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Praise for the novels of Brenda Novak

“Novak delivers another expertly crafted work of suspenseful intrigue heightened by white-knuckle danger and realistically complicated romance.”

—Booklist on The Perfect Couple

“I guarantee The Perfect Couple will keep readers on the edge of their seats. Each character is completely developed, from Tiffany and Colin to Zoe and Jonathan. The story line sizzles.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“Realistic and gritty, this story grabs the reader by the throat on the first page and never lets go.”

—RT Book Reviews on Watch Me

“Gripping, frightening, and intense…a compelling romance as well as a riveting and suspenseful mystery…Novak delivers another winner.”

—Library Journal on The Perfect Liar

“Two emotionally damaged protagonists find much-needed healing and unexpected love in a chilling, sensual tale that features a host of skillfully developed characters and intricate, multilayered plotting. Sacramento-based Novak (The Perfect Liar) writes gripping romantic thrillers. This is the latest in her Last Stand series.”

—Library Journal on The Perfect Murder

“As always, Novak’s plotting is flawless, and her characterizations are rich and multilayered. What sets this story apart from the rest is the intensity of the romance between the two wounded protagonists—it simply sizzles. A keeper.” (4.5 stars, Top Pick)

—RT Book Reviews on The Perfect Murder

“Strong characters bring the escalating suspense to life, and the mystery is skillfully played out. Novak’s smooth plotting makes for a great read.”

—Publishers Weekly

White Heat
Brenda Novak

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Dara Favero…

Someone as sweet as she is beautiful.

Dear Reader,

It’s time to turn up the heat! I’m really looking forward to sharing my three “Heat” titles with you (White Heat, Body Heat and Killer Heat). Although each book stands alone, they all revolve around a private security company called Department 6 and the retired special forces personnel, private investigators and police officers who make their living working as “hired guns.” These men and women face some diverse and unusual circumstances—and some very frightening challenges.

Another common thread is that all three books are set in Arizona, a place I find fascinating. While growing up, I lived in Chandler for eight years, back when it was still a farming community and not the sprawling metropolis it has since become. I miss those days, especially the long days of summer, which is probably why I’ve chosen to set each of these titles in a small town during the hot months. If you’ve never experienced an Arizona summer or one of the infamous monsoons, you’re really missing something….

Arizona has more than its share of ghost towns. Paradise, the setting of this book, is one of them. I took a little (or a lot) of artistic liberty when I settled my fictional cult in Paradise, but it’s a unique place that really exists. With such a perfect name, I couldn’t resist.

I love to hear from my readers. Please feel free to contact me via www.brendanovak.com. There you can also enter my monthly draws (I give away all kinds of things), learn more about my annual online auction for diabetes research (we’ve raised over $1 million so far!), download a free 3D screensaver, get the latest info on my annual FAN convention (which I do with #1 New York Times bestselling author Christine Feehan), or check out any new books on the horizon (you can even read a sample). If you don’t have a computer, you can write to me at P.O. Box 3781, Citrus Heights, CA 95611.

Here’s wishing you many hours of reading pleasure!

Brenda Novak

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Epilogue

1

Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.

—King James Bible, Matthew 7:15

“This guy is dangerous?” Rachel Jessop studied the glossy black-and-white photograph her manager slid across the table.

Nate Ferrentino’s leather chair squeaked as he leaned back and locked his hands behind his head. “He doesn’t look dangerous to you?” One eyebrow arched, telling her he found her reaction amusing, but she couldn’t begin to guess why, and she’d worked with him long enough to know he wouldn’t explain even if she asked. With short dark hair and green, gold-flecked eyes, he had the face of a sensitive man who’d become cynical and the body of a soldier. Nate was a tempting physical specimen. But he wasn’t one to reveal much about his thoughts.

Rachel wished that was all she knew about her boss. When she’d first started working at Department 6 eight months ago, she’d been so convinced she’d met the one man she could love with all her heart, she’d made a humiliating miscalculation. The embarrassment of that incident still burned so intensely she could barely look at him.

Ignoring the way his T-shirt stretched over his clearly defined pecs, she kept her focus on Ethan Wycliff, the man in the picture. Wiry and with the appearance of some height, Ethan had polish to spare—high cheekbones, black hair, black eyes and a beguiling smile. “He’s too pretty to seem dangerous. He could be on billboards, modeling suits for Armani. What’s he done?”

Except for possibly height, Nate was Ethan’s opposite. Although he wasn’t overweight by any stretch of the imagination, slender wasn’t an adjective that came to mind. Pretty and polished didn’t fit, either. He was handsome, but not in the classic sense of movie stars and models. His forehead was a bit too wide, his jaw too square. And he had too many scars—both from when he was a navy SEAL and from working for Department 6 after he’d left the military.

“Depends on who you talk to,” he said. “There’s a chance that none of it’s illegal, but the secrecy surrounding him and his group is making some important people nervous.”

Rachel shoved the picture back in Nate’s direction, but he didn’t move to reclaim it. He let Ethan Wycliff’s image remain on the table, eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling of the small conference room—one of several in the L.A. office. Unlike other security contractors, Department 6 rarely handled military operations. They specialized in undercover work, generally inside the U.S.

“What’s he suspected of doing?” she asked. “Laundering money? Smuggling drugs? Working in the sex-slave trade?”

“He’s the leader of a religious cult about two hundred members strong.”

That was the last thing she’d expected Nate to say. Judging by Ethan’s elegant business suit, he had taste. He wasn’t sporting a scraggly beard, wasn’t beggarly or odd-looking in any way. Neither did he appear smarmy like some televangelists she’d seen. Not in the photograph, anyway. “What kind of religious cult?”

“A Christian cult. Sort of. It seems to be a compilation of whatever Ethan wants it to be. He and his followers call their organization the Church of the Covenant. One thing they believe is that the world is coming to an end very soon. Only those who are properly branded—”

“You mean, tattooed?” she cut in.

“No, I mean, branded—and baptized and living within the gates of their little commune—will rule with God.”

“That’s not particularly creative.” She’d heard plenty of the same rhetoric in her own house growing up. For most of her life her father and the leaders of his small sect had claimed that the world was in its “last days.” They’d named date after date when Armageddon would arrive. Every one had come and gone. “How’d he get his start?”

