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Chapter One

London 1940:

"Did Leslie tell you I'm a killer?"

The doctor sat still, his lily-white hands quiet, notebook opened in his lap, a pen poised in the air, his thin lips mesmerizing Richard Hart. Richard intently watched his lips move up and down, and refused to hear the doctor's words. He looked past the owlish eyes, large and watery through wire-rimmed glasses.

Squirming to get comfortable, Richard sat hunched in a folding chair about as comfortable as a church pew. With his legs sprawled out, he tugged at the crease in his trousers, and reached for a gold cigarette case on the end table. The doctor frowned and Richard dropped his hand in his lap. He had to follow doctor's orders or else he'd be relegated to the back room and labeled unstable for the rest of the war.

He couldn't have that.

But most of all the vast expansion of time scared the hell out of him, the days stretching out, giving him too much time to think. The world burned in its own greed and stupidity but this gave him a reason to live.

"Richard, do you feel remorse for those who died by your hands?"

He let out a harsh laugh. "It's been drilled into me to kill without remorse. If I felt bad about every man who died because of my actions, I'd be mad."

"Are you afraid to die?"

"I stay alive because of my fear. A man not afraid is a fool." Richard's mouth watered for a cigarette, and he tapped his finger on the case, tempting himself. Amazed it'd come to this, revealing memories to a doctor, memories best left buried.

"Tell me about Anna." Dr. Robbins narrowed his flat eyelids, and leaned forward in his chair. Richard licked his chapped lips, his mouth parched. Anna, how he loved her! But her betrayal shriveled his heart into a dried out raisin.

"Let's not, I'm over her." The words were stiff in his mouth.

The doctor droned on, an annoying buzz in Richard's head. "To control the shakes, the nightmares, to have a moment's peace, you must let me help you."

"I'm not crazy. Get the shakes sometimes, but not crazy."

"No one is saying you're not doing your job."

Richard's mouth turned up slightly. "Who in the hell has peace!" He knew how to stay firm under interrogation. His scars proved he could keep his mouth shut.

Dr. Robbins assured him. "Nothing stated here leaves this room, you understand? I'm not reporting to anyone. You're safe with me." Richard's insides felt fragile as glass. Thankfully, the doctor closed his notebook. "That's enough for one day. You've made excellent progress. We'll meet next week at the same time."

Richard retrieved his coat and hat from the hall rack. The office bore a striking resemblance to a hospital ward, the doctor's office in an annex of the insane asylum. Pea green walls and art prints decorated the walls, an awful place to bare one's soul. Disgusted, Richard rushed out of the room like a truant child released from detention. Nervously eyeing the buildings, set out in a pattern similar to a college campus, the setup didn't fool him. He wondered if he wasn't just a few steps away from landing on the other side of the asylum's doors.

Chapter Two

Claire O'Neill drew her satin wrap around her shoulders. She'd escaped to the balcony to be alone among the potted miniature cypresses and the trellis of wisteria. The party that raged inside the suite left her exhausted. She'd rather be at the pub with Leslie, but she found herself here, giving into her father's wishes, again.

She thought of her painting left unfinished. A self-portrait, incomplete, not because of her inexperience as a painter, but because she suspected somehow she'd missed out in life. At twenty, she felt confused and had no idea where she belonged. When her father asked to be transferred to London, she talked him into taking her along, aching for experiences she'd never find in San Francisco.

Inhaling the perfumed air, she gripped the railing and peered up at the sky. The blackout painted London in shades of gray, the mist leaving trails of silver smoke. No planes in sight. Yet. Londoners kept on alert, the devastation far from over, the Luftwaffe pounding London night after night.

"Excuse me, I didn't see you here. May I join you?"

Claire turned and cocked her brow at the tall gentleman. "I don't own the balcony," she said, and smiled.

"I came out for a smoke." With a quick flick, he opened a gold cigarette case and tipped it towards Claire. She waved off his offer, and he shrugged, and lit his cigarette with a matching gold lighter. The flame lit up a scar cut across his left cheek, ending at the tip of his mouth.

"The sky looks so peaceful, deceiving us all," she sighed.

"You and everyone else in London. You're an American."

Claire drawled out her vowels, "Oh, my, it must be my accent," and then she laughed. "I'm here with my father. He's a correspondent for the San Francisco Examiner."

"I'm Richard Hart." He dragged on his cigarette, the tip glowing tangerine. "Expatriate."

"A man who belongs nowhere. I was trying to place your accent." Claire observed the man, curious about Leslie's top agent. He remained standing, his slender fingers picking off invisible lint from his trousers.

"What paper do you write for?" she asked, trying to hold him in conversation.

Richard laughed and his face transformed, a lightness settling over his features. Yes, at one time handsome, now gaunt in the face, his tailor made tuxedo a tad too loose over his shoulders. He loosened his bow tie.

He looked down at Claire, his eyes hidden in shadow. "It seems everyone's a writer here. So have you written the great American novel?"

"Goodness, no. I'd never tread on my father's fame. I'm an artist."

A puzzled expression puckered his forehead. "I'm not sure I follow you?"

