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  COPYRIGHT

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2009 by Marliss Arruda

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Forever

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

  www.twitter.com/foreverromance

  Forever is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing.

  The Forever name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: September 2009

  ISBN: 978-0-446-55812-9

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT

  RAVE REVIEWS FORALISS MELTON AND HER NOVELS

  ALSO BY MARLISS MELTON

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  EPILOGUE

  THE DISH

  RAVE REVIEWS FOR

  MARLISS MELTON

  AND HER NOVELS

  TOO FAR GONE

  “Tremendous…A mother’s frantic fear…[a] desperate race.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine

  “A terrific romantic suspense thriller.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “This is a taut, thrilling, well-written novel with an unexpected twist…A terrific addition to this Navy SEAL series.”

  — TheRomanceReadersConnection.com

  “Likable and honorable characters who elicit sympathy and/or empathy; exciting, intelligently crafted plots with inner and outer conflicts to overcome; and heartwarming love stories mark all [the books in this series.] I highly recommend Too Far Gone.”

  — RomRevToday.com

  DON’T LET GO

  “4 Stars! Another winner in a top-notch series!…Four different plot threads are delicately woven together, each resonating with emotional overtones of loss and rebirth.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine

  “An exhilarating thriller…Readers will enjoy this fine family drama as Ms. Melton provides a strong tale.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Melton delivers another suspenseful tale that you will never forget.”

  — BookCoveReviews.com

  NEXT TO DIE

  “A romance that sizzles.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “There is a lot of action and suspense…a work that is as exciting as it is heartwarmingly riveting.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Melton brings her considerable knowledge about the military and intelligence world to this Navy SEAL series. You’ll enjoy this peek into the world—and love the romance that develops between Joe and Penny.”

  — FreshFiction.com

  TIME TO RUN

  “Melton…doesn’t miss a beat in this involving story.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Edgy contemporary romantic suspense…emotional fireworks as well as some fancy sniper shooting.”

  —Booklist

  “Melton’s compelling protagonists propel the gritty and realistic storytelling…Excellent!”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine

  IN THE DARK

  “Hooked me from the first page…filled with romance, suspense, and characters who will pull you in and never let you go.”

  —LISA JACKSON, New York Times bestselling author of Absolute Fear

  “Packed with action from the first page to the last…a must.”

  —Novel Talk

  “[A] hard-charging romantic thriller as warm and heady as a Caribbean sun-soaked bay.”

  —BookPage

  FORGET ME NOT

  “Refreshing…fine writing, likable characters, and realistic emotions.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A wonderful book, touching at all the right heartstrings. I highly recommend it!”

  —HEATHER GRAHAM, author of Dead on the Dance Floor

  “The gifted Melton does an excellent job building emotion, danger, and tension in her transfixing novel.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine

  ALSO BY MARLISS MELTON

  Forget Me Not

  In the Dark

  Time to Run

  Next to Die

  Don’t Let Go

  Too Far Gone

  This story is written in honor of three American contractors, Marc Gonsalves, Keith Stansell, and Thomas Howes, who were held captive by Colombian rebels for five years and five months. While I was researching this story, you were all still hostages. It had been my intent to raise awareness of your plight, so that you wouldn’t be forgotten. My prayers were answered when you were bravely rescued on July 2, 2008, in a combined effort involving the Colombian army and intelligence agents. Welcome home, gentlemen. You were never as alone as you must have felt you were. May you find peace with the past and fulfillment in the future.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Lucy’s story has been, by far, the toughest, most rewarding book to write in my entire Navy SEALs series. It took extensive research into the testimonials of those who’ve been held captive in Colombia, have aided the Colombian government in suppressing terrorism, or have interacted with the FARC in some personal way. My thanks goes to Glenn Heggstad, who described his captivity in Colombia in his testimonial Two Wheels Through Terror, giving me insight into that awful experience. My fullest respect and awe go to Russell Martin Stendal, author of Rescue the Captors 2, who, through his fearless missionary work, has converted hundreds of FARC rebels to the Christian faith, causing them to denounce violence and seek a peaceful resolution to the ongoing civil war.

  Also, I could not have written such a realistic story without the advice of intelligence officers who cannot be named, as well as Navy SEAL commander Mark Divine. Special recognition must be given to retired Australian Services Regiment sniper Chris Nally, for advising me on all matters military. You are my hero!

  Lastly, I would be remiss were I not to thank Janie, who believed in my ability to craft a story even without her daily input. I’m afraid I have to agree with Lucy, Janie girl. Dodging bullets with a partner is way more fun.

  “What happens in the jungle stays in the jungle.”