“Five years ago, he was a popular frat boy at Cornell. I guess he and a few roommates went out in the woods and devised their own religion, loosely based on the Old Testament’s patriarchal order. Our intelligence report indicates that it was originally meant to be a joke. Drugs were involved. They called it the ‘antireligion.’ But when they began meeting regularly, word spread among the kids at Cornell and other colleges in nearby communities, somehow generating support, and it became real.”

“Power is tough to resist, especially for an Ivy League frat boy who’s used to being on top of the world.”

“That’s my take, too.”

She glanced away from Nate so she wouldn’t squirm in her seat at the memories that overwhelmed her whenever their eyes met. “How many of his roommates still belong to this so-called religion?”

“The original four are still with him. They’re known as ‘spiritual guides’ now and they’re part of the Brethren, the twelve men who form a close circle around him. A fifth roommate, one who joined a bit later, is dead.”

“Dead?” she echoed. “At twenty-something?”

“He was killed in a drunk-driving accident after a meeting. There are a few unanswered questions but no real proof that it was anything other than that.”

She considered what she’d just been told. “What’s so appealing about his religion that others are interested in joining up?”

“It’s mostly familiar stuff but with a modern twist. It includes extramarital sex and drug use. And Wycliff has a few assets—besides his looks—that make him more dangerous than most cult leaders.”

She ignored his reference to her appreciation of Wycliff’s appearance and scooted closer to the table. But the instant she caught Nate’s scent, that mix of clean male and leather that would forever differentiate him from every other man, the memory of slipping into his bed to “surprise” him came to her as vividly as the night she’d done it. Would the mortification never go away?

He gave her a speculative look, as if he could suddenly sense an added level of discomfort, but she was determined to pretend she’d forgotten all about her terrible faux pas. As a child, she’d been sheltered so long she hadn’t grown up with the usual interplay between the sexes and, apparently, hadn’t read his signals correctly. She’d thought he wanted the same thing.

Keeping her gaze steady, she struggled, once again, to forget that night. “And those assets are…”

“More charisma than any man has a right to, at least a man who once idolized Charles Manson.”

“Charles Manson? Are you serious?”

He chose a file from a stack he’d brought in with him, and thumbed through it while he talked. “Dead serious. Wycliff corresponded with Manson regularly while he was in high school. I’ve got copies of some of those letters here.”

“Was their correspondence a joke at first, too?”

“He played it that way, used to read Manson’s letters aloud to various people he knew, including his parents. His mother said he liked the shock value. His father claims he’s always been fascinated with killers. Especially Manson, because of the brutality of the Tate murders and the power Manson held over those who committed them.”

“Why would they allow him to correspond with someone like Manson?”

“It started out as what Ethan called ‘a psychological study.’ He said he wanted to major in behavioral science when he went to college.”

She shivered. “But couldn’t they see where it was going? These letters make me more than a little nervous.”

“They should’ve made everyone nervous.” He offered the file for her perusal.

Careful not to brush his hand, she accepted it but merely placed it in front of her, because he was still talking.

“At first his parents saw only what they wanted to see and hoped his interest was professional, as he’d claimed. He didn’t read them what he wrote to Manson. He kept that private, so the bits and pieces they heard of Manson’s letters made it sound as if Manson was the only crazy one.”

“So how did we get copies of the letters?”

“You know how closely prison mail is monitored. Once his father finally became uneasy, he paid a correctional officer to keep an eye on the budding relationship. It was that guy who made copies. But he worked certain days and shifts, of course, and the letters that came and went on someone else’s watch were lost.”

“Why didn’t dear old dad put a stop to the letters once he saw what they contained?”

“His wife insisted it was just a ‘phase’ Ethan was going through, that he was purposely trying to provoke Manson, the same way he tried to provoke everyone else. And then the problem seemed to solve itself. Ethan grew disenchanted with Manson, quit writing him and the relationship ended.”

“But that was a pretty ominous start, and it led to a bigger problem.”

“Exactly. Now Ethan’s set himself up as a prophet, the Holy One, the man to lead all Christians to enlightenment.”

“And let me guess—enlightenment happens after this life.”

“With your background, I knew you’d be familiar with the dogma.”

Far more than she wanted to be. She’d tried hard to distance herself from the brainwashing she’d undergone as a child, but it wasn’t easy to put all those hours of religious “instruction” behind her. Not when there were so many lasting effects, some of which she blamed for the embarrassing blunder she’d made with Nate six months ago.

“Sounds as if he’s as whacked as Manson,” she mused. Or, like her father, his teachings and devotions could be similar enough to mainstream religions to fall within what society deemed “normal.” Not that her father’s “normal” was normal to most people. From the moment she got home from school every day, Fredrick Jessop had kept her under lock and key, forced her to read the Bible for hours on end and go to church three or four times a week. Until she’d left home at seventeen, he’d had complete control. Even after she was on her own, she’d been so well trained she was twenty-five before she lost her virginity; at that point she’d finally slept with a man just to punish her father after an argument. That had turned out to be such a bad experience, so cheap and unsatisfying, she hadn’t had sex again until she met Nate. But, for different reasons, her encounter with Nate had been even more disappointing than the original one.

“He might be crazy,” Nate said. “But making up your own religion isn’t a crime. You know that better than most.”

Her father and his cronies had done it, hadn’t they? “So what law has Ethan broken?”

Nate’s broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. “That’s the reason for this assignment—to find out.”

She’d already assumed as much. But she wasn’t comfortable with the religious element. Her background dealing with religious zealots had taught her there was no way to win, no way to argue any doctrine logically because people like her father always referred to the illogical to back up their beliefs.

“Do you think I have the experience for this?” she asked. Before coming to Department 6, she’d worked undercover for the LAPD, pretending to be a prostitute, as well as helping in some drug busts. Since hiring on at Department 6, she’d continued with drug enforcement, generally contract labor for the DEA. Bottom line, she’d specialized in something that was more straightforward, easier to fight. And she liked it that way.

“You have as much experience with this type of thing as anyone else at Department 6,” he said.