"My father's Jack O'Neill. You can call me Claire."

"Ah, I can see why you chose another line of work, Claire. Your father's fame would be a lot to live up to."

So, he understood. His intelligent eyes held her curiosity. A breeze swept across the balcony, carrying the scent of smoke from his cigarette. Richard removed his jacket, and draped it over her shoulders. When he turned his head, the moonlight lit his eyes, and she stared, amazed at his eyes so striking by their oddity - one blue iris and one green. Yet, it made him more attractive.

"I haven't seen you around here before," she stated.

"I've been in Scotland on business." Taking a drag from his cigarette, not one flicker of ash fell on his tuxedo.

Claire twisted a strand of hair into a curl, finally shoving the annoying strand behind her ear. Her fingers caught the gardenia pinned in her hair, and it hung limply above her shoulder.

"Here, let me--" and he pinned the gardenia in place.

A long time since a man touched her hair, she jerked back, and the gardenia drifted to the ground. "Leave it," she said, harshly. "It's a nuisance."

He picked it up. "It seems a shame. It looked so lovely in your hair." He rubbed the petals with his finger and then stuffed the flower in his trouser pocket. This gentle act heightened her interest in such an arrogant man, for his closed down face showed no signs of compassion or kindness that she'd discerned in their short time together.

"You never told me what you do."

"Ah, well, I work for the MEW. Ministry of Economic Warfare." Not able to tell her the truth about what he did. His fingers itched, a sign of his nerves acting up. He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and turned away from her overt stare.

From the moment Richard arrived at the party, he had noticed Claire. Her abundance of hair carelessly swept up, and the gardenia above her left ear. Now here she was, and she looked even lovelier close up. Too young for him, a naïveté he had no use for in his world. Yet, he longed to touch the downy softness of her cheek.

He set his sight on the party going on inside, a safe haven from any foolish daydreams. He slowed down his breathing to regain his control, for she seduced him. Her midnight blue gown sensuously formed over her breasts and thin hips. Skin pale as the moon, a perfect color for midnight.

"Here we are, in the midst of a party while people are dying. It seems horrible, to do nothing," her voice rising above the din of the music drifting from the living room. "Since I'm an American, the British don't want my help. They made it perfectly clear."

"I'm sure there are plenty of things you can do."

"I tried to get into the MOI, but the old battleaxe at the front desk turned me away when she looked at my passport."

"Ministry of Information? Why, with all your writer friends, there must be someone who can put a good word in for you," he said. "If not, I know of someone. An architect who's the father of a friend of mine. He does projects for them. He's always looking for talent."

Claire's mouth stretched into a generous grin, likened to a spring day, and he was glad that she smiled because of his offer of help.

"You'd do this for me?"

"I assume you're as good a painter as your father's a writer. But yes, of course," and of course, it was an excuse to see her again. After all, he did promise Leslie he'd befriend her, show her around. "Where're you billeted?"

"Actually, we live here at the Dorchester, a few floors down. You can leave the information at the front desk." Claire removed his jacket. "Thank you, but I'm off. Hoping to meet up with a friend before too long."

Damn. Richard crushed the cigarette butt with the toe of his polished shoe. "Nice meeting you, Claire O'Neill."

Her innocent wide eyes sparkled, and her upturned mouth produced enchanting dimples. Then she briskly turned away and disappeared inside.

Richard made his way to the hallway and retrieved his coat and hat, slipping on leather gloves before leaving. Scanning the room, his eyes searched for Claire. She talked with her father, her hand clutching his arm.

Usually, he found Americans too puritanical. He doubted she had ever slept with a man or been kissed with any passion. Yet, her pleasant mouth tempted him to teach her. Strange thoughts to have for a girl he couldn't care less about. Determined to stay focused on the job ahead, he had no time for romance.

Without looking back, he left the suite, determined to keep a safe distance between them. Anyway, their brief encounter had fallen flat. She had no interest in him that he could discern. He'd tell Leslie to find another babysitter.

Chapter Three

Leslie Havens counted the number of laps in his head. Richard was on his twentieth lap, not bad. Leslie stretched out his legs and raised his arms over his head. When Richard swept past him, Leslie made his move onto the indoor track.

He kicked up his speed and sided next to Richard. "Hello, dear boy."

Leslie admired Richard's powerful thighs, exposed by the shorts riding up his legs. Surprising for someone released from prison only months ago, yet his face held a haunting expression. Leslie found Richard desirable, although his friend's personality somewhat dampened his enthusiasm.

"I say, training is splendid for getting back into shape," Leslie remarked.

Richard turned his head, his breath labored. "Leslie, good of you to join me. I'm afraid you're several laps behind."

Sweat made Richard's skin dewy and his scar jutted white against his cheek. Leslie licked his lips. He tugged at his crisp white tee shirt and gave Richard a broad grin. "I'll run rings around you. I'm built for long distance."

"Care to place a wager?"

"Ten pounds."

Richard raised his brows then stared straight ahead. "You're on."

