Sara waited until the next morning and then decided to see if Kyle had made good on his intention to go home. She left Noelle sleeping in the safe confines of her crib and went down a long staircase into the castle's cellar. The steel door in its far wall opened when she punched a code into the electronic lock.
Sara entered her underground greenhouse, a cavern of chiseled rock walls that could easily accommodate a thousand tropical plants. Besides one large main area, it was divided into a dozen self-contained glass cubicles, each with separate light, temperature, and moisture controls for different plant needs and experiments.
In the open space colorful seedlings from dozens of species grew in trays set on neat rows of tables. Candy-colored butterflies fluttered through the cavern, crickets sang in the shadows, and several pairs of small parrots talked noisily from their perches in a small tree.
Sara inhaled ripe, humid air and felt the heat radiated by a rock ceiling covered with fluorescent lights. An underground cavern was not the ideal place for a tropical greenhouse, obviously, but her mother had spent years developing it, and it served its purpose well.
Exiting through another steel door on the far side of the cavern, she entered a low, narrow corridor of claustrophobic dimensions, lit by tiny white lights at head level on the walls. The air became cool and musty; she felt smothered in a way that she never did ordinarily. Sara rubbed a palm over the taut muscles in the back of her neck, lifting feathery red hair.
Kyle had reminded her of all she was missing, all she'd given up to protect Noelle from unwanted questions and scrutiny. Now she felt like a plant reaching desperately for sunlight that could never be hers. For the first time since her return from Surador she found herself chafing under the restrictions of her reclusive life, even while she knew she'd make the same choices again.
Sara climbed a narrow set of stone steps to a landing just wide enough for her to stand easily. The stairs preceded upward for another dozen yards, their angle gradually growing so shallow that they were hardly stairs anymore. Near the top their smooth surfaces were strewn with decaying leaves. The stairs ended at a double door that lay flat above them, at ground level.
Sara pushed a lever on a control panel set in the landing wall, and the doors opened upward with a soft whirring sound. Golden maple leaves floated into the stairwell; bright sunlight poured down, so warm and friendly that she thought of Kyle again and fought off feelings of sorrow.
After she climbed out of the passageway and stood in the crisp autumn morning, surrounded by forest, she closed the doors with a remote-control unit. She hung the device on the elastic waistband of her white sweat pants and carefully tugged the tall of her matching top over it.
Then she slipped through the woods as quietly as she could. But Kyle was gone and his camping site was already obscured by a covering of newly fallen leaves. Her shoulders stiffened with unhappy satisfaction. Sara went to the empty area and stood, gazing bleakly about. He had even scattered the rocks that had circled his fire.
A thoughtful camper, that was Kyle. Don Johnson playing Sonny Crockett pretending to be a Boy Scout, with a kissing technique worth a dozen merit badges. She wanted him, she needed him, but drawing him into her life would be the crudest thing she could do.
The forest seemed more quiet than usual, and the autumn breeze made a forlorn, empty sound in the highest tree branches. Tears blurred her vision. Sara picked a leaf up and let it go, watching it spiral, caught in forces it couldn't control.
Diego de Valdivia, the power-hungry man who had forced her participation in an immoral type of research, the South American business patron who had secretly dabbled in espionage, the man who had maimed Kyle forever, was Noelle's father.
Kyle gave her two days in which to relax and grow careless. Shortly after midnight of the second day he left his motel room and drove back to her estate, hid his rental car in the woods near her driveway, and set out through the dark forest on foot, carrying a backpack full of gear. He kept clear of the gate at the main road to avoid setting off the sensors he knew were hidden there.
He ruefully eyed the dragons that snarled in a sliver of moonlight atop the gate's massive pillars. Her dragons were friendly, she'd said. Sure. And so were his nightmares.
When he reached the walls around the keep he went straight to an oak tree he'd scouted out the week be-
fore. From his pack Kyle pulled a grappling hook with a rope attached to it. He threw the hook over one of the oak's thick, outflung limbs.
