him into the office. Big, barrel-chested and as strong as a Brahma bull, Anderson had been part of the initial B-2 cadre. In the decade since, he’d racked up more hours than most pilots did in a lifetime. Customarily gruff and to the point, Anderson jerked his chin at the stranger seated in the chair angled in front of his desk.
“Harper, this is Mike Callahan. He’s with the government. Callahan, Captain Luke Harper.”
The stranger rose and offered his hand. His square-shouldered bearing suggested he’d spent at least one hitch in the military. The embroidered sharpshooter’s patch plainly visible above his visitor’s badge indicated he wasn’t someone to mess with.
“Harper.”
Callahan’s grip stopped well short of bone-crunching but something in the man’s narrow-eyed, assessing look stirred an instinctive and wholly atavistic response in Luke. Without warning, the skin on the back of his neck prickled.
“Callahan’s got all the necessary security clearances,” Anderson said. “I want you to show him our operation. Bring him back here when you’re done.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wondering what this was all about, Luke stashed his flyaway bag with the colonel’s exec and walked Callahan toward the hangar bay.
“I don’t know how much the colonel told you about our detachment—”
“He indicated you’re one of several recently established forward operating locations. Before that, B-2 crews flew combat missions from your home base at Whiteman AFB, Missouri. Must have made for a helluva long haul.”
“It did,” Luke admitted. “It also made for a surreal life. A pilot could roll out of bed, kiss his wife goodbye, fly a thirty- to forty-hour combat mission against heavily defended targets halfway around the world and return home in time to take out the trash the next morning. Even with forward basing, we spend a lot of time in the air.”
Callahan’s glance dropped. “I don’t see a ring. No one to kiss goodbye in the morning?”
“No one special,” Luke replied, ruthlessly suppressing the image that leaped into his head of a laughing, loving Dayna. He’d had his chance with her and blown it. It was just his own tough luck he hadn’t found anyone else in the years since.
“So how long does it take to prepare for one of these marathon missions?” Callahan asked.
“If we’re lucky, we get three or four days advance notice. That gives us time to study the target, plan our ingress and egress routes and adjust our sleep and eating patterns to maximize our alertness in flight.”
“I can see sleep, but eating?”
“The air force shelled out big bucks to dieticians to determine optimal liquid intake and the best ratio of carbs versus protein to sustain long periods of activity.” Luke had to grin. “All those experts finally concluded we’d found an optimal mix in our traditional bomber dogs. Hot dogs doused in chili,” he explained. “We warm them in the cockpit heater.”
Shouldering open a door, he led the way into one of the two cavernous hangars the Brits had turned over to the B-2 detachment. The aircraft Luke had just flown occupied center court, being serviced by the ground crews.
“Our birds remain undercover at all times while on the ground. We want to keep their advanced design and special ‘low-observable’ characteristics away from prying eyes. In flight, they’re damned near invisible. Pretty slick, aren’t they?”
And then some! Mike Callahan had jumped out of plenty of planes during his stint as an army Ranger but he’d never seen anything as lethal as these black boomerangs. They were immense, with a wingspan of at least a hundred-and-fifty feet, yet their flat fuselage and long, sloping cockpits made them appear saucer-thin from the side. The darkened cockpit windows seemed to follow the two men like a predator’s eyes as Harper led the way across a hangar floor painted and buffed to a bright sheen.
“The B-2’s unique bat-wing shape and the special coating used on its skin are designed to deflect radar waves.” Harper slapped a hand against the cowling of one of the four powerful engines. “And these babies are so quiet they wouldn’t wake your grandma from her afternoon nap if we flew over her house at a hundred feet.”
A slight exaggeration, Callahan guessed wryly, although Harper’s description of how the engines dispensed their exhaust across the top of the wings to shield the aircraft from heat-seeking missiles below brought the seriousness of its mission into sharp focus.
As he listened to the pilot explain the details of his unit’s operation, Mike assessed the man behind the uniform. Rogue had stated unequivocally that any feelings she’d once harbored for Harper had died years ago. She was also confident that his presence at RAF Leuchars wouldn’t throw her off her game. Mike trusted her judgment on that. Like him, she’d competed in countless nerve-bending competitions. She knew better than anyone else what would—or wouldn’t—impact her performance.
The question that now had to be answered was whether her presence would impact Harper’s mission if the press IDed him as Dayna’s former lover and came sniffing around the captain. Mike had discussed the situation with his commander when they’d met earlier. The more he saw of the B-2 operation, the more he agreed with the colonel’s decision to take drastic measures to shield the detachment from prying eyes.
From the pride in Harper’s voice as he described his bird and its mission, Mike guessed the pilot was not going to like those measures.
That became instantly apparent when the two men returned to the colonel’s office. Responding to Mike’s subtle nod, Anderson dropped the ax.
“I told you Callahan here works for the government. His sources told him that you once had a romantic relationship with one of the golfers competing in the Women’s International Pro-Am Charity Golf Tournament at St. Andrews.”
Harper was quick. Surprise blanked his face for mere seconds before giving way to wary comprehension.
“That’s right. Dayna Duncan. I didn’t realize our one-time relationship was a matter of government interest.”
Harper leveled a hard stare in Mike’s direction before turning back to the colonel.
“I can see the complications to our detachment’s mission,” he conceded reluctantly. “Someone in the media is bound to recognize me and start snooping around to find out why I’m in the U.K.”
Anderson didn’t waste words. “Then you’ll understand why I’ve arranged to have you reassigned to the 3rd AF Executive Support Unit, with detached duty here at RAF Leuchars, effective immediately.”
“What?”
“You’ll act as liaison with the British VIP support section across base. That way, if asked, you can say with absolute honesty that you’re attached to the RAF unit. You’re still current on the C-21 Learjet, which is one of the aircraft they use to transport VIPs, so it shouldn’t be a difficult transition.”
“To hell with difficult!”
Harper’s disgust at being relegated to the status of a flying cabdriver overcame his ingrained respect for authority and rank.
“I’m scheduled for a run over a heavily defended target in two days and you’re going to pull me to haul VIPs around the capitals of Europe?”
Anderson hadn’t earned his eagles without learning how to use them. Even Mike felt the ice when the colonel leaned forward.
“I’m well aware of the schedule, Captain, and yes, I’m pulling you.”
Harper clamped his mouth shut over further protests but a muscle ticked in the side of his jaw.
“Since you’ve just come off a mission, I want you to take twenty-four hours to decompress. Report to the Brits’ Executive Support Section tomorrow morning. They’ll have a desk waiting for you.”
An expression of acute pain crossed the pilot’s face. “A desk,” he muttered under his breath.
Anderson wasn’t much happier about losing one of his best pilots, but he tried to soften the blow.
“Sorry we have to go this route, Luke. You know the security of our unit has to come first.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s all.”
Dismissed, the pilot speared Hawk with an angry look and departed.
“Damn,” Anderson muttered when Harper had cleared the room. “I hate to lose him, even temporarily. He’s one of our best.” His glance was almost as disgusted as Harper’s. “I want him back as soon as you complete your mission. Make sure everyone in your chain of command understands that.”
“Will do.”
Hawk contacted Dayna as soon as he was clear of the base. Although dawn was just beginning to break, he knew she’d be up and preparing for her practice round. Succinctly, he briefed her on Luke Harper’s change in status.
“It didn’t sit well with him.”
“Tough.”
Hawk hesitated. His loyalty lay with Rogue and the other OMEGA operatives, first, last and always. Yet Luke Harper had impressed him with both his expertise and his obvious dedication to his mission.
“Harper knows this area and the base, Rogue. Might be some way we could exploit that knowledge.”
The suggestion was met with thunderous silence.
“Just something to think about. I’ll brief Lightning on my visit. You go give ’em hell on the links.”
Some miles ahead, Luke steered through the outskirts of town, still simmering.
The United States was at war with an army of fanatical terrorists, for God’s sake! U.S. troops took hits daily in hot spots around the world. Every crew dog worth his or her salt wanted to help bring the war to a swift and decisive end. Thanks to his long-ago romance with Dayna Duncan, Luke’s contribution to the effort would now involve ferrying military and civilian bigwigs around Europe. What a waste of his years of training and experience!
But the security of his unit came first. It would always come first. Acceptance of that unequivocal fact took the edge from Luke’s anger and disgust as turned onto the street leading to his rented flat.
The sight of the TV vans crowding the entrance to his apartment building sent his stomach into a ninety-degree pitch. How had they nosed him out so quickly?
He got the answer when he parked and exited his car amid a swarm of reporters and one of them shoved an early-morning paper in his face.
“Is this you, Captain Harper?”
He could hardly deny the evidence two inches from his nose. There he was, right on the front page, with his arm wrapped around Dayna’s waist and his mouth covering hers. While Luke studied the photo, the questions exploded all around him.