That was probably true. They all did more drug work than anything else. “There must be something besides his affiliation with Manson that’s brought this man to our attention,” she said. “I’m guessing there are a lot of whack jobs who’ve contacted Manson over the years.”

“A woman by the name of Martha Wilson recently escaped from the commune,” Nate explained.

Now they were talking. “Another interesting word choice, seeing that escaped has the connotation of being held against her will.”

“Her word,” he said. “She claimed Wycliff punished her for sleeping with her own husband.”

“I thought sex was dealt with in a more liberal fashion in this commune.”

“It is. But she was on ‘restriction.’”

Because it was beyond awkward to talk about sex with Nate after what had occurred between them, Rachel tried to cover her anxiety by toying with the edge of the file in front of her. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Otherwise, sex is open to anyone, married or unmarried, as long as both people are consenting and of age.”

“Now I see why Ethan’s attracting converts. Religious endorsement of drugs and sex. No willpower required. What’s not to like?”

His lips quirked in a wry smile. “It’s not quite as simple as it might sound.”

“With religion, it never is,” she muttered.

“Only those who live according to various ‘higher laws’—” he made quotation marks with his fingers “—gain that benefit. But there’s a cost. Once you join, you begin a process that culminates in embracing certain rituals that go with these laws. We’re not sure what these rituals are. We got most of this information from what was reported in the papers. Martha was vocal about the group’s abuse, but less so about their beliefs.”

“And Milt can’t get more information?” Milton Berger owned the company. Slightly eccentric, he was basically a wealthy businessman who’d never spent a day in the field. At forty-five, he drank and smoked so much he couldn’t possibly run the forty-yard dash. But he had an eye for talent and a talent for making money.

“He’s relying on us to figure out the rest.”

“Do you know what the prize is?”

“The prize?” he repeated.

“What do the people in Ethan’s religion get for living these supposed higher laws? There’s always a prize for good behavior. It’s usually called salvation.”

“They’re admitted into ‘the Holy One’s’ inner sanctum and become sanctified like he is. Or something like that. Again, there might be more to it.”

Remembering what she’d been taught regarding the few elect who would rule with God, she made a face. “How do people fall for this crap?” She’d been steeped in it and still couldn’t buy it, although there’d been plenty of times she’d wished she could. It would’ve made her life so much easier.

“I think psychologists say they’re not happy with the world in which they’re living. Some want to prove how unique and special they are. Others are just hoping to feel as if they belong.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “But who really knows? Motivations are as individual as people.”

“Doesn’t sound to me like the world they’re building will be any better than the one we’ve got.” No matter how hard her father and brother had tried to convince her that the afterlife was all that mattered. “How badly did Ethan Wycliff beat the woman who escaped?”

“She says it wasn’t him. It was a public event—a stoning modeled after those in the Bible.”

She stiffened. “Stoning is a death sentence in the Bible.”

“Martha managed to escape.”

“How?”

“We don’t know exactly. But according to her, Ethan’s getting crazier by the day. She says everyone in the church will wind up dead if someone doesn’t do something soon.”

Rachel glanced at the photograph again. This time, Ethan’s black eyes appeared far colder than they’d seemed before. “Looks like my job’s about to get interesting. Again.” Interesting and potentially dangerous. The dangerous part never changed. But she didn’t mind. It kept her fully occupied, kept her from having to acknowledge the fact that she had nothing in her life except the satisfaction of doing a job most people couldn’t. “When do I leave?”

“We leave in the morning.”

She riveted her eyes on his face. They never worked the same case. He made sure of it. And they both knew the reason. So why the sudden change of heart? “You don’t think I can handle it on my own?”

“Milt’s decision, not mine.” His response divulged nothing of his own reaction. But she could easily guess how displeased he’d been when he heard the news. He probably feared she’d try to seduce him again. He’d made it very clear that he didn’t want that.

“What about Rod?” she asked, trying to control her voice so it wouldn’t reveal her panic. “He could go with me.” More than just a coworker, Roderick Guerrero was one of her best friends. She’d feel far more comfortable with him.

“Rod’s on another job. So are Jonah, Drake and Kellen.”

“Then maybe Angelina would be a better choice for—”

He shook his head. “She’s too new.”

And had no more business in this line of work than Rachel did. He didn’t have to say that; Rachel knew he didn’t approve of having females taking on the dangerous stuff. “Then I can handle it alone,” she argued. A homicidal maniac, drunk on his own power, would be easier to face than daily association with Nate. “It’ll be more difficult for two strangers to gain the trust we’ll need.”

“Milt wants us to go in as a couple.”

“What?” This went beyond going undercover together as…say, friends or acquaintances. What did it mean? Would she be sharing a room—a bed—with Nate?

She couldn’t do it. Not after the way she’d thrown herself at him six months ago. “How will we get them to accept us?”

“They hold meetings they call Introductions. I’m not sure where. But they’re open to the public. Once we find out where to go, you’ll attend one, feign interest and drag me to the next one. We’ll go from there.”

The plan already seemed set in stone, but surely there had to be a way out. “Where is this cult? Not here in Southern California…”

“No. Paradise, Arizona.”

Allowing his response to distract her, she frowned. “That’s the name of the compound?”

“That’s the name of the town they’ve taken over and has been since it was founded more than a century ago.”

“They bought a whole town?”

“Every parcel, and since no one else wanted it, they got it cheap.”

“They actually came across one named Paradise? Ironic, to say the least,” she said. Especially because it certainly wouldn’t be Paradise for her.

“Arizona and paradise are an oxymoron, at least this time of year.”

“So it’s as barren and hot and dry as the last place we worked?”

“Nevada? It’s just as barren. But it’s even hotter and dryer. I’d describe it as more of a white heat.”

“It’s that hot?”

“It’s that hot.”

He lowered his voice. “And there are a lot more snakes.”

The guys she worked with would never let her live down her fright at the pet boa constrictor Drake had put under her desk a few weeks ago. In a group of hard-asses, any weakness was to be exploited, if only for the sake of entertainment. But she got the impression Nate wasn’t needling her for fun. He didn’t like the idea of working together any more than she did. He wanted her to fight this assignment, to go outside the chain of command, if necessary, straight to Milt.

