Colby Agency: Guardian Of The Night Part 1

GUARDIAN OF THE NIGHT.

DEBRA WEBB.

Noah stood in the doorway, naked except for a towel slung carelessly around his hips He affected her in a way that was beyond her control. With him less than two feet away, she couldn't think. He s.h.i.+fted that dark, hypnotic gaze from her to his bed and back. Heat exploded inside her, sending stream after stream of hot, urgent sensations through her body. She trembled; her heart rate would not slow, her rapid intake of breath belied her composure.

He moved in her direction. "My private s.p.a.ce is off-limits."

He was too gorgeous...too splendid to ignore. Whatever had happened to him five years ago, there was no outward indication that he was anything other than perfect. Even in the low light it was impossible to miss the s.e.xual hunger glittering behind those deep brown eyes. His tone was thick with desire and promise, soft in a way that was lethal to all that made her a woman. "I don't think you realize just how dangerous it is here for you...."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

Debra Webb was born in Scottsboro, Alabama, to parents who taught her that anything is possible if you want it badly enough. She began writing at age nine. Eventually she met and married the man of her dreams, and tried some other occupations, including selling vacuum cleaners and working in a factory, a day-care center, a hospital and a department store. When her husband joined the military, they moved to Berlin, Germany, and Debra became a secretary in the commanding general's office. By 1985 they were back in the States, and they finally moved to Tennessee, to a small town where everyone knows everyone else. With the support of her husband and two beautiful daughters, Debra took up writing again, looking to mystery and movies for inspiration. In 1998 her dream of writing for Harlequin came true. You can write to Debra with your comments at P.O. Box 64, Huntland, Tennessee 37345.

CAST OF CHARACTERS.

Maggie "Blue" Callahan-A Specialist in a highly covert government organization. Protecting Noah Drake will endanger her heart as well as her life.

Noah Drake-A former military intelligence officer. His past decision to be the first human to field-test a prototype robbed him of a future.

Thomas Casey-The enigmatic director of Mission Recovery.

Lucas Camp-Deputy director of Mission Recovery. He will do whatever is necessary to take care of his Specialists. His people are his number one priority.

Victoria Colby-The head of the Chicago-based Colby Agency. She is intelligent, sophisticated and loyal...but most of all, she is the woman Lucas Camp loves.

Edgar Rothman-A lead research scientist in a secret government organization. The man who developed the prototype that failed, costing Noah Drake his life as he knew it.

Lowell Kline-Noah Drake's a.s.sistant/companion. Lowell takes care of the home that serves as Noah's prison.

General Regan Bonner-A man who wants only one thing: vengeance.

Chester Parks-The island gossip and errand man.

Leberman-A man who would like nothing better than to see the Colby Agency destroyed.

Things are not always as they seem. These words are especially true of those with special circ.u.mstances. Sometimes all we take the time to see is what's on the outside of a person, never looking deeper, never noticing who they really are. This book is dedicated to a very special person whose life changed mine so profoundly and at the same time so wonderfully that my journey was forever changed. To my daughter, Erica Webb Jeffrey. You are an inspiration to us all. Love, Mom.

Chapter One.

Darkness.

His only escape from the prison he called home.

The deserted beach stretched out before him like a vast, uncharted universe. It moved like a shadowy serpent, ever undulating. Waves crashed, slid away, leaving a glittering residue on the sand that captured the spa.r.s.e light of the cloud-veiled moon. While he stood perfectly still, the breeze whispered through the night, urging him to enjoy the freedom only the too-short hours after the gloaming and before the dawn could offer.

Noah Drake closed his eyes and inhaled deeply of the thick salt air. He burrowed his toes in the sand, smiled and imagined the infinite grains hot from the scorching sun, the heat baking his bare feet. He summoned the memory of how the sunlight felt on his face, warm, like a lover's kiss. With more slow, deep breaths, he persuaded himself to relax and he could almost feel the golden brilliance touching him, healing him as nothing else could.

He opened his eyes.

It was only a memory.

Noah would never know that invigorating sensation again. This was as close as he would get. The moon peeked from amid the voluminous purple clouds making the sand appear whiter, the water bluer. All else was lost to him. For five endless years he had been sentenced to darkness. The cold, empty truth filled him with an all-consuming rage. Adrenaline surged through his veins, as hot as Hades must surely be and as insistent as the breaking surf that was now as much a part of him as his own heartbeat.

So he tugged on the running shoes that lay at his feet and he ran.