“What’s the story with you and Dayna Duncan?”
“Are you two picking up where you left off?”
“How long have you been stationed in Scotland?”
“Did Dayna sign up for this tournament so you two could reconnect?”
“Will you be in the gallery to watch her practice round?”
Luke thought fast. The damage was done. If he brushed aside their questions, these bloodhounds would dig until they came up with a story. The only solution he could see at this point was to brazen it out and give them enough juicy copy to satisfy even their voracious appetites.
With a dart of savage satisfaction, he set the stage. “Sure, I’ll be there to see her play.”
“She tees off at nine,” another reporter warned after a quick check of his watch.
The perfect exit line, Luke thought as he inserted his key in the door lock. “Guess we’d all better hustle.”
It took Dayna three tries before she finally escaped the media frenzy spawned by the photo in the morning paper. Even then reporters trailed her and her partner, Eleanor Tolbert, out of the clubhouse with cameras rolling.
The wind knifed off the bay, making Dayna glad she’d opted for weatherproof microfiber pants and jacket in eye-popping red. The stiff breeze covered the apology she murmured to Eleanor.
“Sorry ’bout all that hoopla.”
“It doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you,” the longtime LPGA star said with a smile. “Hel-lo. What’s this?”
This, Dayna discovered, was Wu Kim Li busily signing autographs for her hordes of fans.
The North Korean and her partner had drawn a later time slot and weren’t scheduled to tee off for another half hour. If the teen had any regard for links etiquette, she would have delayed her arrival on the course or waited in the clubhouse until called to the tee box. Naturally, such minor considerations as common courtesy and fair play couldn’t be expected to keep her from the fawning adoration of her fans.
Wu glanced up as Dayna and Eleanor emerged, trailed by the string of reporters. Abruptly, she shoved the autograph book into the hands of a fan and strolled over to shake hands with her competitors. That was the excuse she gave for getting her face in front of the cameras, anyway.
“I wish you good practice round.”
“Thanks,” Eleanor returned. “Same to you.”
Wu nodded and turned to Dayna. “I see picture of you with boyfriend.”
“Ex-boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, no difference.” Oozing false sympathy, the teen clucked her tongue. “Both bad for concentration.”
Yeah, right! Nothing like a little psychological warfare designed to throw your opponent off her game.
“You think?”
“I know. I have many boyfriends.”
Sternly, Dayna reminded herself that she was there to cozy up to the girl, not spar with her.
“Maybe we should get together later and compare notes,” she suggested.
Wu’s shrug couldn’t have conveyed less interest. Without another word, she strolled back to her fans. Eleanor was too seasoned a pro to comment on the exchange, but the look she sent her partner as they walked to the tee box spoke volumes.
All of which Dayna could have put out of her head if she hadn’t skimmed a glance around the gallery and spotted Luke Harper.
She could hardly miss him. The man had as many cameras aimed in his direction as Dayna did in hers. All too aware that they’d captured her in midgawk, she responded to Luke’s two-fingered salute with a smile that came up just short of friendly.
Dammit! What was he doing here?
Hawk had indicated Harper wasn’t happy about his abrupt change in status. Did Luke think Dayna had engineered the move? Was he planning to exact some form of revenge by following her around the course?
If so, he—and Wu Kim Li—had another think coming. Dayna had been forced to shut Luke Harper out of her head once before to win gold. She could—She would do the same today.
All she had to do was wait her turn. Step into the box. Tee up. Decide on her line of flight. Address the ball.
Focus.
The noisy crowd quieted. The TV cameras faded. The world diminished to a square patch of green-brown grass and a round white sphere.
Focus.
Her driver rose in a fluid backswing and exploded downward. With a loud crack, the ball flew across a fairway humped with rolling burns and cut a corner of thick brown gorse. It landed dead center less than a hundred yards from the green to a chorus of whoops and shouts.
Dayna couldn’t help herself. With a spear of fierce satisfaction, she angled her head until her glance locked with Luke’s.
Take that, Harper!
Chapter 4 (#ulink_285e246f-f062-587c-bfd9-7646f162e9bc)
Dayna finished her first round at six under par—without resorting to any of Mackenzie’s special aids.
She left the course squinty-eyed from peering into the stiff breeze that had whipped up the contents of St. Andrews’ notorious sand traps. Grit clogged Dayna’s pores and wild tendrils had escaped her French braid to whip around her face and visor, but she was so pumped from the game she wasn’t worried about looking like a walking maypole. Slapping on some lip-gloss, she joined Eleanor in front of the cameras for the obligatory post-round news conference.
Her good mood slipped a little when she was forced to field more questions about Luke Harper than about her game. She kept her cool, however, and joined the other women in the lounge reserved for their exclusive use to watch the last few foursomes finish up.
“That girl’s a machine,” one of the pros commented as Wu Kim Li chipped onto the seventeenth green.
When Wu’s ball rolled to within three inches of the cup, the gallery exploded. When her amateur partner chipped over the green and into the water, Wu looked as though she was going to explode. Her face a thundercloud, the North Korean stalked onto the green and holed out.
Mutters rolled around the lounge but none of the pros would dish a fellow golfer out loud. Dayna was too busy scanning the gallery for Wu’s father to pay any attention to the buzz. She spotted the scientist standing at the ropes, shoulder to shoulder with two burly North Koreans. Hawk was also in the crowd just a few yards away.
Anxious to hear whether he’d made contact with the father, Dayna waited with mounting impatience for an opportunity to approach the daughter. It finally came an hour later, after Kim Li had finished her round and postured for the media. When she and her partner entered the lounge, the flame-haired Irish neurosurgeon peeled away from Wu and aimed for the bar. She didn’t exude the air of someone who’d enjoyed her first pairing with a pro.
Dayna used that as her cue to head for the locker room. The intel OMEGA had provided indicated Kim Li held to a rigid post-game ritual that included a sauna, a shower and a massage to loosen the tension kinks. Her personal masseuse traveled with her as part of the support team.
The woman—yes, Dayna was sure she was female—had already set up her portable massage table and array of scented oils. Looking like a sumo wrestler in white polyester, she sported bulging muscles and a bulldog neck. Her knuckles rested gorilla-like on the table as she followed Dayna’s progress through the locker area to the steam room.
Stripping, Dayna tucked a Turkish towel around her but delayed entering the sauna until she heard Kim Li come into the locker room and exchange a few words in Korean with the masseuse. Luckily, the only other occupant of the steam room exited just as Dayna went in. She had the lung-sucking heat all to herself until Kim Li joined her.
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Merline Lovelace
Match Play
Merline Lovelace
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#ub3434fd2-6bda-518e-a779-2f715e3841f8)
Title Page (#uff0ac17a-d465-5d03-bd05-cf20a46057f6)
About the Author (#u87c5600e-611a-5af5-be3f-2ecda25ce492)
Dedication (#u1a4d49fa-ac11-5a40-919a-b820ff163100)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_1d04c3a8-5457-5cbe-962a-f895aedc619e)
Chapter 2 (#ulink_3675c186-41c4-5299-953c-35d33ac8f9ef)
Chapter 3 (#ulink_de1119a6-2fcf-5f46-a068-ccd56ae11320)
Chapter 4 (#ulink_b45954e2-d43d-5962-a48f-ae532dbb374f)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Merline Lovelace served at bases all over the world, including tours in Taiwan, Vietnam and at the Pentagon. When she hung up her uniform for the last time, she decided to combine her love of adventure with her flair for storytelling, basing many of her tales on her experiences in the service.
Since then she’s produced more than seventy action-packed sizzlers. Check Merline’s website, www.merlinelovelace.com, for news, contests and publication dates.
To my sweetie, with whom I’ve shared so many
wonderful adventures and jaunts around the world.
Here’s to all the fun trips yet to come!
Chapter 1 (#ulink_0f5006e5-6358-5af1-b99a-40db75115477)
“That’s all we have?”
Undercover operative Dayna Duncan lifted a sunbleached brow. Her green eyes, so vivid against her tanned skin, locked on her boss.
“Wu Kim Li is playing in the Women’s International Pro-Am Charity Tournament and whispered an urgent message to another golfer that her father is flying to Scotland to watch her compete?”
“That’s all we have,” Nick Jensen confirmed.
Nick, code name Lightning, had run the ultrasecret organization known only as OMEGA for more years than he wanted to count now. It was headquartered in a brick town house just off Massachusetts Avenue, in the heart of Washington, D.C.’s embassy district. A discreet bronze plaque beside the front door identified the building as home to the offices of the President’s Special Envoy—one of those meaningless titles given to well-heeled contributors to campaign war chests. Not more than a handful of insiders knew the Special Envoy also served as director of an organization so small and so secret that its agents were activated only at the request of the President himself.