For a moment, she considered doing that. But she was relatively new and still trying to prove herself. She couldn’t risk getting fired, not with her mortgage. Besides, if there was any way to change Milt’s mind, Nate would’ve already tried it.

“I can put up with snakes,” she lied. “I just wasn’t expecting one to come slithering up my leg.”

“I’m not talking about pet snakes. I’m talking about rattlers.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

His jaw tightened. “This will be dangerous, Rachel.”

“Our job always is.” That was how she liked it. She didn’t have to worry about heaven and hell, her father’s disapproval or anything else—just surviving from one day to the next.

They stared at each other in a virtual standoff. She wasn’t sure what to do about this, but she wouldn’t let him manipulate her into causing trouble inside the company. That would only convince everyone that she was as whiny and hard to please as the guys were afraid a female would be. “I’m not quitting. Or getting myself fired,” she said.

He cursed under his breath, but she ignored it.

“So where are we going exactly? Paradise must be south of Flagstaff if—”

“It’s in the southeast corner of the state, not far from the Mexico and New Mexico borders. Used to be a ghost town. Until Wycliff decided to revive it, there weren’t more than a handful of people living in the area.”

“Are those people still around?” Or did they leave when the Covenanters moved in the way she wanted to flee at any mention of prophecy, scriptures or the end of the world?

“For the most part, he either converted them or bought them out.”

She wiped damp palms on her jeans. She was the only female operative at Department 6 with any field experience. That was why Milt had chosen her. They were just beginning to hire women. But who said this assignment required a woman or even a couple? Maybe Nate could go in alone. “Where’s Ethan getting the funds to buy land and build a town?” she asked, stalling.

“Like any cult leader, he requires converts to forfeit all their wealth for the greater good. And he makes everyone work. They sell cheese, for one thing. He also has other resources.”

“Like…”

“A trust fund.”

She sat up straighter. Now Ethan’s suit and polish made sense. Apparently, he hadn’t attended Cornell on student loans. “He comes from money?”

“You could say that. His father is Robert Wycliff.”

The name meant nothing to her. “It’s not as if you said Bill Gates. Who’s Robert Wycliff?”

“The owner of the eighth-largest engineering firm in the country. Gets big government contracts, makes the Forbes list every year.”

She whistled. “I see. So…who wants to know what little Ethan is up to? The government? Or Daddy?”

“If you heard your son was amassing weapons and explosives, and you knew he once had a relationship with Charles Manson, wouldn’t you be concerned enough to find out what’s going on? Mr. Wycliff doesn’t want anyone hurt. And he’d rather not see his only child in prison.”

“He has to have a security contractor? Wouldn’t a PI work just as well?”

“He tried that. Ethan’s group is isolated and very cliquish. The PI he hired couldn’t get close enough. And because of the potential danger, Wycliff senior wanted people who could defend themselves—and others—if necessary.”

She wondered if part of Robert’s concern stemmed from a desire to protect his family name. It would certainly be a consideration for her own father. He was forever asking her to make him proud. She’d just never been able to do it. “How’d he lose track of junior in the first place?”

“He said there’s always been something different about Ethan. Their relationship was strained almost from the beginning, but it’s gotten worse with time. They’ve been completely estranged for more than a decade. Ethan dropped out of college, wouldn’t work, never applied himself. Robert says he did what he could to turn his son into a productive individual. I get the impression he would’ve done more if Ethan’s mother hadn’t stood in his way. She insisted their son was fine, that he just needed to be himself and live his own life.”

“Classic denial,” she said, but she was intrigued in spite of herself. “So Robert backed off?”

“He immersed himself in his work and let her deal with Sonny, until Ethan started to preach in their neighborhood and town. They finally drew the line, so he left to take his followers to a place where they’d be ‘unmolested.’ Robert was confident he wouldn’t be able to make it work. He thought Ethan would eventually be forced to come home, hoped he’d quit with all the oddness and be the son they wanted him to be.”

“That didn’t happen.”

“No. For months, they had no idea where he’d gone—until an assistant Robert hired to follow the money flowing from Ethan’s trust fund sent a clipping from a Tucson newspaper. It was an article about the Church of the Covenant taking over Paradise.”

She opened the file and flipped through photocopies of several letters, all written in the blocky print so typical of males. But because she figured there might be a chance to duck this assignment, she closed the file without bothering to read them. “Are the Wycliffs aware of the woman who claims she was stoned at their son’s command?”

“I can’t speak for Valerie. Robert is. The PI he used could tell him that much. But Robert’s also aware that the police have visited Paradise and found nothing to substantiate Martha’s claims.”

“So he’s still hoping for the best.”

“Yes.”

Rachel tucked her long hair behind her ears. “What did Martha’s husband have to say to the authorities?”

“His name’s Todd. He said the same thing Ethan did. That she wanted to watch the children instead of work in the cheese factory and became more and more unhappy when she was denied. He told the police he was disappointed in her, that she wasn’t worthy of enlightenment if she could become disaffected so easily and make up such terrible lies.”

“She had to sustain those injuries somehow,” Rachel mused.

“No one in the compound seems to know anything about how she might’ve been hurt. And unless someone’s willing to talk, there’s not a whole lot the police can do.”

A growing sense of injustice, the kind that had fueled her desire to get involved in undercover work, began to percolate in Rachel’s blood. Society had to take a stand before these cancers grew out of control. And she was willing to be part of the solution. At least in this fight she wouldn’t have to hold anything back, the opposite of what she’d experienced with her father. That call to duty tempted her. She wanted to infiltrate the Covenanters and seek justice for the woman who’d been stoned, put an end to Ethan’s reign of terror—if that was indeed what it was. But she couldn’t do this assignment pretending to be Nathan’s wife. There was too much residual emotion between them. “Why do we need two people on this?”

His eyelids lowered. “If you don’t want to do it, you should talk to Milt.”

Of course. They were back where he’d been trying to lead her all along. “Why bother? You’ve already tried, haven’t you?”

He didn’t respond.

“I’ll take that as a yes. What did he say?”