They ran another eight laps before Richard quit and Leslie waved and sprinted ahead. Richard doused himself with water from a canteen and wrapped a towel around his head. He put on a jacket and sat on the bleachers to wait.

After beating Richard by four laps, Leslie sprinted to the bleachers, his tee shirt dry and wrinkle free. "You owe me."

"You look like you've just stepped out. Don't you sweat?"

"Dear, too disgusting to perspire. Although it looks good on you." Richard handed Leslie the canteen of water. Leslie took a hearty swig. "Looks are deceiving. You of all people shouldn't be taken in by appearances."

"Are you testing me?"

"Stupid bugger. Let's go for a pint."

"Why did they reel me in?" Richard dried his head with a towel. He stared hard at Leslie, the other man's eyes a deep sea green. "I know you know."

"You need to get healthy. Frankly, they overreacted. You look awfully delicious."

Richard shrugged him off. "They have me seeing a damn head doctor." He spit out the word. "What the hell, I'm not crazy."

"Play the game, Richard. We need you ready for France. You'll be transferred to their F section when ready."

"So? What's going on?"

"You heard of Jean Texcier?"

"The writer?"

"He's been distributing subversive literature since the summer. Advice to the Occupied was simple, direct, and effective. Pockets of resistance are springing up and fueled by De Gaulle. It's time to go in and do some real damage."

"Anything organized?"

"It's where we come in, dear. Unfortunately, the French never agree amongst themselves. They squabble worse than relatives over a will."

"And they'll listen to the likes of you?"

"I'm insulted. They'll listen when we supply them with weapons and supplies. So you see. You must get a clean bill of health. Can't go in with the shakes. You should understand our position."

"Yeah, right, you're only thinking of me." Richard threw the towel down and walked off the field.

Leslie sighed. Richard was temperamental, hard to control. A loose cannon? Leslie hoped not. He decided to buck popular opinion that Richard should be cut loose. Anger could be used to their advantage and to some extent Leslie realized that anger was what kept Richard alive. He needed his best saboteur in full control of his faculties.

Leslie stripped down in the locker room and wrapped a towel around his waist. He found Richard in the steam room sitting on the top bench, his legs curled up, and his feet flat on his towel. Richard opened his eyes and grimaced. "Throw some water on those rocks, will you?"

Leslie dipped the ladle in the bucket and poured water over the hot rocks releasing a full head of steam. The rocks hissed and sputtered. He climbed up next to Richard and adjusted his terrycloth towel around his waist. "You were needed in Scotland to train recruits, but that's over. Did you make contact with Claire?"

"Of course," he barked. "Don't you think I'm capable of the simplest task?"

Leslie chuckled at his friend's disgust. "Now dear, you know I believe in you," he teased. "I've taken a liking to her, and have taken her under my tutelage."

"Poor, poor girl."

Leslie cut in. "Jack O'Neill is a friend of the family. I promised my old man I'd look after Claire, bring her into the fold. And, you can use a friend."

"Why me, since you're already involved with her? She has no interest in me," Richard commented. "Certainly, I don't fit in your bohemian crowd. Get another babysitter."

Richard preferred to keep to himself. Well, that wouldn't do, not with his condition. Leslie had another reason to introduce him to Claire. She might be the breath of air Richard needed to heal. And then there was a special mission up ahead. But, better to keep this secret until Richard was ready.

Leslie noticed the slight twitch of Richard's jaw and his finger picking at his scar. The mentioned of Claire had made him uncomfortable.

"You want me to make love to her?" Richard sat up. "She's a strange girl and not my type. She's a skinny thing. You know I like my girls...experienced."

Leslie laughed and nodded. "Yeah, dark eyed and voluptuous, like Anna."

"It's hotter than hell in here." Richard stood up and let the towel drop to the floor. He didn't bother to pick it up. Richard's scarred chest gave Leslie a start but it didn't discount Richard's magnificent physique. The man had no idea how beautiful he was, and this added to his sex appeal. Leslie averted his eyes, needing to concentrate.

Richard picked up the towel and arranged it around his waist while walking to the door. To his credit he smiled, an easy grin, his hand relaxing on the door handle.

Richard cleared his throat. "What's next?"

"Thought you might want to pay your respects to Samuel Jamieson. He's giving a soiree tonight. Of course, I'm escorting Claire. It's her introduction to British bohemia." Leslie settled into the corner of the bench and pulled his towel up around his waist. "She's driven to be successful, and men are relegated to the sideline for her art. You might have a hard time of it."

Leslie enjoyed the steel determination of Richard's set jaw. So, he didn't like the idea of losing to this girl. Good. This set him up to care, or at least try to win her over.

Richard brushed back his unkempt hair. "I'll befriend her, if that's what you want. But, it's a waste of time." With that said, he left Leslie alone to ponder the situation.

It went well enough. He'd have to be satisfied with Richard's reluctance. All this subterfuge was to test Richard's reliability to do a job. Leslie undid his towel and spread it on the planks. He reclined and stretched out his legs, a sudden weariness overwhelming him. Richard drove him hard, but he could be as relentless. Poor boy, Richard had no idea who he was dealing with.

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