Along the beach then through the dense forest that forged right up to the sand like a battalion of troops ready to conquer. Dense undergrowth closed in around him, and towering trees laden with moss rendered the shadows beneath impenetrable. All traces of the moon disappeared, all that remained was the silent foreboding. But that didn't stop Noah. His vision had long ago adjusted to this nocturnal existence, as his hearing had grown keener with the silence of his self-imposed exile from the human race.

He was alone, living in the darkness like a vampire but with no bloodl.u.s.t to compel him to strive for survival.

He simply existed.

Noah ran through the night until he reached a place that no one else on St. Gabriel Island dared visit...even in the bright, unforgiving light of day.

The concerto of cicadas was very nearly deafening. He drew the thick, balmy air into his lungs, exhaled again and again until his respiration had slowed and his skin had ceased to tingle. A slick coat of sweat had dampened his flesh and he felt cleansed by it.

He moved closer to the looming structure that had once reigned proudly in the center of a clearing. That clearing had decades ago been reclaimed by the semi-tropical forest. Ivy shrouded the ancient chapel's exterior, hiding the timeworn cracks in its sagging walls, disguising its proximity to inevitable collapse. Inside was cavernous and as dark as a tomb, which was fitting since the rumors on the island had pegged him as the walking dead, a distant cousin of Count Dracula, no doubt.

Some species of the local fauna scurried out through the wide door, open and partially unhinged on one side. Probably a racc.o.o.n, Noah decided, unafraid. He waded through knee-deep weeds that grew in the loamy soil as he moved past the chapel and to the cemetery beyond it. He had no fear of anything reptilian or otherwise, he was the walking dead, after all. What did Noah Drake have to fear?

Only the light.

And a past that had destroyed his future, and any semblance of a normal present.

Camouflaged by the creeping flora, primitive head-stones, crumbling with age, marked the final resting places of a few of St. Gabriel's former residents. No one on the island ever came near the place anymore. Not since the ground had been tainted some thirty or so years ago by the burial of one of Savannah's premier voodoo queens, or so went the gossip. Noah wondered if the woman had felt as alone in her beliefs as he did in his inescapable isolation.

But he was alone, not lonely, he reminded himself. He didn't need anyone. And there was his work...his private expression of aloneness.

Minutes turned into hours as he wandered with no particular destination. He didn't often leave the house for this long, or travel this far from its sanctuary. A simple mistake such as falling and injuring himself could mean certain death if he were unable to return before dawn. But he'd needed to escape the demons from his past and this was the only way he'd known how.

They were coming...for him.

All he could do was wait. It was the waiting that got to him, not the fear for his life. Just the waiting.

Acutely attuned to nature's predawn signals, he eventually moved back toward safety. He slowed as he neared the house. Inside lay reality. Out here, he glanced toward the east and the pink and purple hues already creeping above the horizon, was freedom, hope, possibility.

But his time was up. Going back inside wasn't a mere alternative, it was a necessity. If he remained outdoors and the sun came up, which it would inevitably do...he would die.

As he trudged through the sand, he studied the details of the prison he'd chosen. The three-story Victorian Gothic-style house had a long ways to go before she would be fully restored to her former glory, but she was impressive still, at once brooding and enchanting if one was predisposed to romance.

Hurricane shutters, now closed at all times, masked the floor-to-ceiling windows. More than a century after the house's construction, that detail had become an important one for the new owner. Interior shutters and heavy drapes rendered the numerous ma.s.sive windows-eyes to the outer world-completely sightless. No one saw in, no one saw out and not even so much as a glimmer of light penetrated his large, aboveground dungeon.

When he reached the screened porch that had been added sometime in the last half of the twentieth century, Noah turned around and looked out over the ocean one last time. That had actually been the deciding factor in his choosing this place. The sound of the surf, the immensity of its boundaries were breathtaking even without the aid of the sun.

It was all that kept him sane.

"Noah, you've been gone for hours." The gently scolding voice greeted him the moment he opened the door into the kitchen.

Tamping down the instant irritation, Noah manufactured a smile for his relentless companion, Lowell Kline. Companion, what an odd designation for his mind to conjure, Noah considered abruptly. But it was true. Lowell was paid well to live here, had been for a year now. Did the shopping, the cooking, the laundry, even the cleaning. He fussed over Noah like a grandmother every chance he got. Most of the time Noah avoided him, but sometimes, as now, Lowell would catch Noah off guard and that annoyed him immensely. Lowell wanted to be a true companion in that he wanted to be Noah's friend. But Noah didn't want that. He didn't want anyone to be too close.