  —INGRID BETANCOURT,

  FARC hostage for six years, four months, and nine days

  PROLOGUE

  Maiquetía, Venezuela

  Lucy Donovan, top-notch case officer for the CIA, considered herself virtually fearless. But the Elite Guards’ threat to blow up the warehouse, with her trapped inside it, made her skin feel too tight. She wasn’t afraid to die, but thoughts of being blown to pieces touched on a memory so raw and painful that she came closer to panicking than she ever had in her life.

  With a knife slipped in her hands at the last minute by a sympathetic Elite Guardsman, she had severed the flexicuffs that had kept her bound to a chair. The window through which a warm,
sulfurous breeze wafted offered escape and certain survival. Only Lucy couldn’t jump out yet. She had a job to finish—to find the CDs she’d been forced to hide when the Elite Guard first stormed the building.

  Beaten and bleeding, with seconds draining away like sand through an hourglass, she slipped from the office to slink along the catwalk edging the outer wall.

  The creaking of hinges one level below her made her freeze. What now? she wondered, uncertain whether the sound was real or just imagined. With no time to guess, she continued to search for the line of chalk marking the support beam behind which she’d hidden the CDs.

  A scuffling sound confirmed that she was not alone in this vast, echoing warehouse. Footfalls, so stealthy they gave her pause, crept along the cement slab below.

  Two people? Three?

  Awash in a cold sweat, she wondered who they might be. Damn it! If they interfered with her exodus, they were all going to end up in little pieces!

  Seeing the line of chalk, at last, she bent to retrieve the CDs from the aperture behind the beam. Plop! Blood dripped from her chin, landing loudly on the grooved metal flooring. At the same time, the stairs leading from the first floor to the second gave a groan.

  Lucy held her breath. Someone was ascending the steps to the catwalks above. If he was equipped with night vision, he would discover her almost immediately. Her only option was to disappear.

  Casting a desperate eye around her, she realized the metal supports for the catwalk offered possibilities.

  Stuffing the CDs into the pocket of her cargo pants, she stepped onto the railing and reached for the horizontal bar high over her head. In a move called a roof assault, she pulled her feet, then her body, up and over the bar. The effort sent blood rushing past her eardrums, challenging her equilibrium. Had she imagined it, or had someone called her name?

  The silhouette of a man edged cautiously into view. Friend or foe? she wondered, praying she’d climbed too high for him to see her. He wore night-vision gear, so it was impossible to see his face, to determine his affiliation. With a pack on his back, an assault rifle, and more gear strapped to his belt, he looked like a Navy SEAL, but she couldn’t be certain.

  She could tell that he was following her blood trail. With his gaze angled downward, he still hadn’t noticed her, clinging to the support rod several feet over his head. She watched as he passed directly below her, crossing to the beam where she’d hidden the CDs.

  The blood coursing down her face proved problematic. She tried to staunch the flow with her sleeve, but a droplet escaped, falling in slow motion to hit the metal riser with a musical thunk.

  Lucy flinched. The commando shrank out of sight at the sound, hiding his broad-shouldered frame behind the slender beam. “Lucy!” he whispered from his hiding place.

  At the sound of her name, Lucy’s tense muscles went lax. Her body slid bonelessly off the bar. She hung by her sweaty fingertips for a second before dropping gracefully to her feet. “Here I am,” she said, relieved beyond measure that she was being rescued and not hunted down.

  He spun into view, lifting the visor of his night-vision gear, and Lucy’s heart stopped.

  It had to be the greasepaint that made him look exactly like her college boyfriend, James. The athletic body didn’t jibe with her mental recollection. But as she took a curious step closer, his expression of horror confirmed her observation.

  “James Atwater,” she breathed, ignoring his concern over her ravaged face, amazed that her voice could sound so calm when her heart was trotting. “What the hell are you doing here?” But then her knees betrayed her, going suddenly weak.

  As she started to sway, he leapt forward, catching her against him. “Lucy!”

  “We need to get out of here,” she warned him, grateful for the strength in the arm that kept her vertical. “The captain of the Elite Guard gave orders to blow up the building.”

  Thoughts shifted across his face, too quickly for her to gauge. “Let’s go,” he rasped. Anchoring her to his right side, he hustled her toward the stairs. “I found her, Vinny,” he said into his mic. “Exit the building pronto. She needs medical attention.”

  “I’m fine,” Lucy insisted. She could use a few stitches, but aside from that she was good to go.

  He slanted her a frowning look, one that took in her battered appearance, the ponytail that hung askew, and the torn T-shirt hanging out of her pants. Bullshit, said his disapproving gaze.

