“Aren’t you afraid someone might see you?” he asked with a bump and a smile in his voice as he let his hands follow their well-remembered path over the dip of her waist…the swell of her bottom. Because he already knew the answer, even before he felt her jerk back like an affronted cat. Afraid? Not my Sam. Fearless Sam!

“Who’s going to see us-Tony?” she scoffed. “You said it-he sleeps through everything. Besides-it’s pitch-dark in-” And she gasped as, with magnificent timing, the room lit up with blue-white light and turned her lovely body to silver.

It looked, he thought, as though it should be hard and cold to the touch, like an elegant sculpture in marble or alabaster, but instead she was all firm and giving softness and a fierce, vibrant heat that radiated from somewhere inside her and reached deep into his very core.

In the flickering light her face seemed to come down to his bit by bit, in little jerks and starts that matched the uneven rhythms of his heart, and the rocky rumble of the thunder outside was a growling he felt deep in his chest and belly. Too impatient to wait for her to come to him, he lifted his head and found her mouth, then gasped as passions ignited inside him with a power that threatened to tear him apart. And somewhere in the chaos of his mind a thought flashed clear:

What made me think anyone could take the place of this woman in my life? This woman-Samantha-is the only one…the only one…for me.

He held her as tightly as he dared, quaking with the violence of his emotions, and felt her legs align and twine themselves with his, and her body flow up and over his like liquid fire. Then, with one strong and joyful surge he rolled her under him, and when he entered her, he felt like a lost traveler coming home.

He heard her sharp cry, quickly stifled, and then her body shook beneath him and he realized she was laughing, that broken little chuckle of sheer relief and gladness. Tenderly, he lowered his mouth to hers again and tasted the salty-sweetness of tears.

But when, overwhelmed, he pulled back a little with her name on his lips, she made a fierce growling sound and surged upward and claimed his mouth again with what seemed a terrible urgency. And he knew at once, as he’d always known in the old times, what she wanted to tell him.

Don’t say a word, Pearse. Don’t talk, don’t think, not about the past, or what happens tomorrow…just make love to me now.

So that’s what he did. And there was a sweet and desperate joy to their loving he knew he was going to remember for the rest of his life.

Sam slipped away from him sometime before dawn, in a silence that told him more than words that she was determined to make what had just happened between them an anomaly, an isolated incident under special circumstances, like a wartime one-night stand. There must be no word spoken of this tomorrow, no acknowledging glances, no remembering blushes, and above all, no expectations.

Cory let out a careful breath and smiled to himself in the darkness.

Think again, Sam.

He awoke to a gray, dripping morning and a state of mind that could best be described as chaotic. The rainy season had indeed begun. Outside the unshuttered window, clouds lay low on the mountaintops and instead of feeling weighed down by humidity, the air was lively with the sounds of water on the move-plops and whispers as it dripped from leaves and the thatched roofs of houses, and the muted and distant roar of runoff racing down the river’s course, past the village and down to the sea. And within Cory there was a similar restlessness, an urgent desire to be somewhere else, an itchy sense of things not done, missions not yet accomplished.

For starters, he had yet to learn the whereabouts of the missionary couple held hostage for nearly a year. And he had still to get himself and his crew, along with the material gathered from the interview with Fahad al-Rami-and, he hoped, Harold and Esther Lundquist-back to the plane and safely off the island. And although he couldn’t afford to forget, ignore or minimize the danger they were all in, at the same time he couldn’t deny the small glowing core of hope and optimism hidden away deep in his heart this morning like a secret treasure, and the name that repeated in his mind like a phrase from a well-loved song.

Samantha…

Of course, he knew last night hadn’t really changed anything, and that he and Sam still had big problems to work out, issues to deal with before there could be any real hope for them of a future together. Which was all the more reason why he was eager to put this assignment behind him, so he could concentrate on what he was beginning to realize might just be the most important mission of his life: winning back Sam.

To that end, his first priority this morning would have to be the Lundquists. Like it or not, he was going to have to broach that touchy subject with an already ticked-off terrorist named Fahad al-Rami.