Still wearing the backpack, he climbed fifty feet of rope hand over hand, using muscles that burned with protest because he hadn't indulged in such a feat since his days at the Naval Academy, fifteen years earlier. Kyle sat on the tree limb for a few minutes, catching his breath.
He was high above the keep's wall, and in the distance the castle's dark, ghostly visage shone clearly. It was a small but very authentic-looking medieval fortress, he discovered. He wouldn't have been shocked to see knights riding up in a procession as a princess waved from an upper window.
Goose bumps rose on Kyle's arms as he coiled his rope and fixed the grappling hook for another toss. He threw it at a sturdy-looking walnut tree not far inside the grounds. After he'd secured a taut line of rope from one tree to the other, Kyle wrapped his arms and legs around it and edged over the wall, many feet below.
When he was safely ensconced in the walnut tree he pulled a nightvision scope from his pack and gazed through it, studying the neatly kept gardens for any sign of dogs, geeseor dragons. None, he thought in grim victory. He'd bet a year's supply of Coco-Moos that there were no dogs, the geese were harmless, and as for the dragons, well, he'd take his chances.
From the walnut tree he tossed a rope to the roof of the castle. The roof was flat and had battlements, much to his amusement. The grappling hook clattered into one of their narrow gaps and wedged snugly. Kyle crossed his last rope bridge. By morning he would find a way inside the keep. Victory.
Daisy was not a nervous dog. In fact, Sara suspected that her nerve endings were coated with marshmallow.
That was why her behavior in front of the fireplace puzzled Sara so much. As Sara sipped her morning coffee she watched the dog stand with head cocked, growling softly, chocolate-brown eyes trained on the giant opening. The fireplace was the focal point of the castle's main room, a two-story chamber braced by thick wood beams and decorated with an assortment of plush leather furniture, tapestries, bookcases, and luxurious rugs.
The hearth could have served as a small dance floor; the firebox itself was taller than Sara's head and so deep that all five feet two inches of her could lie down in it. Sara had to stand on a kitchen stool to reach the stone mantel, and dusting the Scarborough family crest that hung over the mantel required a stepladder.
She lounged in the kitchen doorway, where she could keep one eye on Daisy and one on Noelle, who was gurgling happily in her high chair as she flung baby food on the kitchen floor. At ten months, eating was one of Noelle's supreme entertainments.
"What is it?" Sara asked the dog.
Daisy fluffed her golden jowls in a soft woof. She walked to the logs stacked on lion's-head andirons and tried to peer up the chimney. She growled again. Sara listened intently and finally heard small scuffing and scratching sounds. She sighed with relief.
"It's just another owl," she told Daisy. "Just some little bitty owl who got in under the chimney cap. It'll find its way out eventually."
She went back to Noelle, who had gleefully turned her plastic cup upside down so that remnants of orange juice trickled out of the spout onto her lap, the high chair, and the floor. "Mop!" she said clearly, smiling up at her mother.
"Mom," Sara corrected her, gently wiping her hands with a cloth.
In Noelle's lingo mop was not something with which one cleaned up baby food several times a day. It was the person who did the cleaning. Noelle made smacking sounds and pursed her mouth. Sara laughed at that signal, while her chest filled with a warm feeling of contentment. Bending over, she took Noelle's face between her hands and kissed her lightly, tasting orange juice, formula, and scrambled eggs. "I love you too. Time for our bath, breakfast-lips."
She carried Noelle through the main room, where Daisy still listened at the fireplace, her ears pricked. "We're going to take a bath. Daisy Doolittle." Sara knew that nothing would keep Noelle's canine pal from following them from the room.
But Daisy didn't budge. Noelle called "Zee, Zee"her version of Daisy's namebut the dog ignored even that. Finally Sara had to drag Daisy from the room by the scruff of the neck and shut the door behind her.
He did not feel like Santa Claus.
Kyle let himself down stone by stone, his toes aching inside his running shoes from constantly fighting for a hold on the slick wall. The chimney was suffocating, full of the soot and smell left by thousands of fires. When he looked up he saw blue sky. When he looked down he saw darkness, followed by a stone ledge, an open damper, and a glimmer of light.