One of those agents was preparing to go into the field now. Dayna Duncan, code name Rogue, had arrived at the town house via a secret underground access and been whisked up to OMEGA’s hightech Control Center mere moments ago. This wasn’t Dayna’s first op, by any means, but from the little she’d heard so far, it sounded as though it might be right up her alley.
Lightning’s next question confirmed her guess. “What kind of handicap are you carrying these days?”
“A two,” she replied, scrunching her nose in disgust. Golf was more of a hobby now than the passion it had once been, but Dayna still played to win.
“You do know,” her boss drawled, “most of us weekend duffers would kill for a two handicap?”
“I’ll be back to scratch by the Pro-Am Charity Tournament,” she predicted confidently. “You are sending me to Scotland to get close to Wu and her daddy, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“Yes!”
A former college all-star athlete, Dayna had twice won Olympic gold in the controlled mayhem known as white-water kayaking. She took her code name from the Rogue River in Oregon, where she’d first learned to run rapids. Her current job as a consultant at one of the nation’s foremost outdoor sports-training centers gave her both flexibility and the perfect cover for her OMEGA assignments.
Especially this one. Eighteen-year-old golf prodigy Wu Kim Li was one of those international celebrities everyone loved to hate. Incredibly skilled, obnoxiously temperamental, the North Korean won as many fans by sinking a long putt as she turned off by her tirades when she missed a short one. But it was the golfer’s father who had captured OMEGA’s attention.
“What’s the story on Dr. Wu?” she asked. “I know he’s some kind of a scientist working on hush-hush stuff.”
Nick flicked a switch and filled the Control Center’s wall-size screen with the intent, unsmiling face of Wu Kim Li’s father.
“This is our most recent photo of Dr. Wu Xia-Dong. The photo was hard to come by, as he hasn’t traveled outside North Korea in almost a decade. His government keeps him on a short leash. No surprise, considering he’s one of their foremost nuclear weapons engineers.”
“Uh-oh. I’m guessing that doesn’t make him real popular with the White House.”
“To put it mildly.”
Relations between the United States and North Korea, always shaky, had deteriorated steadily in recent months over Korea’s stubborn determination to develop nuclear weapons. The situation had become so tense that the State Department had warned U.S. citizens to think twice about doing business with or traveling to North Korea. As Dayna studied the face on the screen, she wondered how much Dr. Wu had contributed to those tensions.
“What’s the thinking?” she asked. “Why did Kim Li whisper that urgent message about her father’s attendance at the golf tournament in Scotland?”
“The CIA has picked up subtle vibes that Wu is chafing under the constraints his government imposes on him. They’re convinced he wants to defect. Your task will be to find out if that’s true and, if so, effect the escape.”
Nick didn’t have to tell his agent how absolutely vital this op was to U.S. national security. Her low whistle indicated she’d grasped the implications immediately.
“What about the daughter? Is she in on this, too?”
“We think so.”
He brought another photo up on the screen. This one captured Wu Kim Li in midswing, displaying the perfect form and incredible power that had led the media to christen her Tigress Wu.
“As you well know,” Nick said, “she makes millions in product endorsements. Since she lives in a Communist state, however, only a fraction of those revenues come to her personally.”
“If that,” Dayna commented. “I’ve competed against athletes from Communist countries. The State produces them, the State reaps the reward. Particularly North Korea. They won’t let their athletes train anywhere but in their own country.”
“Precisely. And Wu has more than product endorsements to tempt her. She’s hinted that she’s interested in a possible career in the movies.”
“She certainly has the face and figure for it,” Dayna agreed. “Too bad she’s such a little bitch. Hollywood will have trouble casting her as anything but a werewolf.”
Nick left the photo on the screen as he studied his field agent. Wu Kim Li wasn’t the only athlete with the face and figure to make it big in Hollywood. Rogue’s shoulder-length tumble of honey-colored hair framed a face dominated by sculpted cheekbones and wide, forest-green eyes. Regular and strenuous exercise had honed her body to a perfect symmetry of line and curve. Posters of her lithe form molded by the wet suit she’d worn in her last run for Olympic gold still sold for megabucks on eBay.
“Think you can get past Wu’s bitchiness and gain her trust?”
“The first task, sure. The second task might be tougher. I’ll find some way to connect, though.”
Lightning nodded. Rogue was one of his top operatives. If anyone could crack through Wu Kim Li’s ring of bodyguards and watchdogs, she could.
“While you work the daughter, Hawkeye will work the father.”
Surprised, Rogue flicked a glance at the world map on the wall of the Control Center. Signals sent via GPS satellites pinpointed the exact location of the three OMEGA agents currently in the field. One of them was Mike Callahan, code name Hawkeye.
“Isn’t Hawk in Algeria?”
“He is, but he’s about to wrap things up there. He’ll fly from Algiers and connect with you in Scotland.”
“Good. We work well together.”
No surprise there, Nick thought. A former military cop and world-class sharpshooter, Mike Callahan had racked up almost as many trophies and titles in his field of expertise as Dayna had in hers. They had nothing but respect for each other—on and off the job.
Now, for the tricky part.
Hitting the switch, Nick took Wu Kim Li’s face off the screen and replaced it with an aerial map of Scotland. The town of St. Andrews sat midway up the east coast, at the tip of a peninsula that jutted into the North Sea. Zooming in, Nick focused on the Royal Air Force Base a few kilometers from the town.
“If you confirm the Wus want to defect, the best place for the extraction is here, at RAF Leuchars.”
Dayna agreed with his assessment. “It’s been years since I played St. Andrews, but I remember seeing British fighters landing and taking off from the base.”
“British fighters aren’t the only planes bedded down at RAF Leuchars. The U.S. also has a detachment of B-2 Stealth bombers there.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Few people do. The British government is under intense fire for its support of the Iraqi War. A growing antiwar movement doesn’t want to see that support continue or expand. When word leaked that the B-2s might go in at RAF Fairford, in the south of England, suspected al-Qaeda sympathizers infiltrated what began as a peaceful protest march and turned it into a near riot. As a result, the U.S. and U.K. governments decided to bed the B-2s down farther north, outside St. Andrews. So far the presence of the bombers at RAF Leuchars has remained an unconfirmed rumor among the local populace.”
He swiveled his chair, turning away from the screen to watch Rogue’s reaction to his next comment.
“We have a detachment of USAF aircrews and support personnel at RAF Leuchars. One of the pilots is Captain Luke Harper.”
Rogue was good. Damned good. Her green eyes showed only a bare flicker of emotion.
“Luke and I are ancient history.”
Not that ancient. The romance between one of America’s most promising—and photogenic—athletes and her handsome young lieutenant had made for great TV spots during the hype leading up to the 2004 Olympics. They were the perfect couple—the tanned, charismatic golden girl with the flashing smile and infectious enthusiasm for her sport and the air-force pilot she’d met while they were both students at the University of Colorado.
Their romance died an abrupt death six months before the Olympics. In subsequent interviews, Dayna had turned aside the inevitable questions about her love life with a laugh and vague references to the difficulty of sustaining a long-distance relationship. There had been no lack of men in her life in the years since, but none had lasted long or generated the kind of intense media interest as her first and very public love.
“I can have Harper transferred off the base if you think he might compromise this op in any way,” Lightning told her. “Just say the word.”
Rogue had been in the business too long to dismiss the suggestion without giving it serious consideration. Lips pursed, she examined the issue from all angles.
“The only problem I see is if the media picks up on his presence and connects him to the Stealth Bombers.”
“Security at the base is airtight. As far as the general public knows, the USAF personnel stationed there are attached to the RAF fighter wing as part of an exchange program. I’m more concerned that Harper’s presence might impact your performance in the tournament.”
Rogue didn’t hesitate this time. “Breaking up with Luke Harper didn’t throw me off stride in the Olympics. After all these years, the mere fact that he’s stationed at an air base a few kilometers away isn’t going to affect my game.”
Which brought them around to another touchy subject, one Lightning suspected might generate even more sparks.
The Women’s International Pro-Am Charity Tournament was open to any amateur or professional golfer willing to put up the ten-thousand-dollar entry fee. While the main object was to raise money for the International Red Cross, it was still a competition. All entrants could play the first two qualifying rounds. Only those posting the lowest scores would make the cut for the final two rounds.
“Barring some unforeseen disaster,” he said, bracing himself for the explosion he knew would come, “Wu Kim Li will compete in the final rounds. We need to make sure you do, too.”
“Make sure?” Deep creases slashed into her forehead. “You’re not suggesting we rig the tournament, are you?”
“Not exactly.”
“C’mon, boss! I’ve never cheated in my life and don’t intend to start now. I know my golf game is a little rusty, but I’ll make the cut.”
“I’m sure you will, too. Assuming worst-case scenario, however…”
“There is no worst-case scenario,” Rogue countered stubbornly. “I will make the cut.”