"I'm fine, Lowell." He regarded his dedicated employee, wondering again what made him stay. It definitely wasn't the pleasure of the company. Lowell Kline was certainly capable of earning a good wage elsewhere. His still-full head of hair was as white as the clouds Noah remembered from a clear summer's day. Though not a large fellow, at fifty-five Lowell was quite fit. The older man was well-read and deemed himself the resident expert on the island folklore, including the still-secretly-practiced black voodoo and the long-ago days when pirates and smugglers had frequented the place.

"Have you been up all this time?" Noah inquired. He preferred his solitude. Lowell knew that.

Lowell looked fl.u.s.tered. He tried very hard not to let Noah catch him keeping too close tabs. "Well no, but when I awoke and realized you weren't back I began to worry."

Noah nodded, suddenly too tired to discuss the issue. This was his life-existence, he amended. "I apologize if I worried you. Your concern is unnecessary, I a.s.sure you. I'm heading for the shower."

"Noah," Lowell said, stalling his departure. "You've received another...letter."

The last word hung in the air like the steamy July humidity outside, only heavy with an undercurrent of apprehension...of menace.

"Let me see." It was only then that Noah noticed Lowell held a bundle of mail under one arm, his reading gla.s.ses dangling from his hand. He'd obviously been going through the stack Noah had ignored for the past four days. Noah preferred to do it himself, but whenever he got behind, by choice generally, Lowell took the initiative.

Noah looked at the envelope. As before it was nondescript, white in color, business-size with no return address. The postmark was Atlanta. He reached inside and pulled out the single sheet of paper. It was just like all the others. Letters of the alphabet in different fonts and sizes had been cut from magazines or newspapers and arranged into haphazard words then pasted onto the plain white page.

There's no place to hide.

Noah sighed, crumpled the letter and tossed it across the room. Anger seethed inside him. The letters had been coming once a week for more than two months. The first few had been nothing more than hate mail. That hadn't really bothered him since he'd been called worse by the locals on occasion. But the last three or four had grown threatening. Last week's I'm coming for you had sent Lowell over the edge. He'd insisted on informing Edgar Rothman, the only man involved with the government whom Noah even remotely a.s.sociated with.

Rothman had overreacted as usual.

"There was a call also," Lowell said hesitantly, obviously weighing the merits of saying more but duty bound to do so.

Noah paused again, his fierce glare cut to Lowell, he flinched. "What call?"

"Mr. Rothman wanted you to know that he was sending someone down to..." Lowell cleared his throat. "To serve as a sort of bodyguard."

Noah swore, long and loud, like a sailor fresh in from a long stretch at sea finding his wife in bed with one of the local riffraff. If his enemy wanted revenge, why didn't he take it? These games weren't his style. Either way, Noah wasn't running.

"Call Rothman back and tell him to forget it. I don't want anyone coming here. I will not allow it."

"But, what if-"

Noah pinned him with a look that he felt certain conveyed the finality of his words. "If you would feel more comfortable taking a leave until this is over, I fully understand. But I do not want a d.a.m.ned bodyguard. Under any circ.u.mstances."

BLUE CALLAHAN surged forward, gaining her second wind as she sprinted into the home stretch of her three-mile run. Her heart pumped hard and steady, forcing the adrenaline-charged blood through her veins and melting the last of the tension from her body.

She'd awakened this morning with a scream trapped in her throat and sweat dampening her skin, nightmares left over from Port Charlotte. The mission had gone smoothly right up until the end. But she'd survived. Vince Ferrelli and Katrina Moore had survived too. The bad guys had been defeated and all was right in the world once more.

Just twenty-four hours had pa.s.sed and the incident that had shaken her to the core was still fresh in her memory. But it would pa.s.s. She knew from experience that it would. Focusing on more pleasant thoughts, she remembered that Lucas Camp had mentioned that he had scheduled a mission where she would be the primary. He'd also warned that there was a short fuse on this one, she should be ready ASAP.

She was ready.

As soon as she had shaken off the lingering effects of the nightmare, she'd started packing in preparation. She didn't have to know where she was going or for how long; all Specialists were trained on the proper preparations for a mission. Her selections would cover most any situation or climate.