  A deafening explosion spilled them to their knees. With her heart in her throat, Lucy expected the building to incinerate. Only it didn’t. She shared a look of relief with James, who hauled her to her feet. Together they raced for the nearest exit.

  “This one’s closer,” she insisted, yanking him toward a door tucked out of sight.

  They flew out of it, setting off an alarm, the wail of which was drowned out by the clatter of the nearby fire-fight. She could only assume the commandos had cut off the Elite Guard as they sought to escape with their cargo of weapons.

  “Run!” James urged, impelling her across the expanse of sandy earth. Her legs felt strangely leaden, like she was running in a dream. But if all this was a dream, then she’d awaken to find that James was just a figment of her imagination, a composite of long-forgotten yearnings.

  At last he pulled her to a stop, holding her fiercely to him as they caught their breath. Speaking into his mouthpiece, he tasked one of his men to call for a helicopter extract.

  Listening to his voice—familiar, certainly, but deeper and more resonant—she wondered what circumstances had compelled him to become a Special Forces soldier. The last she’d heard from him, he was working on a master’s in engineering at MIT, yet here he was, as hard-bodied as any action hero and, by all appearances, the officer in charge of his teammates. Who could have imagined?

  When they got a moment to talk, she would assuage her curiosity.

  “We’ll be there in a sec,” he said into his mic. But then he glanced sharply up at the sky. “No, we won’t. Here come the Cobras. Get down!”

  With that scant warning, he tackled Lucy to the ground, somehow managing not to crush her. Lying with her left cheek pressed into the sandy earth and blood pooling in her eye socket, Lucy drifted into memories of the past. She had broken things off with James after the tragic bombing many years ago. She’d never imagined they would meet again like this.

  Boom, boom, boom, boom! The ground shook as gunships pounded the fleeing convoy. Secondary explosions followed the attack for minutes on end, frustrating her desire to connect the dots.

  “Why didn’t you answer me in the warehouse when I called for you?” he shouted, looking perplexed and frustrated.

  “I think I blacked out for a minute,” she explained, recalling how the blood had rushed past her eardrums during the roof assault.

  He was astute enough not to ask any probing questions, though he could surely feel the CD cases in her pocket, gouging his thigh.

  As silence descended at last over the dusty, foul-smelling air, Lucy went to ask a question of her own—How on earth did you become a commando?—but James hauled her to her feet, cutting her off before the words reached her lips. “Echo Platoon, rally up at the Hummer,” he clipped. “Let’s get out of here while we still can.”

  Their aerial attack would summon the entire populist army.

  “Do you have your car key, by any chance?” he asked Lucy.

  “Not anymore.” It’d been seized by the Elite Guard. “But I keep a spare under the bumper,” she told him.

  “Excellent.” He was all business, as was she. Obviously, this wasn’t the time or the place for small talk. They weren’t young people anymore with the freedom to explore their options. James Atwater had a job to do, and so did she.

  The sooner these commandos whisked her to safety, the sooner she could deliver these CDs to headquarters.

  James Atwater might have been the most promising fish she’d ever caught and released, but Lucy Donovan was way too busy to even
consider reeling him back in.

  CHAPTER 1

  Ten months later

  Lucy Donovan loathed wearing pantyhose almost as much as she detested her three-inch stiletto heels. But stilettos, paired with a short skirt to show off her runner’s legs, gave her an advantage very few men had: the power of distraction. And since she couldn’t wear her favorite accessory—the Ruger she liked to keep strapped to her thigh—she had to arm herself in subtler ways.

  The staccato of her heels as she headed for the clandestine CIA station in New York City helped to soothe the frisson of unease that tingled up and down her spine.

  Following her extraction from Venezuela, the CIA’s in-house psychologist had diagnosed her with post-traumatic stress disorder. She’d been prescribed mild sedatives, which she’d flushed down the toilet, and was benched in paperwork hell until they deemed her fully operative. Apparently she had passed her most recent evaluation with flying colors or she wouldn’t be here.

  Thank God. Her imposed R & R was finally over! She couldn’t wait to get back into the game.

  Swiping her CAC card by the engraving that read Department of the Treasury, Lucy shoved down a memory of the Elite Guardsman’s fist slamming into her cheekbone. You didn’t get to play with the big boys if you couldn’t handle what they dished out. She’d known that when she’d signed up.

  Crossing the marble foyer, she surrendered her briefcase for inspection while negotiating the retina scan and then the metal detector.

  “Have a good day,” murmured a security guard, his gaze sliding helplessly down her legs as he handed back her briefcase.

  Sparing him a cool smile, she turned toward the elevators and, seeing one open, hurried to catch it, leaping into the soundproof space just as the doors began to close.