Victory.
A few minutes later Kyle eased out of the fireplace and stood gazing at a majestic room outfitted in a style that was very English and very appealingold brass lamps, stained-glass windows that would have done justice to a cathedral, and plush leather furniture with a comfortable, well-worn look.
He glanced down at his blackened clothes and skin. Santa Claus never had to deal with soot, apparently. Moving on silent, careful feet, Kyle explored. Off the main room was a cheerful blue kitchen with modern appliances. Gingham curtains decorated a sunny bay window. The window was barred on the outside. The kitchen was connected via a short hall to a dining room that rivaled the big den for splendor and size.
Going back past the fireplace, Kyle opened a heavy paneled door and stepped into an arching hallway with a carpeted floor. He tilted his head toward the faint sound of water running. After a second he decided that someone was emptying a tub, not filling it. Along the hallway he discovered guest rooms and an alcove at the end with a double door that suggested a master suite. Kyle tested an ornate silver doorknob there. It turned easily, and he slowly drew the door open.
A snarl greeted him. Hackles rose in a shaggy golden ruff. White fangs shown under curled lips.
Kyle's breath caught. This dog was no trained guard animalit was a mishmash of unimpressive, ill-fitting parts, and he doubted that it weighed more than forty poundsbut it meant business. Bitter, deeply lodged memories flared to life. He would never let a dog bite him again.
He pulled his pistol and aimed for a point right between the animal's eyes. If it made one step toward him, he'd shoot. Hi, Tinker Bell. Didn't mean to upset you. I just did a Santa act down your chimney. Then I killed your pooch. Ho, ho, ho . Kyle lowered the pistol but didn't remove his finger from the trigger.
At the same time, he swept his gaze around a bright, contemporary bedroom done in pretty pastelsnothing like the other rooms, with their dark, ornate furniture and stone floors. Through an open door across the master suite Kyle saw a large bathroom. The blue-tiled floor was wet; a thick white towel was jumbled on the side of a blue tub. He turned his attention back to the bedroom, studying the door that stood open in the wall to his left.
Kyle gave it puzzled scrutiny. It wasn't an ordinary door. For one thing, it was too narrow. He would have had to turn his broad shoulders sideways to fit them through the frame. The door hinged on the left side, so that it opened toward him, and he couldn't see what lay beyond it. Not yet, anyway. He would.
"Back, mutt," Kyle told the lanky dog. He made his voice very kind and complimentary. "You're the ugliest damned dog I've ever seen. You've got splayed feet and a pigeon chest. If your eyes were any closer together, you'd look like a cyclops. I hate dogs."
The snarl faded a little. The tip of a bushy tail wagged.
"You're stupid too," Kyle said sweetly. He eased a hand forward. "Make friends, potato-head." A salvo of barking poured from the dog's throat. Kyle jerked his hand back and pointed the gun again. He heard footsteps scuffing softly on a carpeted surface beyond the odd-looking door.
"Daisy, what is your problem?" Sara pushed the door open and peered around it. She gasped audibly when she saw Kyle, and both hands went to her throat in a protective gesture. "Oh, no, no!"
"Call 'Daisy,' " he said as calmly as he could, considering that "Daisy" looked as if she were ready to do a pit-bull impression.
"Don't shoot her!" Sara bolted into the room, hurriedly locked the strange door by entering a code into a small box beneath the doorknob, then ran to Daisy and knelt beside her. She wrapped both arms around Daisy's neck and gazed up at Kyle in speechless dismay.
He gazed back with an equal amount of discomfort. The short, sheer robe she wore was a shade of green that intensified the green of her eyes. It was tightly belted around her waist, which made the top gape. revealing an expanse of fair skin and the inner curves of small, perfectly formed breasts.
She'd somehow managed to splash water all over the front of the robe, and it clung to her breasts and belly in breathtaking detail. Her face was flushed from the heat of the bathroom, and her damp hair lay in pretty wisps along the edges of her face. An incredibly provocative elf glared up at him.