Secret Agent, Secret Father
Donna Young
MILLS & BOON
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Table of Contents
DONNA YOUNG, an incurable romantic, lives in beautiful Northern California with her husband and two children.
To Wendy and Jimmy, I love you, Mom and Dad.
With the pain came consciousness.
It pierced the cataleptic depths with jagged teeth that gnawed through skull and skin.
The man lifted his head, testing. Blood coated his tongue, coppery and thick. He groaned as the nausea tightened his gut, pressed into his chest.
They’re coming! The words screamed at him through the blanket of fog, adding a bite to the pain. His eyes fluttered open. Blurred lines altered, then cleared into comprehensible patterns.
Rain trickled in through the half-shattered windshield. The splatter of water mixed with his blood turning the air bag pink in the semidarkness. A light pole lay bent across the top of the sports coupé, its base uprooted from the cement.
How long had he been unconscious? He shifted, trying to relieve the pressing weight on his lungs, focusing on the half-deflated air bag wedged between the steering wheel and his chest.
A shaft of white heat impaled his right shoulder. He let out a slow hiss.
After a moment, he pulled his other arm in from the driver’s side window, noting for the first time he held a pistol tight in his grip. The silver flashed in the night. The cold steel felt good in the palm of his hand. No, more than good, he thought. Familiar.
He fumbled with the safety belt, released the lock. Tightening his jaw, he shoved his good shoulder against the car door, stiffened at the new surge of pain, the wave of dizziness. Metal scraped, glass crackled. Another push and the door gave way. Slowly he slid through the opening and then stood, using the mangled roof for support.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Instinctively he turned. Bile rose, burned his throat. The ground tilted beneath him. Swearing, he fell to his knees and vomited.
They were coming for him. Cops. Rescue workers. It didn’t matter which. Both filed reports.
Reports left paper trails.
With gun in hand, he waited a moment for his stomach to settle, using the time to get his bearings.
Rows of houses, dull with age and earth-toned brick, flanked the street. Each with covered porches that lay behind picket fences or scattered