“Assuming worst-case scenario,” Nick continued with unruffled calm, “we need to make sure you at least tie with the last-place finisher in the qualifying rounds so you both go on to the championship round.”
She didn’t like it. He could see disgust written all over her face. She’d come around, though. She understood the stakes in this game and would balance her sporting instincts against the needs of the United States.
It took a few minutes. Her teeth stayed locked. A muscle twitched in the side of her jaw. Her fingers drummed a furious tattoo on the console.
“Okay,” she finally conceded. “Assuming worstcase scenario, how do we pull it off?”
A rueful smile spread across Nick’s face. His wife, the guru of all things electronic for OMEGA and several other government agencies, had jumped at this challenge. Mackenzie was huddled with the wizards in OMEGA’S Field Dress Unit now.
“Mac is waiting for you upstairs. She’s been working on several devices.”
“Uh-oh.”
Uh-oh was right. Thankfully, FDU’s labs were sound-, shock wave- and bombproof. Its walls would contain the blast when Rogue saw what Mac and her diabolical geniuses had come up with.
Hours later, a fuming Dayna paced the first-floor reception area.
“You won’t believe what Mackenzie wants to stick in my golf bag! GPS-guided balls. Distance-finding sunglasses. A super-charged three iron, for God’s sake.”
Lightning’s temporary executive assistant sat behind her elegant Louis XV desk. Gillian Ridgeway, daughter of two of OMEGA’s former superstars, played a mean game of golf herself. Amusement and sympathy lit her blue eyes.
“You won’t need any of those aids.”
“Damn straight, I won’t.”
Jilly continued to make sympathetic noises until Dayna worked through her snit.
“Sorry,” the agent said with a wry smile. “I just needed to let off a little steam.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
Actually, Gillian Ridgeway was there to fill in for Elizabeth Wells, longtime executive assistant to several of OMEGA’s directors. Elizabeth had undergone hip-replacement surgery the week after Jilly returned from a State Department assignment in Beijing. On leave from State and unsure whether she wanted to become a career bureaucrat, Jilly had offered to fill in for Elizabeth.
Black-haired, blue-eyed and as stunning as she was vivacious, she soon wrapped OMEGA’s male agents around her little finger. The female agents liked her, too, which said even more for her sparkling personality.
She and Dayna had grown especially close. The two women were almost the same age and both enjoyed sports. They teamed up for golf or tennis whenever Rogue was in D.C. and routinely skunked their opponents. They’d also shared a few locker-room secrets. So Dayna wasn’t surprised when Gillian made a too-casual observation.
“I understand Hawkeye is working this op with you.”
“That’s right. He’s flying in from Algiers. We meet up in Scotland.”
“Say hi for me, will you?”
“I will, but only if you promise to stop torturing the poor man.”
“Torturing him?” Gillian assumed an expression of wide-eyed innocence. “Moi?”
“Come off it, Jilly. You know you lay on a double dose of sultry whenever Hawk’s around. Despite that, he still thinks of you as the gawky teenager he taught to shoot.”
“Maybe,” she replied with a small smirk, “and maybe not. Just tell him hello for me.”
When Dayna hooked up with Hawk in her suite at one of St. Andrews’ venerable old hotels, she dutifully relayed the message.
“Gillian said to say hi. And you look like hell.”
Hawk shot her a surprised look from sunken, redrimmed eyes. “Jilly said that?”
“The last bit came from me. What happened in Algiers?”
“Sand, sand and more sand.” A smile slipped through the bristly beard sprouting on his cheeks and chin. “But we got Mustafa.”
Whooping, Dayna leaned across the coffee table to punch her fellow agent in the shoulder.
“Score one for our side!”
His smile took over the rest of his face. No one would classify Hawk as handsome. His features were too rugged and his tough, don’t-mess-with-me demeanor too intimidating. But when he relaxed and let the real Mike Callahan show through, Dayna could understand why Gillian was so determined to make the man see her as something other than a gangly teen.
“It took a little longer than expected,” he admitted ruefully. “I had to leave the bastard hanging across the saddle of a camel to get here in time for this tournament. Speaking of which…”
Scraping a palm across his bristly chin, he made the abrupt mental shift so necessary for survival in their business.
“Any more definitive word on whether the Wus really intend to defect?”
“None. All we have to go on is that cryptic message from Kim Li.” Dayna shuffled through the folder of material she’d prepared for him. “Here’s your registration packet and a detailed agenda.”
The International Pro-Am Charity Tournament had grown into one of the biggest events in women’s golf. Spread over an entire week, the schedule was crammed with money-raising activities. The public could watch the practice round, first two preliminary rounds and final championship rounds—all for a fee, of course. Fans and participants alike could also take part in the slew of silent auctions, continental breakfasts, autographing sessions, high teas and photo ops salted into the schedule.
“Our first official function is the kickoff banquet tonight,” Dayna informed Mike. “That’s when they’ll draw for the initial pairings and course assignments.”
She’d registered him as her personal guest, which would give him access to VIP seating at all events and, subsequently, to Dr. Wu. Along with the banquet ticket and laminated pass, she’d also prepared a thick binder.
“Mackenzie digitized the layouts for all five St. Andrews’courses. You can call up a three-dimensional topography of any hole, anytime, on your cell phone.”
“Yeah, I took a look at the layouts during the flight from Algiers. They’re pretty slick.”
“They are, but I thought you might also want hard copies to study. They’re easier on the eyes.”
Particularly eyes showing a whole lot more red than white. Hawk accepted the thick binder with heartfelt relief.
“Bless you, my child. I’ll go through the schematics this afternoon. What’s on your agenda until the banquet?”
“Wu Kim Li reserved a bay at the driving range at three o’clock. I snagged the one next to her at three-thirty. I figure it’s as good a place as any to make the initial contact.”
“Sounds like a plan. Do we need to do a comm check?”
“We should be good to go. Mac synchronized our emergency signals.”
To demonstrate, Dayna pushed one of the knobs on the stainless steel chronometer banding her lift wrist and sent a silent jolt through the identical watch on Hawk’s tanned wrist. Other knobs allowed the sophisticated devices to provide two-way communications or send data transmissions.
Assured their signals were in sync, Hawk hefted the binder and shoved out of his chair.
“I’ll see you later. Good luck with Wu.”
She’d need it, Dayna thought as she pulled on a butterscotch-colored windbreaker. Although late-May sunshine illuminated the wavy glass windows of her suite, she knew from previous experience that the breeze off St. Andrews Bay could slice like a barnacle. It could also wreak havoc with an otherwise perfect golf shot.
Zipping up the jacket, she collected her accessories. Field Dress had designed the slim, ultrachic fanny pack studded with Austrian crystals that clipped snuggly around her hip. One compartment holstered the sleek little Kahr PM40 micro-compact double-action pistol she’d cleared through British security. Others housed a spare ammo clip, her ID and credit cards and a tube of lip-gloss. A matching ball cap also studded with crystals shaded her face and contained her hair in a loose ponytail.
With her golf bag slung over her shoulder, Dayna left her two-room suite and walked to the elevators. After today she’d leave her equipment at the clubhouse storage facility for cleaning and repair. For now, its weight settled over her shoulder like an old familiar harness.
Although the hotel was a local landmark and one of the oldest in St. Andrews, it had been well maintained and modernized over the years. The elevator that ferried Dayna down four floors did so with quiet efficiency.
The lobby was a masterpiece of Victorian grandeur. High ceilings and dark paneling provided the perfect backdrop for red-tufted settees and antique sporting prints. A smoking room, book-lined library and glassed-in conservatory allowed guests to mix and mingle in the public rooms.
And mingle they did. Women dominated the milling crowd. Female corporate execs, commercial airline pilots, TV personalities, even a member of the Danish parliament—all had jumped at the chance to play with the great women golfers from around the world.
A good number of sportscasters and TV crews were also present, conducting impromptu interviews prior to tomorrow’s official media day. They’d come armed with the printed list of participants and pounced on the Olympic gold medalist the moment she appeared.
“Dayna! Dayna! Over here!”
She gave two interviews, greeted a number of friends and acquaintances and autographed a program for one of the bellmen before finally making it to the hotel entrance.
The view through the revolving glass door was enough to take any golfer’s breath away. Directly across the cobbled street lay the undulating fairways, man-eating gorse and killer sand traps of the fabled Old Course, known throughout the world as the Home of Golf. The gray granite bulk of the Royal and Ancient Golf Club ruled over the first tee with majestic splendor. Both course and clubhouse were framed by the salt marshes and sparkling waters of St. Andrews Bay.
Her gaze fixed on the panoramic vista, Dayna pushed through the revolving door and inadvertently plowed into a group of passersby.
“Excuse me. I wasn’t looking…”
The rest of the apology stuck in her throat.