Stretching out his legs, he crossed them at the ankles. “He said Ethan likes women. Pretty women. He said you’re the bait that’ll get us both in.”

Here was the difference between Milt and Nate, Rachel thought. Milt would send his own wife undercover if there was something to be gained by it. But it was Nate’s job to make sure everyone remained safe, which was why he wasn’t thrilled when Milt began using women in the field. He came from a conservative family where he’d been taught to protect “the fairer sex.” And his SEAL training supported his upbringing.

“That’s a pretty unequivocal no,” she said.

Nate’s eyes nearly drilled holes into her. “You could always quit. Someone as qualified as you would have no trouble getting back on the police force.”

And lose her house to the bank? No, thank you.

She leaned forward to prove she wasn’t intimidated by him. “Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s my life and I’d rather get paid well for the risks I take.” She also liked having a clearly defined target for the legacy of anger her father had left her, and she had more latitude working for Department 6. “If you’re afraid you can’t effectively manage me or Angelina or any other woman Milt might hire, maybe you should be the one considering a career change.”

Silence. He definitely wasn’t happy with her challenge.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he said when he’d let her squirm long enough.

He wasn’t leaving, and it came as no surprise. As Milt’s first operative, Nate had all but built Department 6 into what it was. Rachel couldn’t see him moving on anytime soon.

“Then we’re stuck. But you don’t need to worry about me, so spare yourself the headache.”

When he simply stared at her, she sat back. Glaring at each other wasn’t going to help. “What names will we use in Paradise?”

A muscle flexed in his cheek, but he revealed no other outward sign of anger or dissatisfaction. “We’ll keep our first names. Our last will be Mott.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Mott.”

“That’s right.”

Still intent on creating a situation more to her liking, she blew out a sigh. “We don’t have to say we’re married, you know. We could go in as brother and sister.”

“That wouldn’t allow us to share a room. I need to be close. Just in case.”

Close was precisely what she wanted to avoid. Close would bring turmoil. “Just in case…what?” He hadn’t been there to protect her on the last drug job. No man had. And she’d done fine.

“Just in case,” he repeated.

Obviously, she wasn’t going to get a better answer. “How long have we been married?”

He shoved a manila folder at her. “Here are the details Milt’s provided so far.”

Grabbing both files, she put them in her leather satchel and got to her feet. “The Arizona desert in the middle of July. White heat. Sounds great. When do we head out?”

His eyes glittered with frustration. “First thing tomorrow.”

Rachel felt some of the determination drain out of her. “That soon?” Usually they had a few days to gather facts, get into character, make travel arrangements. Milt established the infrastructure and provided what he could to support their covers—like fake ID and other documentation—but they had the freedom to add the finishing touches themselves.

“Robert Wycliff has offered a hefty bonus if we make quick work of it. Milt knows he’s already late on this one.”

And far be it from Milt to let any consideration outweigh money. “I see.”

Nate collected the remainder of the documents he’d brought into the room. “I’ll pick you up bright and early. Six sharp.”

At five foot seven inches and one hundred and twenty-five pounds, she felt dwarfed as he stood. It was all she could do not to keep her mind from flashing back to how the difference in their sizes translated horizontally. “We driving or flying?”

“Driving. It’s a good ten hours from L.A., but having a rental car in such a remote area will be too conspicuous. I figure we’ll want a vehicle that’s broken in, one that doesn’t scream Hertz.”

“Your truck?”

“My truck.”

The very mention of it evoked the scent of engine grease and pine air freshener. It also brought back her acute sense of shame when he’d curtly explained that she’d assumed too much and took her home the morning after their night together.

“I’ll be ready.” With a mock salute, she started out of the room, but he called her back.

“I almost forgot.” He skirted the table to hand her a small, crushed-velvet box he’d pulled from the front pocket of his jeans.

Rachel didn’t need to open it to know what was inside. As much as she told herself she’d learned her lesson, she still sometimes dreamed of getting a ring from him.

But not in any of those dreams had it happened like this.

Without even looking inside the box, she dropped it in her satchel.

“Don’t you think you should see if it fits? You’ll have to wear it tomorrow.”

Feeling as though a vise was squeezing her chest, she dug out the box and peered inside.

The diamond was tiny, the band plain. A similar ring could’ve been bought at any number of stores for around five hundred dollars, even less at a pawn shop. But she would’ve been happy to receive a plastic ring from a gum-ball machine, if only it held any of the usual symbolism.

“Well?” he asked.

She took it out and slid it easily onto her finger. The fit was loose but with a little tape she could fix that. “This is the best you can do?” she said with a grimace as if she hated the ring as much as the thought of wearing it.

He gave her a grin that wasn’t meant to be sexy but managed to look that way. “What can you expect from a lowly cement contractor?”

She supposed his cover would have to involve a job that required manual labor. How else would he explain all those muscles? “Can you actually pour cement?”

“I can do anything,” he said.

She knew he was teasing but, from what she’d seen, that was true.

2

According to the dossier Milt had created, they’d start this job by moving into a mobile home in Portal, Arizona, a small town five miles east of Paradise. Not only would Rachel keep her first name, she’d keep her age—twenty-eight. But that was about it. Under her assumed identity—Rachel Mott—she came from Utah instead of California. She had four siblings living in and around Salt Lake City. She’d married Nate three years ago, after meeting him at a Jazz game.

There was a little more—her schooling, her previous job at a child-care facility, information about their families and backgrounds. But as Rachel studied the dossier, she felt her anxiety increase. Going undercover with Nate would be even more difficult than she’d thought. How would they pull it off? There were details husbands and wives knew about each other, intimacies shared, that couldn’t be faked. And what about body language? Ever since the night she’d surprised him in his bed, Nate had been careful not to come within three feet of her.

“Crap.” Finding the remote on her nightstand, she muted the television and sat in silence for several seconds. Should she call him? See if she could convince him to postpone the trip for a day or two? With more time, maybe they could talk Milt into letting her infiltrate Ethan’s cult on her own.

If she didn’t make her argument now, Nate would be at her door, packed and ready to go, in six hours.

