72 Hours. Dana Marton

      Touching her was a mistake.

      The men hidden below them resumed talking, but he wasn’t listening.

      He could remember, as if it were yesterday, massaging shampoo into her hair, the two of them in the shower, water sluicing over her curves, followed by his hands. She’d been ready, had always been ready for him, and he’d lost himself in her, so much so it took his breath away.

      Her low gasp brought him back to the present and he realised he had gripped her arm harder than he had meant to.

      And although he couldn’t see much in the dimly lit duct where they were trapped, it sure looked as if her eyes were throwing sparks. Well, as long as she was already mad at him…

      He dipped his head forwards and took her lips. She was soft and sweet, as mind-bending as he remembered. He had been craving this reunion from the day she had walked away, and he liked to think that now and then she had thought of him, too.

      Still, it came as no surprise when she put a hand to his chest and pushed, not even whispering but breathing the words “No. Parker, no” against his mouth.

      Like the bastard he was, he kissed her anyway. Because he could.

      And felt immensely gratified when in the next second she melted against him.

      

       CAST OF CHARACTERS

      Parker McCall – This undercover soldier knows how to disarm a nuclear warhead, but when faced with the only woman he ever loved, will he be able to save her as well as the other hostages whose lives depend on him?

      Kate Hamilton – Her life is in grave danger when her ex-fiancé charges to the rescue. Through their mad escape, she begins to realise that she never really knew the man. And the new Parker might be more than she can resist.

      Piotr Morovich – A known anarchist and mercenary. Is it possible that he’s working for the Tarkmez rebels this time?

      Victor Sergeyevich – Former KBG agent who is responsible for the death of Piotr’s father.

      Ivan – A Russian embassy guard. Is he there to protect the embassy staff, or does he have another agenda?

      Colonel Wilson – Head of the Special Designation Defense Unit.

      SDDU – Special Designation Defense Unit, a top secret military team established to fight terrorism. Its existence is known by only a select few. Members are recruited from the best of the best.

       ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      Author Dana Marton lives near Wilmington, Delaware. She has been an avid reader since childhood and has a master’s degree in writing popular fiction. When not writing, she can be found either in her garden or her home library. For more information on the author and her other novels, please visit her website at www.danamarton.com.

      She would love to hear from her readers via e-mail: [email protected]

      72 Hours

      DANA MARTON

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      With many thanks to Allison Lyons and Denise

      Zaza. And to Susan Mallery for being the wonderful friend that she is.

      Chapter One

       August 9, 21:11

      A good spy had many tools at his disposal. One of them was the instinctual knowledge of when to run. Parker McCall was running for his life, toward the Tuileries on Rue de Rivoli that stretched parallel to the River Seine.

      When he’d been on jungle missions, running for the river was a good idea most of the time, and often the only way out. But right now he was on a street dense with tourists. Jumping into the Seine would do nothing but draw attention to himself and bring the authorities.

      He hated Paris. It was the city that had taken Kate away from him.

      “Excusez-moi.” He slipped between two businessmen deep in discussion, blocking the sidewalk.

      The chase scenes they showed in action movies, where seasoned professionals madly scrambled from their pursuers, knocking over vendor stands and causing all kinds of commotion, were nonsense. When you were hunted, you went to ground. You went quietly, did everything you could to blend in and become invisible, part of the usual tapestry of local life. You ran in such a way that nobody looking at you could tell you were running.

      He glanced at his watch again, deepened the annoyed scowl on his face and smoothed down his tie as he moved briskly through the crowd. He was a businessman late for a dinner. And the throng of people who’d seen hundreds of late businessmen rushing through identified him as such and parted in front of him, paying him scant attention. He was swimming through people and he had to be careful not to cause any ripples. Ripples would be noticed.

      And his enemies were watching.

      He figured at least four men were after him. He had caught glimpses, but mostly he operated by instinct.

      They, too, were professionals. Professional killers who moved through the city the way the lions of Africa moved forward in the cover of the tall grass, in a well-coordinated hunt, invisible until they were but a jump away from their prey.

      “Excusez-moi.” He stepped around a twin stroller and glanced up at the large M sign a few yards ahead—Le Métro, Paris’s famed subway system. He could try to disappear there or go for the Tuileries and see if he could deal with the men in the garden.

      The subway would be packed. This was one of the busiest stations, the one closest to the Musée du Louvre. He could get away without confrontation.

      But he wanted more. Information was the name of the game. And right now, the information he needed was the identity of the man who had sicced his henchmen on Parker. He had too many enemies to take a blind guess.

      Like New York, Paris never slept. Especially not on hot summer evenings. Tourists and locals filled the streets.

      He moved forward and could see the garden at last. He crossed the Avenue du Général Lemonnier and hurried to the nearest entrance. The sixty-three acres of mostly open landscaping that lay before him was enough to make anyone stop in wonder, but he didn’t have the time to enjoy the sight. He planned and calculated.

      The lions that hunted him were hidden in the tall grass. At least he didn’t have to worry about the approaching darkness and not being able to see. They didn’t call Paris the city of light—in addition to love—for nothing. It was lit up like Methuselah’s birthday cake.

      Head for higher ground. Get a good vantage point. But there weren’t many of those in the garden, so he strode toward the Ferris wheel.

      Too late.

      A blur of movement caught his attention by the pedestal of a large statue. They’d gotten in front of him. Or at least one of them had. But hunters as good as these four didn’t reveal themselves by accident. Parker had a feeling that he’d been supposed to see that. They wanted him to run in the opposite direction. They were trying to herd him someplace out of sight where they could take him out.

      He strode to the statues instead, feinted in one direction and went around the other. He didn’t take the time to look or evaluate. His fist connected with a man’s face in the next second. He caught the guy as he staggered back, then looped the man’s