Well, hell! Her first day in St. Andrews and she had to run smack into the one man she’d hoped to avoid.
“Dayna! I’ll be damned.”
An all-too-familiar grin hiked up the corners of his mouth. Before she realized his intent, he hooked an arm around her waist and swooped in for a kiss.
His mouth covered hers, and for an instant, for one searing instant, the years rolled back. She was in college again. So hungry for this man she couldn’t get enough of him, in or out of bed. So much in love she wanted the whole world to share her joy.
Reality returned with a crash. Remembering the bitterness that had followed her joy, Dayna jerked out of Luke Harper’s arms.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_948f4262-470e-5529-a691-6a737cd9fb51)
She was even more vibrant than he remembered.
The realization slammed into Luke as the woman he’d once thought he’d spend the rest of his life with backed away from him.
Her face was thinner than in their college days, her honey-colored hair lighter than he remembered. But her skin still had that healthy glow that came from regular exercise and hours spent outdoors while her eyes…
Christ, those eyes! How many times had Luke lost himself in their shimmering green depths? They’d been filled with such love and laughter then.
They weren’t now. Flashing from fury to disdain in a single heartbeat, they raked him from head to toe.
“Harper.”
That was it. No “Hey, Luke. Been a long time. Hope you finally got your head screwed on semistraight.”
“Hello, Pud.”
The pet name sent red flags into her cheeks, but before she could slice into him for using it, one of his buddies jabbed him in the ribs.
“Jeez, Harper, introduce us. Not that you need any introduction, Ms. Duncan.” Elbowing Luke aside, the lanky American thrust out his hand. “I was on leave in Athens during the last Olympics and saw you paddle across the finish line for gold. The name’s Alan. Alan Parks.”
She shook his hand and relaxed into a smile, looking so much like the woman Luke had fallen for that his stomach pitched into a ninety-degree roll.
“These clowns,” Parks said, “are Gabe, Tucker and Dweeb.”
“Dweeb?”
“His call sign. Short for dumb-ass dweeber, after he missed a direct approach to a well-lit runway at a location that shall remain nameless.”
“So you’re all flyboys?”
“We are,” Parks confirmed. “We’re on an exchange tour, attached to RAF Leuchars.”
By now the response was so automatic that it sounded authentic even to their ears.
“We saw some of the advance PR on TV about the women’s Pro-Am International,” Parks said, eyeing her golf bag. “I didn’t know you were competing in it, though.”
“I’m a last-minute entrant. And I’d better hustle over to the driving range if I want to make it past the qualifying round. Nice meeting you all.”
When she turned to Luke, all he got was a cool nod. He should have let it go with that. Like a fool, he didn’t.
“Good to see you, Dayna.”
“Sorry I can’t say the same.”
She walked off without a backward glance, leaving a stone-cold silence in her wake. Dweeb broke it with a low whistle.
“Damn, Harper. What did you do to the woman?”
Parks jumped in with a reply. “You haven’t heard the story? Dayna Duncan and our boy here used to get all hot and heavy.”
“No kidding?” Eyes wide, Dweeb followed her progress as she crossed the cobbled street. “What happened?”
“Woman got smart and dumped him. Best I recall, it happened a few months before the 2004 Olympics. That right, Harper?”
Parks had the year right but the rest of it wrong. Luke didn’t bother to correct him.
Like a radar lock, his gaze stayed fixed on Dayna’s hip-swinging stride, trim rear and long legs. All the while his mind churned up memories of how those legs used to hook around his.
They’d met during the last half of his senior year at the University of Colorado. Luke was in air force ROTC and had been selected for pilot training. Dayna was a junior. A star athlete in both golf and kayaking, she was already a prime contender for the Olympic kayaking team.
They’d dated throughout the spring and into the summer, while Luke waited for an undergraduate pilot training slot to open up. Just the memory of those long, hot days and even hotter nights had him sweating under his leather bomber jacket.
Dayna began her senior year about the time Luke left for pilot training at Columbus AFB, Mississippi. They continued a long-distance love affair throughout the fall and into the winter—until Dayna’s coach contacted Luke and bluntly informed him that she stood to lose both her scholarships and her spot on the Olympic team if she didn’t cut out the cross-country commuting and focus.
Luke knew how desperately she wanted to make the team. He also knew he was about to enter the most intensive phase of pilot training. Following his head instead of his heart, he suggested they take a break. Hurt and angry, Dayna suggested he take a flying leap.
Judging by the acid dripping from her voice a few moments ago, she obviously thought he hadn’t fallen far enough or hit anywhere near hard enough.
With a spear of regret for what they might have had, Luke thrust his hands in the pockets of his jacket and turned away.
“I need to head back to the base,” he told his buddies. “I’ve got mission prebrief in a couple hours.”
More rattled than she wanted to admit by the encounter, Dayna stalked past the Old Course’s eighteenth green. Workmen were busy erecting bleachers and scaffolding for camera crews, but she barely noticed these modern scars on the face of the ancient course.
She’d known Luke Harper was stationed at the RAF base, dammit. She should have been more prepared for a chance meeting with her old flame.
That was as good a description as any for him, Dayna thought with a stab of self-disgust. She’d gone off the deep end, but Luke Harper had never loved her. Lusted for her, yes. Driven her half out of her mind with his muscular body and his busy, busy hands, certainly. Yet he’d cut the cord fast enough when their romance began to interfere with their respective training regimens.
Something to remember, she told herself fiercely as she hailed a shuttle. The gaily decorated carts ferried golfers between the five courses, two clubhouses, modern golf academy and state-of-the-art practice center that comprised the St. Andrews Links complex.
“G’day to ye, Ms. Duncan.” The trolley driver greeted her with the rolling Scots burr that required careful attention by the listener or the services of an interpreter. “Are ye gaein’ oot for a bit o’ practice?”
“Yes, I am. Would you take me to the driving range, please.”
“I wud indeed.” Relieving her of her bag, he stowed it on the rack at the rear of the cart. “Off we go, then.”
Dayna used the short drive and the stiff breeze coming in off the bay to blow Luke Harper out of her head. The man was history. For the next week her sole focus would be Wu Kim Li.
Kim Li and this course, she thought, eyeing the rolling fairways and deep sand traps. It was the oldest course in Scotland, the playground of kings and commoners, covering a stretch of land beside the sea like an old, crumpled carpet. Unlike the manicured fairways and lushly landscaped grounds of most U.S. courses, St. Andrews pitted man against the elements. There were no stands of pine or oak to blunt the often gale-force winds that blew in from the bay, no banks of colorful azalea or rhododendrons to separate the holes.
The fairways had been planted centuries ago in a stubby, scruffy native grass that put its roots deep into the sandy soil and sent shock waves through wrists and arms when hit with a club at the wrong angle. Worse, there wasn’t a level patch anywhere on the course. The burns, sways, gorse-topped hummocks and treacherous sand traps required intense concentration on every shot. Dayna would have a real challenge to keep her ball in play and Wu Kim Li in her sights.
She found the North Korean holding court at the practice center.
A modern facility devoted to the art and science of golf, the center’s driving range boasted sixty bays with air-cushioned mats and automated power tees. Wu Kim Li occupied the center bay—in full view of television crews crammed into the glassed-in viewing area, naturally.
By shamelessly playing on her name and former Olympic glory, Dayna had snagged the bay next to the teenaged megastar. She waited patiently until the golfer who had it before her finished, then walked out to the open-sided booth. Removing the head cover from her driver, Dayna hooked the club at the small of her back and did a few stretching exercises.
The movement snagged the attention of a woman two stalls down. Obviously an amateur, the observer violated range etiquette by calling an excited greeting.
“Hi, Dayna! I’m Ann Foster. I saw you were registered for this tournament. Hope we get to play together.”
Reluctant to disturb the others’ concentration, Dayna merely smiled and tipped her club in response. The golfer in the next bay, however, wasn’t nearly as restrained.
“Tak-cho!” Wu Kim Li followed her disgusted exclamation with an immediate translation. “That mean be quiet. We practice here.”
Kim Li turned her back on the now thoroughly embarrassed amateur. Eyes narrow, she raked Dayna from the brim of her ball cap to her soft-spike shoes. She was sizing up the competition obviously, or trying to pysch her out.
No stranger to the guerilla warfare of sports, Dayna teed up a ball and swung. Her driver connected with a solid whap. The ball soared in a high, smooth arc. With another loud crack, it bounced off the metal sign designating the two-hundred-and-fifty-yards mark.
Not bad for a first practice shot. Not bad at all—unless, of course, you were trying to worm your way into the good graces of a rival sports star like Wu Kim Li.
Dayna could feel the competitive vibes eddying across the stall as the North Korean addressed her ball. With a whoosh, Wu’s driver sliced through the air.