“I’ve got to try.” Safety was a concern Nate would listen to. He always looked out for his team. It wasn’t just his SEAL training; it was part of his makeup. He’d fight Milt on those grounds if no other.

Feeling a fresh burst of confidence, she reached for the phone and dialed his number.

He answered on the first ring.

“He won’t let us off the hook,” he said. “And I’m sleeping. Don’t bother me again.”

He didn’t sound as if she’d awakened him. His voice wasn’t the least bit gravelly. But the click and subsequent dial tone told her he’d said all he was going to say on the subject.

Angry that he’d known the reason for her call before she could even say a word, she slammed the phone down and went back to the dossier. “This won’t work,” she mumbled. For instance, she might say that her brother was gay and he might call the same brother a womanizer. What then? There was no way they could script every detail ahead of time. Going undercover was all about ad-libbing. Trying to do this together could make it unravel. And Ethan was a dangerous man. Those letters to Manson confirmed it.

Rachel glanced at the stack she’d set to one side. The hero worship exhibited in Ethan’s earlier writing gave her chills. Had he really admired a man who’d used others, mostly women—except for Tex Watson—to brutally murder seven people? A lot of psychopaths admired killers because they themselves fantasized about committing the same kinds of acts. Was Ethan capable of such heinous crimes?

Putting the dossier on her nightstand, along with her fake ID, which had been tucked inside it, she picked up the letters and read them again. They were more than a decade old. She had no way of knowing if they still reflected Ethan’s thoughts and attitudes, but they gave her a glimpse into the psyche of the man he’d once been. He talked about Spahn Ranch, where Manson had lived when he ordered the murders. He compared it to a place he’d find for his own “spiritual family,” a place where he could “operate beneath the awareness of the outside world.” Except for one letter, he ignored Manson’s fascination with the Beatles and their music, but he quoted several of Manson’s favorite verses from the Book of Revelation 9:2, 3.

And he opened the bottomless pit…. And there came out of the smoke locusts upon the earth: and unto them was given power, as the scorpions of the earth have power.

“I have this power,” Ethan wrote. “I can feel it taking root in me. I can make scorpions of locusts. What would you have me do?”

Wishing she had Manson’s reply, she flipped to another letter, this one dated August 4, 1998. Here, Ethan began by thanking Manson for his latest response and quoting Revelation 9:4.

And it was commanded [that the locusts] should not hurt the grass of the earth, neither any green thing, neither any tree; but only those men which have not the seal of God in their foreheads.

“I have the mark,” Ethan informed Manson. “My people will freely take it upon themselves. They will be God’s avengers against the wicked. They will avenge you.”

That was where the brand came in, Rachel mused. He went on to quote verse 17.

And thus I saw the horses in the vision, and them that sat on them, having breastplates of fire, and of jacinth, and brimstone: and the heads of the horses were as the heads of lions; and out of their mouths issued fire and smoke and brimstone.

“You will be free,” Ethan promised Manson. “I will make you free.” He’d closed that particular letter by quoting one last verse.

And the fifth angel sounded, and I saw a star fall from heaven unto the earth: and to him was given the key of the bottomless pit.

“You have passed that key to me.”

“‘You have passed that key to me,’” Rachel repeated. What did he mean by that? Did he feel as if he was taking over where Manson had left off?

That was a terrifying thought….

She chewed anxiously on her lip as she read the only letter in the pile that had been written by Manson.

“You know, a long time ago being crazy meant something. Nowadays everybody’s crazy. And you’re crazier than them all.”

Some sort of drink had been spilled on the bottom half, making the rest impossible to read. That was disappointing, especially because Ethan’s next letter revealed growing frustration. It seemed to be in response to Manson’s rebuke, or maybe there’d been a letter or two in between; the dates were three months apart. The gist of what he’d written suggested that Manson wasn’t living up to his prophet status, wasn’t guiding young Ethan as he wanted to be guided. Ethan was getting angry.

“You and all those Beatles songs, man. What was with that? What did the Beatles have to do with God? You’re full of shit, you know? Yellow Submarine, my ass. Where were you when Helter Skelter started? Safe at the ranch.”

Did that mean Ethan would be a different kind of leader? One who actively participated instead of watching from afar?

“The only thing you had right were the women. The women are where it’s at.”

Twisting her new wedding ring around her finger, Rachel read that line for the third time. Ethan had a fascination with women, probably because he felt more capable of bending them to his will. His mother had defended him and protected him against his father’s criticism, hadn’t she? Maybe he thought he could manipulate all women as easily as he’d manipulated his mother.

That was why she should do this job by herself. She had a better chance of appearing pliable without a hulking male at her side. And once she gained Ethan’s trust, it’d all be over. She’d bust him like she had so many drug dealers, shut him down as quickly as possible, so none of the other women in his commune would suffer as Martha Wilson had suffered.

She could imagine victory, but the satisfying image dissipated as the clock on the wall continued to tick. Five hours and counting…

It was too late to fight Milt’s insistence that Nate go with her.

In this part of the desert, night was nearly as hot as day. And the air hung heavy. There wasn’t so much as a slight breeze or a rustle—just the scrape of Bartholomew’s shovel. His efforts, sounding abnormally loud because of the silence and the rockiness of the soil, made him wince with each scoop. A tent filled with his fellow Covenanters stood only a few yards away. If someone woke and heard him, came to investigate, he’d have an even bigger problem on his hands….

But he wasn’t accustomed to this type of labor, and at forty-seven he was no longer young. Digging strained his back and made his arms feel so weak he could hardly keep going.

Taking a break to conserve his strength and catch his breath, he leaned on the shovel and gazed toward the little cemetery on the hill, half a mile or so away. It’d been established when Paradise was built as a mining town back in the early 1900s and it still had some of the old headstones jutting out of the bare soil beneath a paloverde tree. Thanks to a bright moon, Bart could almost make out the largest one. Except for the fact that the ground would be even harder, he wished he could dig this grave out there.

But burying Courtney Sinclair beyond the fence that encircled the commune wasn’t safe. It would be much more difficult to keep track of who came and went. What if someone noticed the disturbed earth and told Courtney’s parents? They’d already come to Paradise several times, looking for their daughter. Ethan had covered well, but Bartholomew had a feeling the situation was far from over. The Sinclairs weren’t going to give up and go away. Maybe Courtney claimed to have been unloved, that her parents were the worst parents ever, but her mother, at least, seemed quite devoted.