He dragged himself up off of his sleeping mat and stretched away some of the inevitable stiffness-and a contradictory and slightly guilty sense of satisfaction and well-being-then dressed in his own clothes. He’d found them along with Tony’s, now clean and smelling strongly of lye and woodsmoke, lying folded and neatly stacked beside two pairs of mud-free boots just outside the door of their room. He fidgeted restlessly while he waited for Tony to get himself up and dressed, and was about to go in search of food and al-Rami-in whatever order he found them-when there was an imperative knock on the door. It was one of the guards, of course, summoning them at the order of their leader.

He and Tony were ushered, in the usual preemptory way, through the quiet house and out onto the veranda, where they found Fahad al-Rami seated at a small rattan table, a basket of fruit and the inevitable teapot arrayed in front of him. Sam joined them there a moment later, also dressed in her own clothes and looking wide awake and fully alert. Her hair was wet and beginning to curl in little dark commas on her forehead and behind her ears, and at the sight of her flushed cheeks and long, moisture-glazed throat, Cory felt juices pool at the back of his mouth, like a hungry man smelling good things to eat.

As he’d known she would, she took great care to avoid meeting his eyes.

Al-Rami waved them to the empty chairs that had been set around the table. When they were seated, he made casual morning small talk while he offered refreshment and served tea all around, inquiring like any good host as to the comfort of their quarters and the quality of their night’s sleep.

And even while he cringed inwardly with his delicious and secret guilt-and wondered whether Sam might be doing the same-Cory couldn’t help but marvel at the incongruity of the little scene: A man with so much blood on his hands-some would say an evil man, a monster, even-prim as an English spinster, calmly pouring out tea.

After an interval filled with chitchat that, given the circumstances, must to a casual observer have seemed downright absurd, Cory put down his cup, pushed it away and leaned forward, clearing his throat. “Sheik al-Rami,” he began, the title of respect coming easily to his lips, though he noted Sam’s small start-of objection, he wondered, or surprise? “Forgive me for introducing a serious subject into such a pleasant and congenial morning, but as I mentioned before, I am extremely concerned about the couple you are holding-”

Al-Rami cut him off with an imperious wave of his hand. “You refer, of course, to the so-called missionaries, spreaders of your Western propaganda-the Lundquists. I have given a great deal of thought to your…suggestion.” He picked up his teacup, eyes hooded, expression aloof. “I’m afraid what you are asking me to do-” And then he paused with the cup halfway to his lips, as if thinking about what he would say next.

Cory waited for him to go on, as did everyone else at the table. But al-Rami didn’t continue, and an instant later, in that listening silence, Cory understood why. The terrorist leader, too, was listening, to a faint and distant sound…coming steadily closer.

Next to him, Sam whispered, “Choppers,” on the gust of an exhalation. As she pushed herself away from the table Cory thought he heard her swear violently under her breath, and mutter, “Not again, damn you…”

On his other side, Tony was hurriedly draping himself with his bags and cameras, all the while blaspheming as only he could. Meanwhile Cory, though aware that al-Rami had placed his cup carefully in its saucer and was rising to his feet, kept his eyes fixed on the village, where people were erupting from the thatched-roofed houses like ants from a disturbed nest. He heard shouts coming from that direction, and the crackle of gunfire. Then…the steady thump of chopper rotors as two helicopter gunships lifted above the distant treetops. Across the cultivated fields, men began to emerge from the cover of the jungle.

Fahad al-Rami’s deep-set eyes swept over the three still seated at the table, lashing them with a cold black rage. Cory was sure the hatred in those eyes would haunt his nightmares in the days and weeks to come. Then al-Rami whirled, and in two long strides, crossed the veranda and vanished into the house.

“He’s probably got an escape route out the back.” Sam’s voice was low and urgent, more compelling than a shout. The pops and crackles of gunfire seemed closer already; some of al-Rami’s men were working their way up the slope, turning now and then to fire back on the advancing government forces. Small explosions had begun to blossom in the road leading to the village. Near the river a thatched roof erupted in flames.

“Come on, let’s go-quick-before we lose him.” Sam was already on her feet, lunging for the doorway. Tony was right behind her-though naturally he had to pause first to aim his camera and click away at the chaos breaking out below.