Two seventy.
Dayna teed up, swung again.
Two seventy-five.
Wu’s driver descended, connected.
Three hundred, or close enough to generate an outburst of spontaneous applause from the women who’d interrupted their practice to watch the impromptu competition. Wu accepted the ovation as her due and unbent enough to offer Dayna a grudging compliment.
“Your swing very good.”
“Not as good as yours.”
“I young,” Wu said with a careless shrug. “Have more strength.”
Yeah, right. Dayna would love to plunk the little twerp into a kayak, drop her in Alberta’s Castle River during the spring runoff and let her see what kind of strength it took to finish the course.
Trying her damnedest to sound friendly, she teed up another ball. “They draw for the initial pairings at the banquet tonight. Maybe we’ll play together.”
Wu turned away with another shrug.
The kickoff banquet was held at the venerable Royal and Ancient Golf Clubhouse.
Showered, shaved and looking ruggedly handsome in tan slacks and a navy blazer with an embroidered Military Marksmanship Association patch on its pocket, Mike escorted Dayna into a banquet hall lavish with eighteenth-century crown moldings and intricately patterned parquet floors. Tables laden with glowing candles and sparkling crystal added to the elegant atmosphere. The waiters wore tuxedos, the women were in cocktail dresses and many of the Scottish tournament officials sported kilts. The talk, however, was all sports.
Dayna introduced Mike to some of the greats in women’s golf, many of whom said graciously that they hoped to draw her for a partner. She also met a number of the amateurs who, like her, had interrupted busy professional lives to play in this charity tournament. All the while she and Mike kept steering toward their targets.
“There they are,” Dayna murmured, indicating the Wus with a small nod.
The Koreans stood in the middle of a swarm of TV execs and tournament officials. The group also included Kim Li’s support team—her manager, her trainer, her agent, her PR rep, her bodyguards. Every one of them, Dayna knew, charged with ensuring that North Korea’s darling and her father returned home after the tournament.
Kim Li spotted their approach and summoned them into her royal presence with a lift of her chin. Her dark eyes were all over Mike as Dayna made the intros.
“This is my friend, Mike Callahan.”
“This my father, Dr. Wu Xia-Dong.”
Both Mike and Dayna shook the scientist’s hand. She didn’t need more than a touch of Wu’s clammy palm to sense his nervousness.
“You must be very proud of your daughter.”
The flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes told Dayna he’d understood the compliment, but he waited to respond until a North Korean with a badge that identified him as an official interpreter had murmured in his ear.
“So sorry. My English very bad.” Wu turned a smile on his daughter. “Kim Li make all Korea proud.”
The girl returned it with the first genuine warmth Dayna had seen on her face. Whatever else the teen had going on in her life, she obviously loved her dad.
They couldn’t have spent much time together. The detailed dossier OMEGA had assembled on the Wus indicated Kim Li had lived at a government-sponsored athletic training center for thirteen of her eighteen years. Dr. Wu’s work had kept him isolated at the center of a small, highly select cadre of scientists. Kim Li’s mother was the one who’d made periodic visits to the training center until her death a few years ago. Yet the bond between father and daughter seemed as strong and unshakable as the report had suggested.
Any defection would definitely have to be a package deal.
That thought stayed with Dayna throughout the banquet and the pairings that followed. By the luck of the draw, she was teamed with Eleanor Tolbert. A longtime member of the Ladies Professional Golf Association, Eleanor was one of its biggest money-winners. She and Dayna would have been the team to beat in scratch golf, but this was a charity event so handicaps were used to level the playing field. The ranker the amateur, the higher her handicap and the more strokes deducted from her final score.
Wu Kim Li drew one of those high-handicapped amateurs for her partner. An Irish neurosurgeon, as it turned out, with little time for golf but a wild enthusiasm for the sport. Flame-haired Brianna Kilkenny towered over her partner during the media barrage that followed the drawing. Unwilling to stand in anyone’s shadow, Wu adroitly sidestepped and took the cameras with her.
To Dayna’s intense satisfaction, the links draw put her and Eleanor on the same course as Kim Li and her partner for the initial qualifying rounds. They weren’t in the same foursome and would tee off at different times, but she would make opportunities to connect with the girl while Mike worked the father.
The two agents reconvened in Dayna’s suite after the banquet.
A cold, damp fog had rolled in off the bay. Rather than up the room’s thermostat, Dayna put a match to the kindling laid in the brick-and-tile fireplace. The neatly stacked logs soon caught the flames. Snapping and crackling, they filled the sitting room with a pine-resin scent.
Mike had studied the course layouts Dayna had given him earlier that afternoon. He’d also annotated a detailed map of the St. Andrews area. Together, they went over emergency escape routes and formulated options for detaching Wu and his daughter from their watchdogs.
“Assuming they really want to defect.”
“Yeah,” Mike agreed. “Big assumption. We’ve got the next week to find out if it’s true.”
“If it is, I don’t think Kim Li will want to pull a disappearing act until after the tournament. She’s too competitive.”
“That’s my assessment, too. We can move sooner if we have to, but for now we’ll plan to whisk her and her Papa Wu away immediately following the trophy presentation. We’ll use the crowd and the media to run interference with their handlers. I’ve coordinated with our counterparts in the CIA and British Intelligence. They’ll provide back-up, transport vehicles and escort to our departure point.”
He thumped a knuckle against the air base just northwest of the town of St. Andrews proper.
“One of the crews from the USAF detachment at RAF Leuchars will fly us back to the States. I figure I’d head over there before your practice round tomorrow and bring the detachment commander up to speed.”
Dayna hesitated. She hated to introduce the subject of her failed romance, but Hawk needed to know it might present a complication.
“Before you talk to the detachment commander, you should be aware that I used to date one of his pilots. Captain Luke Harper.”
Mike cut her a surprised look. “I remember the hype about you and some flyboy. He’s here, at Leuchars?”
“He is. Matter of fact, I bumped into him this afternoon.”
Bumped, as in locked lips. To Dayna’s profound disgust, the memory of Luke’s mouth on hers sent heat seeping into her cheeks. She fought to keep her expression neutral but Hawkeye hadn’t earned his code name by missing subtle signals. Nor had he stayed alive as long as he had in this business by shrugging off even small, seemingly innocuous incidents as mere coincidence.
“Are you sure it was a chance meeting?”
Like Hawk, Dayna had learned the hard way that training and experience were no substitutes for gut instinct. She went with hers now.
“I’m sure. I was a last-minute entry in this tournament. Harper didn’t know I was coming to St. Andrews and he doesn’t have a clue I work for the government. The problem is, he isn’t supposed to be here, either.”
When she indicated he flew the super-secret Stealth bomber, Hawk grasped the implications immediately. The material he’d studied on the flight up from Algiers had included a brief detailing of the antiwar movements in Britain and the sensitive issue of the presence of U.S. nuclear-capable bombers on British soil.
“If the media gloms on to his presence and tries to resurrect your old affair, it could jeopardize both his mission and ours.”
“Lightning and I discussed that,” Dayna replied. “Our initial assessment was that the air force has sufficient measures in place to keep their operation at Leuchars under wraps, but…”
She blew out a long breath. The unexpected encounter this afternoon had forced her to reevaluate the situation. St. Andrews was a small university town, crammed at present with newshounds from around the world. Any one of them could sniff out the story of her old flame.
“You’d better lay out the problem when you meet with the detachment commander in the morning,” she told Hawk. “Get his take on the threat to his operation.”
“Will do.” Those too-keen eyes studied hers. “What about the threat to ours?”
“I’ve been thinking about that, too. If the media does latch on to my old romance, we could use the hype to deflect attention from our efforts to get close to the Wus.”
“Something to consider,” Hawk agreed, “but you don’t sound too thrilled about letting this character back in your life. Just say the word and I’ll take him out of the picture.”
Lightning had already made that offer. Once again, Dayna turned it down.
“No need. The meeting this afternoon caught me by surprise. I’ll be prepared if it happens again.”
She was still trying to convince herself of that some four hours later.
Lifting her head, Dayna glared at the digital alarm beside her bed. When she saw the hour, she let loose with an expletive that would have earned her a warning if she’d muttered it during the tournament. Still swearing, she dropped her face into the goose-down pillow.
This was ridiculous. She was playing a double game of golf and deception tomorrow. She’d have to make every stroke count while keeping tabs on Wu Kim Li. She needed sleep.
“Get out of my head, Harper!”
Chapter 3 (#ulink_d0ac85ab-95ae-50d8-ad92-3e5d33df57c6)
Why couldn’t he put the woman out of his head?
Luke shifted restlessly in the mission commander’s seat of his bat-winged B-2. The pilot whose performance he’d been evaluating occupied the left seat, breathing easier now that he’d completed most of his check ride.
