Chapter Three

Eve sat at her desk and stared at the blank screen of her computer. She had work to do but couldn’t settle.

It had been six days since Mr. Tuul had made his offer.

Tomorrow would be her last chance to accept. Which of course she wasn’t going to do. She had her children to consider. Then there were her students. But she was fooling herself. Her decision to not go had nothing to do with students or children. The term was nearly over, with lectures finished for the academic year. And her mother and father would love to have the children stay with them for a while. Their house had fifteen bedrooms, so there was plenty of space. And while her parents were getting a little old to be running after two very active six-year-olds, they had a household staff of five, and the children’s nanny would go with them.

No, she really had no excuse other than the fact that she was a wimp and a coward and absolutely terrified.

Apparently, she had a classic case of PTSD. Post traumatic stress disorder. Who would have guessed it? But giving it a name didn’t make it go away, just made it more real.

Her therapist had said her fear would lessen with time. For a while it had, but just recently, it had reared its ugly head again, and she was paranoid about everything.

Her phone buzzed. It was Janis, and she picked up. “I have your four o’clock meeting here.”

Something to distract her. “Send him in.”

Zachary Martin was from some government monitoring agency. Monitoring what, she had no clue. He’d apparently been very vague when he’d set up the meeting with Janis the previous day. There was a tap on the door before it was pushed open.

A man stepped into the room, and she rose to her feet.

Around six-foot-two, with short sandy-colored hair and perceptive gray eyes. He must have been around forty, but he was lean and moved with the ease of a trained fighter. She recognized the type. She’d been married to one for six years. She stepped around the desk. “Mr. Martin?”

“Zach,” he said, and held out his hand.

She took it, shook briefly, and then gestured him toward a seat. “How can I help you? I heard it was regarding some government monitoring issue.” What did that even mean? “But I have no clue other than that.”

He ignored the chair and wandered around the room, peered out the window, then came back to her. “I’m afraid I came here under false pretenses, but I didn’t want to discuss my business over the phone.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she moved back to her desk so she could reach for her phone if she needed it. “So what is your business?”

“I’m with MI6.”

A spy then. “And what do you do at MI6?”

A small smile flashed across his face but disappeared quickly. “I deal with terrorist activity mainly arising outside the country.”

She swallowed. Had something happened to Noah? But why would MI6 be involved? Was this to do with her kidnapping?

Her legs shook and she sank down onto the chair behind her.

Why now? Most of her kidnappers had been killed during the rescue, but a couple had escaped and never been apprehended. Had that changed? She wasn’t sure that would be a good thing.

He was studying her reaction with those calculating eyes as though she were some specimen he wanted to cut up and discover what was inside. Or a terrorist he wanted to interrogate. A shudder passed through her. Been there. Done that. “So how do you think I can help you?”

He took the seat opposite her. “I have to admit I was unsure how much to tell you. But I’d like your take on something, given your own terrorist experience.”

“Me? Why?” So he knew about her kidnapping. Obviously. She closed her eyes and was back in the heat of the desert. The shots. Someone shouting “run!” But she hadn’t run fast enough. She’d stopped and turned back and…

A bullet had taken her in the shoulder, throwing her to the ground. She could still feel the hot sand burning her cheek.

Eve rubbed the scar. As soon as she realized she was doing it, she dropped her hand to her side, her fist clenched. She didn’t want to give anything away to this man whom she suspected saw everything and read meaning into the simplest of actions.

It hadn’t hurt at the time. Shock, she supposed, and terror and adrenalin. All those things had worn off too quickly, and it had hurt like hell’s fire. She’d had no proper medical treatment; later, the doctors had told her she’d been lucky not to lose her arm, or worse. One of her colleagues had died. Trying to protect her. She still had nightmares—they’d slit his throat. So much blood.

The bullet had gone straight through her shoulder. These days, it only ached in the cold weather, but she often found herself rubbing it when she was…unsettled.

She blinked to dispel the memory. Zach Martin was studying her. “I don’t see how I can be of any help to you, Mr. Martin.”

“Why don’t you hear me out first and then decide.”

She wanted him out of here but had a suspicion he wouldn’t leave until he was ready. “Go on.”

“Three months ago there was a terrorist attack on a hotel in Paris.”

“I remember.” It had been a mess. “Wasn’t it a suicide bomber?”

“Yes. She died in the attack, but we traced a large payment made to a family member.”

She still had no clue where this was going, how it could be connected to her.

“We’ve been monitoring the account that payment was made from,” he continued, “and two weeks ago, a large amount of money was transferred to a UK bank. You, Dr. Blakeley, are the only name listed on the account.”

“What?”

He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “And that makes you my only lead.”