Sidney Sheldon’s Reckless. Сидни Шелдон

or any ski accident. Jeff Stevens was Nick’s father. He was also a con artist and a thief, one of the best in the world. Although never quite as good as Tracy.

      Putting aside the shorts, Tracy got to work on Nick’s shirt. The dark blue team colors brought out the color of Nick’s eyes—piercing blue, like his father’s. He also had Jeff’s athletic build and thick dark hair, and that irresistible combination of masculinity and charm that had drawn women to Jeff Stevens like moths to a lightbulb. Tracy hadn’t seen Jeff in three years, not since she saved his life, rescuing him from a psychotic former agent named Daniel Cooper. But she thought of him often. Every time Nicholas smiled, in fact.

      That last encounter with Jeff Stevens had been a crazy time in Tracy’s life, a brief, brutal return to the adrenaline and danger of a world she thought she’d left behind forever. Afterwards, she’d struck a deal with the FBI to grant her immunity from prosecution and returned to the peaceful anonymity of Steamboat Springs. Uncle Jeff had visited once, and kept in touch with postcards from far-flung parts of the world. He’d also set up a trust fund for Nick worth tens of millions of dollars. What can I say? he wrote to Tracy. The antiques business is booming. Who else am I going to leave it to?

      Jeff knew that Blake Carter, the old cowboy who ran Tracy’s ranch and had practically raised Nicholas, was a far better, safer, more solid father than he could ever be. Like Tracy, he wanted their son to have a stable, happy life. So he’d made the ultimate sacrifice and walked away. Tracy loved him for that more than anything.

      It bothered her sometimes that everything Nick knew about her and his real father was a lie. My own son doesn’t know me at all. But she took comfort in Blake Carter’s words. “He knows you love him, Tracy. When all’s said and done, that’s all that matters.”

      At last the huge pile of kit was named and folded. Tracy stretched, poured herself a bourbon and threw another log on the huge open fire that dominated her open-plan living room. She watched it spit flames high into the air, crackling so loudly it sounded like a gunshot. Warm, comforting smells of pine resin and wood smoke filled the room, mingling with cinnamon from the kitchen. Tracy sighed contentedly.

       I love this place.

      With her slender figure, shoulder-length chestnut hair and lively, intelligent eyes that could change from moss green to dark jade according to her mood, Tracy had always been a beauty. She was no longer a young woman, but she still exuded an intoxicating appeal to the opposite sex. There was something unattainable about her, a spark of challenge and temptation in those unknowable eyes that transcended age. Even in jeans, Ugg boots and a roll-neck sweater and without makeup, as she was now, Tracy Whitney could light up a room at a glance. Those who knew her best, like Blake Carter, saw something else in Tracy—a sadness, deep as the ocean, and beautiful too in its own way. It was the legacy of loss—lost love, lost hopes, lost freedom. Tracy had survived it all. Survived and thrived. But that sadness was still a part of her.

      Tracy sipped the dark liquor, letting its warmth slide down her throat and into her chest. She shouldn’t really be drinking—it was only four in the afternoon—but after all that damn sewing she deserved it. Plus it felt like evening. Outside twilight was already making way for darkness, with the indigo sky fading slowly to black. On the ground, snow lay feet thick and pristine, like frosting on a wedding cake, punctured only by the dark green spruce and pine trees, reaching their leafy arms up to the heavens. The house was at its best in winter, when its floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the snowcapped Rockies at their most magnificent. The term “splendid isolation” could have been coined for this place. It was one of the main reasons Tracy chose it all those years ago.

      A loud knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.

      Tracy smiled.

       So much for isolation.

      The ranch’s position might be remote but Steamboat Springs was still a small town and Tracy was the mother of one of its more troublesome teenagers. Her mind ran over the possibilities as she walked to the door.

       School counselor?

       Principal?

       Irate mother of an eighth grade cheerleader?

       Sheriff?

      Oh God, please not the Sheriff. Blake would hit the roof if Nick had been running one of his scams again. Last time he’d managed to reprogram the school library computers to show that half of the middle-school students were entitled to rebates. The school had erroneously paid out over two thousand dollars to Nick’s buddies before the head librarian got wise and called the cops.

      Sheriff Reeves had gone easy on Nick that time. But one more screw up and he’d have to make an example of him.

      Tracy put on her most gracious smile and opened the door.

      A waft of freezing air hit her. Tracy shivered.

      Two men were standing on her porch. Both wore long cashmere coats, trilby hats and scarves. One of the men she didn’t recognize. The other, very unfortunately, she did.

      “Hello, Tracy.”

      Agent Milton Buck of the FBI attempted a smile, but was so out of practice it came off as a leer.

      “This is my colleague, Mr. Gregory Walton of the CIA.” Buck gestured to the much shorter man standing next to him, hopping from foot to foot against the cold. “May we come in?”

      FIVE MINUTES LATER, TRACY AND THE two agents stood awkwardly around the kitchen table. Tracy had offered them each a cup of coffee. Coats had been removed, pleasantries dispensed with. It soon became apparent that the shorter man, from the CIA, was in charge of proceedings.

      “Thank you for letting us in, Miss Whitney.”

      Bald, softly spoken and scrupulously polite, Tracy immediately liked Agent Walton a lot more than Agent Buck. Then again there were tapeworms that Tracy Whitney liked more than Agent Buck. The two of them had history together, none of it good.

      “It’s Mrs. Schmidt here,” Tracy said. “And I wouldn’t leave a man to freeze to death on my doorstep, Mr. Walton. However much I didn’t want to see him,” she added pointedly, looking directly at Milton Buck.

      “Please. Call me Greg.”

      “OK.” Tracy smiled. “Greg. Let’s skip the pleasantries. Why are you here?”

      Walton opened his mouth to say something, but Tracy wasn’t finished.

      “I had a cast-iron guarantee from the Bureau, after I helped them neutralize Daniel Cooper and arrest Rebecca Mortimer three years ago, that my family and I would be left in peace.”

      “I understand that,” Greg Walton said reassuringly. “And you will be. You have my word on that.”

      “And yet here you are in my kitchen.” Tracy raised an eyebrow archly and crossed one long, slender leg over another.

      Greg Walton thought this lady’s quite something. Not for the first time in the presence of a very beautiful woman, he felt relieved he was gay.

      “What we need to talk to you about today, Miss Whitney, has nothing to do with that case or with your past. It’s a matter of national security.”

      Tracy looked puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

      “Perhaps if you listened, you would,” Milton Buck snapped. He was still handsome in a brutish, arrogant way, Tracy noticed. And every bit as charmless as she remembered.

      “What Mr. Walton is saying is that we’re not here to prosecute you for your crimes as a jewel and art thief.”

      Tracy said, “I should think not as I haven’t committed any.”

      “We’re here to demand that you do your duty for your country.”

      “Is that so?” Tracy’s eyes narrowed. As far as she was concerned Milton Buck could stick his