Outside the cockpit a star-studded night sky stretched to infinity. Inside, the instrument panel gave off a muted glow shielded by specially screened and darkened windows.
“Thirty-two thousand and holding steady on course niner-three-six,” the other pilot reported.
Luke acknowledged their position and rolled his shoulders to relieve the strain of his seat harness. They’d been in the air for seven hours now, a mere hop compared to their normal missions. Tonight’s training run had taken them out over the Atlantic for an in-flight refueling. They would return to base before dawn, gliding in with the same stealth that made the B-2 invisible to the world’s most sophisticated radars—and to antiwar protestors hoping to obtain photos that would prove beyond any doubt the bomber’s presence in the U.K.
The B-2 crews and support personnel were every bit as determined to remain as stealthy as the two-billion-dollar aircraft they flew. Hence the night-only takeoffs and landings and the fiction that their detachment was part of an exchange program at Leuchars.
So far the ploy had worked. Would it still work if the paparazzi sniffed out the fact that Dayna Duncan’s old flame just happened to be in St. Andrews?
From past experience, Luke knew how the media rooted around for personal tidbits to salt into their coverage of otherwise impersonal sporting events. He and Pud had once provided just the mix of glamour and romance the tabloids loved.
The nickname tugged his mouth into a lopsided grin. Pud, short for the puddles he’d teased her about paddling around in. The teasing had lasted only until she’d taken Luke for his first white-water run.
The experience had been as exhilarating as any he’d every experienced. It had also scared the crap out of him. When they’d gone over Horseshoe Falls, his stomach had dropped right through the bottom of the fiberglass kayak. He could still hear Dayna’s joyous whoop, still see her hair flying under her helmet and wet suit molded to her curves as they…
Well, hell! There she was again. Front and center in his thoughts.
Resigned, Luke checked the instruments and gave up trying to shove the woman out of his head.
She was still there, hovering around the edges of his mind, when he finished his mission debrief. Slinging his flyaway bag over his shoulder, he exited the debriefing area and was headed for the crew room to change out of his flight suit when one of other pilots hailed him.
“The old man wants to see you, Harper.”
Nodding, Luke detoured to the suite of offices tucked in one corner of the massive hangar. He figured the colonel was waiting for an update on the check ride just completed and prepared a rundown in his mind.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
Colonel Don Anderson waved him into the office. Big, barrel-chested and as strong as a Brahma bull, Anderson had been part of the initial B-2 cadre. In the decade since, he’d racked up more hours than most pilots did in a lifetime. Customarily gruff and to the point, Anderson jerked his chin at the stranger seated in the chair angled in front of his desk.
“Harper, this is Mike Callahan. He’s with the government. Callahan, Captain Luke Harper.”
The stranger rose and offered his hand. His square-shouldered bearing suggested he’d spent at least one hitch in the military. The embroidered sharpshooter’s patch plainly visible above his visitor’s badge indicated he wasn’t someone to mess with.
“Harper.”
Callahan’s grip stopped well short of bone-crunching but something in the man’s narrow-eyed, assessing look stirred an instinctive and wholly atavistic response in Luke. Without warning, the skin on the back of his neck prickled.
“Callahan’s got all the necessary security clearances,” Anderson said. “I want you to show him our operation. Bring him back here when you’re done.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wondering what this was all about, Luke stashed his flyaway bag with the colonel’s exec and walked Callahan toward the hangar bay.
“I don’t know how much the colonel told you about our detachment—”
“He indicated you’re one of several recently established forward operating locations. Before that, B-2 crews flew combat missions from your home base at Whiteman AFB, Missouri. Must have made for a helluva long haul.”
“It did,” Luke admitted. “It also made for a surreal life. A pilot could roll out of bed, kiss his wife goodbye, fly a thirty- to forty-hour combat mission against heavily defended targets halfway around the world and return home in time to take out the trash the next morning. Even with forward basing, we spend a lot of time in the air.”
Callahan’s glance dropped. “I don’t see a ring. No one to kiss goodbye in the morning?”
“No one special,” Luke replied, ruthlessly suppressing the image that leaped into his head of a laughing, loving Dayna. He’d had his chance with her and blown it. It was just his own tough luck he hadn’t found anyone else in the years since.
“So how long does it take to prepare for one of these marathon missions?” Callahan asked.
“If we’re lucky, we get three or four days advance notice. That gives us time to study the target, plan our ingress and egress routes and adjust our sleep and eating patterns to maximize our alertness in flight.”
“I can see sleep, but eating?”
“The air force shelled out big bucks to dieticians to determine optimal liquid intake and the best ratio of carbs versus protein to sustain long periods of activity.” Luke had to grin. “All those experts finally concluded we’d found an optimal mix in our traditional bomber dogs. Hot dogs doused in chili,” he explained. “We warm them in the cockpit heater.”
Shouldering open a door, he led the way into one of the two cavernous hangars the Brits had turned over to the B-2 detachment. The aircraft Luke had just flown occupied center court, being serviced by the ground crews.
“Our birds remain undercover at all times while on the ground. We want to keep their advanced design and special ‘low-observable’ characteristics away from prying eyes. In flight, they’re damned near invisible. Pretty slick, aren’t they?”
And then some! Mike Callahan had jumped out of plenty of planes during his stint as an army Ranger but he’d never seen anything as lethal as these black boomerangs. They were immense, with a wingspan of at least a hundred-and-fifty feet, yet their flat fuselage and long, sloping cockpits made them appear saucer-thin from the side. The darkened cockpit windows seemed to follow the two men like a predator’s eyes as Harper led the way across a hangar floor painted and buffed to a bright sheen.
“The B-2’s unique bat-wing shape and the special coating used on its skin are designed to deflect radar waves.” Harper slapped a hand against the cowling of one of the four powerful engines. “And these babies are so quiet they wouldn’t wake your grandma from her afternoon nap if we flew over her house at a hundred feet.”
A slight exaggeration, Callahan guessed wryly, although Harper’s description of how the engines dispensed their exhaust across the top of the wings to shield the aircraft from heat-seeking missiles below brought the seriousness of its mission into sharp focus.
As he listened to the pilot explain the details of his unit’s operation, Mike assessed the man behind the uniform. Rogue had stated unequivocally that any feelings she’d once harbored for Harper had died years ago. She was also confident that his presence at RAF Leuchars wouldn’t throw her off her game. Mike trusted her judgment on that. Like him, she’d competed in countless nerve-bending competitions. She knew better than anyone else what would—or wouldn’t—impact her performance.
The question that now had to be answered was whether her presence would impact Harper’s mission if the press IDed him as Dayna’s former lover and came sniffing around the captain. Mike had discussed the situation with his commander when they’d met earlier. The more he saw of the B-2 operation, the more he agreed with the colonel’s decision to take drastic measures to shield the detachment from prying eyes.
From the pride in Harper’s voice as he described his bird and its mission, Mike guessed the pilot was not going to like those measures.
That became instantly apparent when the two men returned to the colonel’s office. Responding to Mike’s subtle nod, Anderson dropped the ax.
“I told you Callahan here works for the government. His sources told him that you once had a romantic relationship with one of the golfers competing in the Women’s International Pro-Am Charity Golf Tournament at St. Andrews.”
Harper was quick. Surprise blanked his face for mere seconds before giving way to wary comprehension.
“That’s right. Dayna Duncan. I didn’t realize our one-time relationship was a matter of government interest.”
Harper leveled a hard stare in Mike’s direction before turning back to the colonel.
“I can see the complications to our detachment’s mission,” he conceded reluctantly. “Someone in the media is bound to recognize me and start snooping around to find out why I’m in the U.K.”
Anderson didn’t waste words. “Then you’ll understand why I’ve arranged to have you reassigned to the 3rd AF Executive Support Unit, with detached duty here at RAF Leuchars, effective immediately.”
“What?”
“You’ll act as liaison with the British VIP support section across base. That way, if asked, you can say with absolute honesty that you’re attached to the RAF unit. You’re still current on the C-21 Learjet, which is one of the aircraft they use to transport VIPs, so it shouldn’t be a difficult transition.”
“To hell with difficult!”
Harper’s disgust at being relegated to the status of a flying cabdriver overcame his ingrained respect for authority and rank.
“I’m scheduled for a run over a heavily defended target in two days and you’re going to pull me to haul VIPs around the capitals of Europe?”
Anderson hadn’t earned his eagles without learning how to use them. Even Mike felt the ice when the colonel leaned forward.
“I’m well aware of the schedule, Captain, and yes, I’m pulling you.”
Harper clamped his mouth shut over further protests but a muscle ticked in the side of his jaw.
“Since you’ve just come off a mission, I want you to take twenty-four hours to decompress. Report to the Brits’ Executive Support Section tomorrow morning. They’ll have a desk waiting for you.”