That just went to show that the girl didn’t have a clue about people. She was—had been, Bartholomew corrected as he glanced with distaste at the limp figure wrapped in a blanket at his feet—barely seventeen.

But he’d tried to warn her. She wouldn’t listen. The Sinclairs no doubt had the same problem with her. The black lipstick, fingernails and clothing, the earrings lining the rim of each ear and the metal rod through her nose—they all designated her as a rebel. And the scars from the cutting she’d done on her arms took it to a rather desperate level. She’d been deeply unhappy, hadn’t acclimated when her family moved from Texas. A lot of children, forced to take a backseat to a step-parent, resented it. Bart had been raised with a step-father himself, knew what it felt like to deserve more yet receive less. But he’d left that old identity behind. There was no more Francis Williams. He was simply Bartholomew now. An apostle to the Holy One.

Courtney had been offered a home in Paradise. She could still be here, as alive as he was, if only she’d played by the rules.

A light went on in the Enlightenment Hall where he lived with the Holy One. Twisting around, he stared up at it. Was Ethan worried? Was he frightened by what had occurred with Martha and then Courtney?

He hoped not. Ethan needed to remain stable or they’d both lose everything.

Drawing his exhaustion and concern inside himself, he returned to his digging.

3

Ethan paced inside his room. The Brethren were still meeting in the pit. He’d put in an appearance earlier, but he’d been too anxious to stay long. Watching them argue wasn’t any fun. It made him feel as if this was the beginning of the end of everything he’d created. Were they right? Was the paradise he’d built about to come tumbling down? With all the bad publicity, it felt that way. The rest of the world seemed to be pressing closer, crowding him, banging at the gates. The Brethren, the twelve he’d designated as Spiritual Guides for his people, had tried to tell him that a local girl going missing on the heels of what Martha had told the press wouldn’t be good. But he hadn’t listened. Sometimes he felt as though he could get away with anything. Other times…

What had he been thinking? Of course they’d been right! The attention his actions had drawn would only hasten the confrontation he’d been preparing for from the start. That was what the Guides were discussing now. They were hashing out plans for the final battle. But had it really come to that?

He wasn’t ready. He should’ve left Martha and Courtney alone. He’d screwed up, indulged himself one too many times….

It was the drugs, he decided. When he was tweaking, he made mistakes, and he tweaked too often these days. But the thought of getting high only made him want to do it again.

Crossing to the bureau, he found the quarter gram of meth he kept close at hand, took his pipe from the same drawer and lit up.

When that first anticipated rush of euphoria hit his brain, he dropped onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Courtney came to him immediately, like a ghost. Or a memory. He knew what he was seeing wasn’t real, that he was hallucinating, because there was no lust, no anger, no betrayal. He was completely objective, an indifferent bystander observing the unfolding of their relationship—until the final moment when he’d strangled her.

Another memory surfaced—the day he caught his father grimacing when someone said, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” The person who’d spoken hadn’t been able to see past their physical similarities long enough to realize they couldn’t be more different if God had intended to make them enemies. Conservative and self-disciplined, Robert loved sports and business and took great pride in his financial success. Ethan preferred music, art, literature, fashion. Nothing he did could ever match what his father had accomplished. Even worse, he was emotional and high-strung, which irritated and angered his father.

Oddly, the differences hadn’t really bothered Ethan until the day he’d heard his father tell his mother that he planned to order a paternity test. Robert hadn’t doubted her fidelity; he’d been teasing when he said it. But Ethan’s mother had laughed with him and that was when Ethan knew Valerie was in on the secret. She preferred her husband to her son; she felt as embarrassed and ashamed of Ethan as Robert did.

Wincing at that memory, he took another hit on the pipe and then another.

Soon he seemed to be floating above his own body. Then the room began to spin and he could no longer remember what upset him so much. He had nothing to worry about. Look at what he’d become. His father had told him he’d never amount to anything, but he’d been wrong. Ethan had money and power and he hadn’t had to work for any of it.

Suddenly, the silence seemed to press in on him like an invisible hand, holding him down on the bed, smothering him. Nearly dropping his pipe, he staggered to his feet, knocked over a lamp and cut his arm. He was standing in a stupor, watching the blood drip onto the carpet when Bart walked in.

“Holy One, you’ve hurt yourself,” he cried. “What happened?”

Ethan’s mouth moved and words came out, but they sounded garbled, even to his own ears. Was he making sense? Somehow that didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that Bart had come to take care of him.

Just like always.

The sun was up when Nate pulled into Rachel’s driveway. Her house sat on a cliff overlooking the ocean a little south of Los Angeles. With one whole side made of glass, it was different—far more modern than the home of any other woman he knew. But Rachel was different, too. She tried to be so damn tough. In ways, she was tough. She could fight. She could play whatever part she needed to play. She’d gravitated to the polar opposite of her sheltered upbringing and wielded a gun instead of the Good Book. But for all that, she didn’t have the ability to protect her heart. He’d never forget the night he’d come home to find her waiting in his bed.

Working this closely together wasn’t a smart idea. He saw how she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention, could tell how she felt about him. Hell, she’d said as much when they were making love. What she wanted from him reminded him too much of Susan. He still heard from her on occasion and he knew that, in some ways, he’d never really be free of her or the memory of rushing to the hospital that cold January night….

But Milt was adamant he take this assignment, so Nate would have to protect Rachel—not only from the Covenanters but from himself.

“Just do it,” he said, and shoved the gearshift into Park.

He was getting out to ring the bell when she appeared, wearing a simple peach-colored sundress beneath a cardigan sweater and carrying a small suitcase.

“You can’t take that case to Portal,” he said without a greeting. He didn’t recognize the label, but he didn’t need to know the designer to realize it had cost a bundle. “That’s a dead giveaway. You’re the wife of a cement contractor, not Paris Hilton.”

“I’m aware of that. But I tossed my crappy luggage after the last job. It was completely shot. We’ll have to stop at a secondhand store along the way.”