Then she'd pushed, stretching to her physical limits all morning in an effort to dispel the remnants of the nightmares. Glancing at her watch, she realized it was almost noon and she was starved.

If she hurried she could make it to Terry's Pizza in time for lunch with the usual crew. Blue bounded away from the track, slowing her pace as she approached the gym. This training facility was for Specialists only. Every person here was a.s.signed to the most highly covert organization belonging to the United States government. Blue's unit, Special Operations, fell under Mission Recovery and was headed by Director Thomas Casey. Lucas Camp, one of her favorite people, served as Deputy Director.

This state-of-the-art training facility made the FBI's Farm look like an elementary-school playground. Blue smiled at that thought. She'd considered a career at the Bureau first when she graduated from UCLA, but she'd chosen the Secret Service instead. Having hailed from a family of cops, third generation at that, she had definitely wanted to go into law enforcement. But being the only girl in her close-knit family of six siblings, Blue had learned hard and fast that if she didn't keep one step ahead of the boys, she'd always be two steps behind. So she'd opted for federal service rather than local law enforcement. Being asked for by name by the president himself had made her a legend in the Callahan family as well as envied by her peers.

No one in her family could believe it when she had left the Secret Service for her current duty. Forward Research, the people whose sole responsibility was to scout out talent for Mission Recovery, had noticed her Secret Service exploits and, the moment the president for whom she worked had left office, they'd lured her away from the dark suits and designer sungla.s.ses.

Mission Recovery's whole cloak-and-dagger routine had seduced her. Now her brothers, all local cops in L.A., were permanently one-upped. Little sister was a secret agent. She always laughed and told them it was nothing nearly so James Bondish as all that. But the truth was, they were closer to the mark than they knew.

Mission Recovery had been created to serve the needs of all other government agencies, CIA, FBI, ATF, DEA. Whenever the usual channels failed, Mission Recovery was called in to "recover" the situation. Blue could vouch for the fact that all the members of this elite group, called Specialists, were highly trained in all areas of anti-terrorism, aggressive infiltration and such. Of course, she couldn't share any of that with her brothers.

But that was okay with Blue. She didn't do any of it for the notoriety, she did it because she loved the job. Most of the time anyway.

She slowed to a walk as she entered the gym and made the journey to the women's locker rooms. The place was deserted. There weren't that many females in Mission Recovery, but their facilities were every bit as elaborate as their male counterparts'.

Peeling off her T-s.h.i.+rt, she toed off her sneakers, then reached for the door to her locker. Her cellular telephone rang. She flipped down the mouthpiece and said a breathless, "Callahan."

"Blue, this is Joan at the gallery."

Blue's heart did a somersault. "Hey, Joan." She tried to stay calm and not jump the gun here, but adrenaline was already soaring through her.

"I've located another painting by that obscure artist."

"So I can purchase the one I've been admiring?" she asked quickly. She had to know! She'd mooned-obsessed really-over that painting for months now. She'd even dreamed of the enigmatic artist behind the work. Too bad no one, not even the gallery owner, knew his name. The work was simply signed N.D.D. All transactions were conducted through his agent. N.D.D. was a complete mystery. One Blue would like nothing better than to solve. Since his work was so hard to come by, the gallery owner was reluctant to let it go.

Joan laughed softly. "Drop by at your convenience. I'll be holding it for you."

Blue tossed the phone back into the locker and did a little victory dance. The painting was hers. Thoughts of the dark, sensual images of the almost Gothic-looking forest scene made her s.h.i.+ver. And now it was hers!

She snagged her towel. Maybe she'd have time to pick it up today. Clad only in her sports bra and running shorts, she closed her locker and turned to head toward the showers.

She inhaled sharply at the sight of Lucas Camp sitting on a bench at the end of the row of lockers, a briefcase at his feet.

"Afternoon, Callahan." He propped his hands on his cane and eyed her unapologetically. "I hope this isn't a bad time."

"No, sir." Growing up with five brothers made a girl pretty d.a.m.ned unflappable. She threw the towel over her shoulder and moved to the bench. "Your timing is perfect. I've been thinking about you and that a.s.signment you mentioned." She sat down next to him.

Though the last place she'd expected to receive a mission briefing was in the women's locker room at the training facility, she'd waited a long time to be the primary on an a.s.signment. She'd take it any way it came. No matter that her record with the Secret Service was stellar, all Specialists started out on the same level and had to earn their way in Mission Recovery. Impressing the likes of Lucas Camp and Thomas Casey was no easy feat.