An expression of acute pain crossed the pilot’s face. “A desk,” he muttered under his breath.
Anderson wasn’t much happier about losing one of his best pilots, but he tried to soften the blow.
“Sorry we have to go this route, Luke. You know the security of our unit has to come first.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s all.”
Dismissed, the pilot speared Hawk with an angry look and departed.
“Damn,” Anderson muttered when Harper had cleared the room. “I hate to lose him, even temporarily. He’s one of our best.” His glance was almost as disgusted as Harper’s. “I want him back as soon as you complete your mission. Make sure everyone in your chain of command understands that.”
“Will do.”
Hawk contacted Dayna as soon as he was clear of the base. Although dawn was just beginning to break, he knew she’d be up and preparing for her practice round. Succinctly, he briefed her on Luke Harper’s change in status.
“It didn’t sit well with him.”
“Tough.”
Hawk hesitated. His loyalty lay with Rogue and the other OMEGA operatives, first, last and always. Yet Luke Harper had impressed him with both his expertise and his obvious dedication to his mission.
“Harper knows this area and the base, Rogue. Might be some way we could exploit that knowledge.”
The suggestion was met with thunderous silence.
“Just something to think about. I’ll brief Lightning on my visit. You go give ’em hell on the links.”
Some miles ahead, Luke steered through the outskirts of town, still simmering.
The United States was at war with an army of fanatical terrorists, for God’s sake! U.S. troops took hits daily in hot spots around the world. Every crew dog worth his or her salt wanted to help bring the war to a swift and decisive end. Thanks to his long-ago romance with Dayna Duncan, Luke’s contribution to the effort would now involve ferrying military and civilian bigwigs around Europe. What a waste of his years of training and experience!
But the security of his unit came first. It would always come first. Acceptance of that unequivocal fact took the edge from Luke’s anger and disgust as turned onto the street leading to his rented flat.
The sight of the TV vans crowding the entrance to his apartment building sent his stomach into a ninety-degree pitch. How had they nosed him out so quickly?
He got the answer when he parked and exited his car amid a swarm of reporters and one of them shoved an early-morning paper in his face.
“Is this you, Captain Harper?”
He could hardly deny the evidence two inches from his nose. There he was, right on the front page, with his arm wrapped around Dayna’s waist and his mouth covering hers. While Luke studied the photo, the questions exploded all around him.
“What’s the story with you and Dayna Duncan?”
“Are you two picking up where you left off?”
“How long have you been stationed in Scotland?”
“Did Dayna sign up for this tournament so you two could reconnect?”
“Will you be in the gallery to watch her practice round?”
Luke thought fast. The damage was done. If he brushed aside their questions, these bloodhounds would dig until they came up with a story. The only solution he could see at this point was to brazen it out and give them enough juicy copy to satisfy even their voracious appetites.
With a dart of savage satisfaction, he set the stage. “Sure, I’ll be there to see her play.”
“She tees off at nine,” another reporter warned after a quick check of his watch.
The perfect exit line, Luke thought as he inserted his key in the door lock. “Guess we’d all better hustle.”
It took Dayna three tries before she finally escaped the media frenzy spawned by the photo in the morning paper. Even then reporters trailed her and her partner, Eleanor Tolbert, out of the clubhouse with cameras rolling.
The wind knifed off the bay, making Dayna glad she’d opted for weatherproof microfiber pants and jacket in eye-popping red. The stiff breeze covered the apology she murmured to Eleanor.
“Sorry ’bout all that hoopla.”
“It doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you,” the longtime LPGA star said with a smile. “Hel-lo. What’s this?”
This, Dayna discovered, was Wu Kim Li busily signing autographs for her hordes of fans.
The North Korean and her partner had drawn a later time slot and weren’t scheduled to tee off for another half hour. If the teen had any regard for links etiquette, she would have delayed her arrival on the course or waited in the clubhouse until called to the tee box. Naturally, such minor considerations as common courtesy and fair play couldn’t be expected to keep her from the fawning adoration of her fans.
Wu glanced up as Dayna and Eleanor emerged, trailed by the string of reporters. Abruptly, she shoved the autograph book into the hands of a fan and strolled over to shake hands with her competitors. That was the excuse she gave for getting her face in front of the cameras, anyway.
“I wish you good practice round.”
“Thanks,” Eleanor returned. “Same to you.”
Wu nodded and turned to Dayna. “I see picture of you with boyfriend.”
“Ex-boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, no difference.” Oozing false sympathy, the teen clucked her tongue. “Both bad for concentration.”
Yeah, right! Nothing like a little psychological warfare designed to throw your opponent off her game.
“You think?”
“I know. I have many boyfriends.”
Sternly, Dayna reminded herself that she was there to cozy up to the girl, not spar with her.
“Maybe we should get together later and compare notes,” she suggested.
Wu’s shrug couldn’t have conveyed less interest. Without another word, she strolled back to her fans. Eleanor was too seasoned a pro to comment on the exchange, but the look she sent her partner as they walked to the tee box spoke volumes.
All of which Dayna could have put out of her head if she hadn’t skimmed a glance around the gallery and spotted Luke Harper.
She could hardly miss him. The man had as many cameras aimed in his direction as Dayna did in hers. All too aware that they’d captured her in midgawk, she responded to Luke’s two-fingered salute with a smile that came up just short of friendly.
Dammit! What was he doing here?
Hawk had indicated Harper wasn’t happy about his abrupt change in status. Did Luke think Dayna had engineered the move? Was he planning to exact some form of revenge by following her around the course?
If so, he—and Wu Kim Li—had another think coming. Dayna had been forced to shut Luke Harper out of her head once before to win gold. She could—She would do the same today.
All she had to do was wait her turn. Step into the box. Tee up. Decide on her line of flight. Address the ball.
Focus.
The noisy crowd quieted. The TV cameras faded. The world diminished to a square patch of green-brown grass and a round white sphere.
Focus.
Her driver rose in a fluid backswing and exploded downward. With a loud crack, the ball flew across a fairway humped with rolling burns and cut a corner of thick brown gorse. It landed dead center less than a hundred yards from the green to a chorus of whoops and shouts.
Dayna couldn’t help herself. With a spear of fierce satisfaction, she angled her head until her glance locked with Luke’s.
Take that, Harper!
Chapter 4 (#ulink_285e246f-f062-587c-bfd9-7646f162e9bc)
Dayna finished her first round at six under par—without resorting to any of Mackenzie’s special aids.
She left the course squinty-eyed from peering into the stiff breeze that had whipped up the contents of St. Andrews’ notorious sand traps. Grit clogged Dayna’s pores and wild tendrils had escaped her French braid to whip around her face and visor, but she was so pumped from the game she wasn’t worried about looking like a walking maypole. Slapping on some lip-gloss, she joined Eleanor in front of the cameras for the obligatory post-round news conference.
Her good mood slipped a little when she was forced to field more questions about Luke Harper than about her game. She kept her cool, however, and joined the other women in the lounge reserved for their exclusive use to watch the last few foursomes finish up.
“That girl’s a machine,” one of the pros commented as Wu Kim Li chipped onto the seventeenth green.
When Wu’s ball rolled to within three inches of the cup, the gallery exploded. When her amateur partner chipped over the green and into the water, Wu looked as though she was going to explode. Her face a thundercloud, the North Korean stalked onto the green and holed out.
Mutters rolled around the lounge but none of the pros would dish a fellow golfer out loud. Dayna was too busy scanning the gallery for Wu’s father to pay any attention to the buzz. She spotted the scientist standing at the ropes, shoulder to shoulder with two burly North Koreans. Hawk was also in the crowd just a few yards away.
Anxious to hear whether he’d made contact with the father, Dayna waited with mounting impatience for an opportunity to approach the daughter. It finally came an hour later, after Kim Li had finished her round and postured for the media. When she and her partner entered the lounge, the flame-haired Irish neurosurgeon peeled away from Wu and aimed for the bar. She didn’t exude the air of someone who’d enjoyed her first pairing with a pro.
Dayna used that as her cue to head for the locker room. The intel OMEGA had provided indicated Kim Li held to a rigid post-game ritual that included a sauna, a shower and a massage to loosen the tension kinks. Her personal masseuse traveled with her as part of the support team.
The woman—yes, Dayna was sure she was female—had already set up her portable massage table and array of scented oils. Looking like a sumo wrestler in white polyester, she sported bulging muscles and a bulldog neck. Her knuckles rested gorilla-like on the table as she followed Dayna’s progress through the locker area to the steam room.
Stripping, Dayna tucked a Turkish towel around her but delayed entering the sauna until she heard Kim Li come into the locker room and exchange a few words in Korean with the masseuse. Luckily, the only other occupant of the steam room exited just as Dayna went in. She had the lung-sucking heat all to herself until Kim Li joined her.
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