“What will you do with this one?”

“Ship it home,” she said with a shrug. “The clothes I wear when I’m not working are too sophisticated, too ‘single woman supporting herself.’ The ones I wear on other jobs are too ‘I’ll do anything for my next fix.’ I need something in between if I’m going to build the illusion of a sweet wife who recently got married and is trying to eke out a productive life with her husband. So we would’ve had to do some shopping, anyway.”

Maybe she needed additional clothes, but the dress she was wearing right now worked, he admitted grudgingly. The color brought out the golden tones in her hair and skin and contrasted nicely with the ice blue of her eyes. But he didn’t tell her that. He knew better than to lead her on and still kicked himself for not sending her home when she’d let herself into his condo six months ago.

“This is all, then?” he asked.

“Except for my computer.” She reached in to get the satchel she carried almost everywhere, but he stopped her.

“Leave it behind.”

“That’s like asking me to leave my gun!”

“No, it’s not. Where we’re going, there probably won’t be Internet service. And when we need a computer, we can use mine.”

“What about other gear?”

He motioned toward the truck. “I’ve got everything we might need.”

“Fine,” she muttered, and he put her bag in the truck while she locked the house.

Rachel was seven years his junior, but today she looked even younger. With her hair pulled into a messy bun and minimal makeup, she could pass for twenty. Had he spotted her on the road, he might’ve mistaken her for a teenager heading down to the beach.

But she wasn’t going to the beach. She was wearing his pretend wedding ring and packing a gun so Milt could thrust them both into the middle of a potentially dangerous situation.

“Why do you do it?” he asked as she climbed in.

She blinked. “You mean, the bag? I told you. I had to bring it. I didn’t have another one.”

“I’m not talking about your suitcase. Why are you in this business?”

She slammed the rusty door of his old truck. “It’s a living, isn’t it?”

A good living. They’d only have to devote ten years to their work to be set for life. But he knew Rachel’s involvement wasn’t entirely about the money. According to what he’d read in her file, and the bit of information she’d revealed, she’d had a difficult childhood with an overbearing father. That made him suspect her attraction to undercover work had something to do with slipping in and out of character, of being anyone she wanted to be except the child who’d known almost nothing of the real world until she was seventeen. She wasn’t comfortable in her own skin, didn’t know who she was or who she wanted to be.

“The danger doesn’t bother you?”

“No more than it bothers you.”

He almost told her to get out. She didn’t need to be mixed up in Ethan Wycliff’s twisted world. The auto accident involving Ethan’s former roommate had left skid marks suggesting he might’ve been run off the road. There were no witnesses to say if he’d swerved to avoid an animal or another car. So the possibility of murder was there. For all they knew, Ethan was as bad as Charles Manson, which made this assignment worse than usual. “Maybe we should try talking some sense into Milt,” he said, suddenly second-guessing his decision to comply with his boss’s orders.

She flashed him her wedding ring. “Too late. You already tried that, anyway. Let’s go.”

His thoughts gravitated to a former Department 6 employee. Enrico had lost his right eye when someone he knew in regular life happened upon him while he was on the job. After that friend inadvertently blew his cover, Enrico had been forced to fight for his life. Nate didn’t want something like that to happen again—to any member of his team, but especially one of the women.

“This could be unpredictable,” he warned.

“They’re all unpredictable.”

“You’re sure you’re up for it?”

“I’m positive.”

“You didn’t seem so certain when you called me a few hours ago.”

“How would you know? You didn’t give me a chance to talk.”

“I’m giving you a chance now.”

“Someone’s got to do this. Might as well be me.”

She was right. Someone had to do it. He doubted Milt would change his mind, anyway. As she’d just said, Nate had already argued with him about it, to no avail.

Ultimately, this was Milt’s decision. And Rachel’s. Not his.

Taking a deep breath, he backed down her long drive. She’d chosen this line of work, applied of her own free will, knowing full well the dangers she’d encounter. And she’d proven herself effective.

While he made the turn onto the winding road that would take them to the highway, she dug through her purse. He had no idea what she was searching for until he smelled the distinctive scent of fingernail polish.

“Hey, that stuff stinks,” he complained.

She pulled off her sandal and hugged her left knee to her chest so she could paint her toenails. “I need to get into character. Rachel Mott is the kind of woman who likes her nails a delicate pink.”

“How do you know?” he countered. “That wasn’t in the dossier.”

“There wasn’t much in the dossier. So I figure the role is subject to interpretation. I’ve got to sell it, make it real.” She moved to the next toenail. “And the way I picture her is sort of sweet and naive and madly in love with her nice but none-too-bright husband.”

He shot her a dark look. Where was she going with this? “Did you say ‘none-too-bright’?” he grumbled, but it was really the “madly in love” part that disturbed him. He didn’t want to get anything started.

“It’s just a role.”

“I don’t mind playing dumb as long as you remember I’m the boss here. Milt’s sending me with you for a reason.”

“I think Milt is sending us together because there’s safety in numbers, not because he expects you to exert your authority while we’re there.”

“He doesn’t need to specify that because I’m already your boss.”

“And I’d never question that.” She gave him a saccharine smile to take the edge off her sarcasm, and he seemed to accept the statement at face value.

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

“Back to that incomplete dossier.” She waved one hand rapidly over her toes. “What was Milt thinking, being so vague?”

“He said he didn’t have a lot of time. He thought we could finish strategizing today while we drove.”

“I’m glad to hear I’ll have some input, because we need to come up with ways to seem more like a real couple.”

What was she up to? He narrowed his eyes as he looked at her, speculating on what it could be. “Such as…”

“I don’t know. Something that makes it appear as if we’ve been together for more than, say…a day.”

He decided to go along with her. “Like what? Like…getting my name tattooed on your neck?”

She didn’t argue as he’d expected; she frowned in contemplation. “Exactly. Only…not on my neck. That’s too…overboard. But maybe my arm.”

“No way! I was joking, and you know it. There’s no telling how long we’ll be there. A fake tattoo might wash off.”

“Which is why it would have to be a real one. Right here.” She indicated her deltoid. “Nathan’s woman.”