Secret Agent Heiress. Julie Miller

legs, with the left back hoof barely touching the ground. From his inexperienced perspective, it looked as if Silver was standing on tiptoe.

      “What’s wrong with your horse?” he asked.

      “He’s old, almost thirty.” Jewel punctuated her words with a sniffle. “Oh, you mean his leg? He got hit on a farm road a few years ago. He has arthritis real bad. Gramps says I’m going to lose him soon.” Her shoulders lifted with another drawn-out sniffle. And then she buried her face in the horse’s side to hide her tears. “I don’t want to lose Whitney, too.”

      She turned and wiped her tears away with her dusty fingers, leaving an endearing streak across one cheek. “You’ll bring her home, won’t you?”

      Vincent looked over the back of the horse to her grandfather. Patrick’s grim expression challenged Vincent to hurt the girl any further. Vincent reached through the fence and stroked the horse’s nose, in lieu of touching the girl.

      He’d do his job for his country, and for the twenty-six-year-old hostage he’d never even met. But most of all, he’d complete the mission for this tearstained girl who cared so much for her missing friend.

      His promise was simple.

      “I will.”

      “I’M NOT DEAD.”

      The observation squeaked through the parched ache in Whitney’s throat as she woke up. She tried to reach up to massage the bruised tissue at her neck, but a rough reminder pinched the skin at her wrist.

      She breathed in stale, undisturbed air and opened her eyes to the dim morning light before remembering the source of the pain. Several layers of wide gray duct tape bound her wrists to the arms of a warped hardwood chair.

      But knowledge didn’t necessarily bring comfort. Like a condemned woman strapped in for a primitive electrocution, her wrists and ankles had been taped to the arms and legs of the chair. She had no fear of being electrocuted, though. The ramshackle, one-room cabin where she’d spent the night hadn’t seen electricity or running water for years—if ever.

      She breathed in deeply and winced at the burning in her chest. Combined with the rapid pounding inside her head, her achy body felt as though she’d been hit by a Mack truck…or thrown from her horse…or…

      “Good morning, Miss MacNair.”

      Whitney’s senses snapped to full alert at the crisply articulated greeting. The man in black.

      Dimitri Chilton.

      He lounged across the room from her in a battered recliner upholstered with ratty, mildewed plaid, with one leg draped carelessly over the arm of the chair. The front of his wool coat gaped open, revealing the steel gray butt of an oversize handgun sticking out of a holster beneath his left arm.

      She’d attacked a man carrying that kind of firepower? Even the Department of Public Safety agents who worked at Montana Confidential didn’t walk around wearing weapons that looked like some sort of handheld mini cannon. The pockets of her jeans held nothing more dangerous than a tube of lip balm and a tissue.

      Her pulse rate kicked up a notch. He could have killed her on the spot with that thing. He could have brought down Jewel McMurty and both horses, too. God, she was an idiot. No wonder her parents and brothers, and the men she worked with, thought she couldn’t look after herself.

      With very little effort, she’d made a mess of things again.

      A flash of white teeth in the shadows, and the bemused laugh that accompanied the smile, brought her back to the present. Whitney forced herself to breathe calmly, in and out through her nose.

      Second-guessing herself now wouldn’t help. She had to keep a clear head. She dredged up the stiff-lipped pride that had seen her through tough times before. She refused to bend her spirit to her captor, even though he clearly had the upper hand.

      “Where are we? What time is it?” She squinted through the shadows, trying to bring his face into focus. “Have you called my father yet? I know who you are.”

      “I know you as well.” His crisp Mediterranean accent bespoke a man of education and culture. But the bruises on her body gave testament to his penchant for violence. “Your father will be contacted when the time is right. He paid good money to silence your embarrassing little scandal, no? You were whisked away from an important job in Washington to become a ranch hand in Montana. And you had such a promising career ahead of you.”

      Whitney withered at the false sympathy lacing his voice. So much for pride. Even a terrorist from the other side of the world had heard of the pampered rich girl’s shame. “So you read the newspapers, too.”

      “I wouldn’t be doing my job very well if I wasn’t informed, now, would I. I must make sure your father wants you back before I ask for ransom money.”

      Chilton had hit her at her most vulnerable spot. For the moment, she conceded victory to him.

      “Then what do you want with me?”

      He slowly unhooked his leg from the chair and leaned forward into the dusty shaft of sunlight streaming in through a lone, cracked windowpane. Dark, intelligent eyes studied her with superior indifference. She relished a brief satisfaction at seeing the dark purple blotches beneath both those eyes. She’d broken the bastard’s nose with one of those kicks yesterday.

      But satisfaction was brief. Something about his unblinking stare made her suddenly conscious of how vulnerable she was.

      “You are my ticket to freedom and…revenge.”

      “What?” For a few breathless seconds, she pitied whoever had been foolish enough to cross him. He spoke so matter-of-factly, as if he had already planned his enemy’s death a thousand times, in a thousand different ways.

      And then she began to wonder just who his target for revenge might be. Montana Confidential? Her family?

      Whitney sank back into the chair, unable to ward off the chill that assailed her. Every bruise and scrape on her back and arms cried out, each wound a tiny little voice reminding her of who she was and what she was supposed to be. Gerald MacNair’s little girl. She was simply a pawn in this madman’s game. Not Whitney. Not a woman. Not even a human being.

      A pawn.

      The first sting of tears pooled in her eyes. She turned her chin into her shoulder, not wanting to give Chilton the satisfaction of seeing her succumb to his taunts.

      But he held all the cards. She could hide nothing from him. When she heard his footsteps on the dry, warped floor, she quickly blinked and tried to erase any signs of crying.

      With the tip of his finger he touched the point of her chin and traced a line around the curve of her jaw. She cringed at the provocative touch. Violence encased in butter-soft leather was still violence. Her chest rose and fell in quick, panicked breaths. She felt the skin at the top of her breasts burn beneath his knowing gaze. “Is something not to your liking?” he asked.

      Standing this close, she could smell the smoke and pine on him. She even detected a hint of musk and sweat. He’d been living outdoors for a few days, away from anything resembling soap and a shower. She gritted her teeth against the smell, and tried not to squirm beneath his scrutiny.

      Whitney searched for an appropriate comeback, one that would make him remove his hand and gaze and smell without triggering his anger. Since she couldn’t very well ask for her freedom, why not try the next best thing? Escape. But she had no chance unless she could get herself free from this chair. The full discomfort in her bladder suddenly felt like a blessing.

      Her heart still pounded, but now a surge of hope instead of fear spurred it on. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

      He took his hand from her face and gestured around the cabin. “Do you see any facilities here?”

      “I’m not too proud. I can go behind a bush outside.”

      “Not too proud?” He laughed,