if she could do what was needed.
“Are you sure?” Chuck now demanded, breaking into his reverie.
Matt looked his superior squarely in the eye. “Positive. She’s a rabbit. And we’re going into a wolf situation.”
Lowell frowned, then returned his gaze. “Rabbit or not, she’s got contacts we don’t have. Look, go back and study her once more before you make your final decision. I’m afraid Layne Hamilton is the only person who can help us at this point.”
* * *
“Well, how was the first day?” Millie Hamilton sang out as Layne stepped from the foyer into her mother’s living room.
Layne tried to smile but it didn’t work. She dropped her books on the coffee table and set her briefcase down beside the sofa.
“It was horrible,” she admitted, sitting down dejectedly.
Millie stood poised at the kitchen door. At fifty-nine she looked ten years younger, her short crop of black hair barely sprinkled with gray. But now her brow creased with concern. “What happened?” she asked gently.
Layne nudged off her low-heeled sandals and propped her feet up on the table. She gave her mother a helpless look. “There was someone from the Company there, Mom.”
“Oh, honey, are you sure?”
A tidal wave of suppressed emotion surfaced in Layne at last, and her voice broke. “I’m positive. He was wearing a jacket. You don’t wear a jacket on a ninety-degree day unless you’re wearing a gun at the back of your belt. And his look…” She shivered, shutting her eyes tightly. Hot tears scalded her lids, and she took a deep breath to try to steady herself. “He just looks like one of them, Mom—restless, piercing eyes, lean strength—giving the impression that if he moved, he’d explode like a bomb.”
Millie came over to sit next to Layne and stroked her hair. “I believe you, honey. But why? After Brad died…”
Layne rose, unable to sit still an instant longer. She paced the length of a living room filled with Oriental memorabilia—memories of her family’s past, of her growing-up years as an Air Force brat, of a famous father stationed in the Orient. Layne stared at the photo on the mantel of her father with his arm around her mother and herself. Bob Hamilton: Air Force test pilot extraordinaire, made of the Right Stuff. He had tamed the most sophisticated supersonic jets in the world until one had finally claimed his life five years earlier. Both of the men in her life had been snuffed out by metal. The exotic skin of an aircraft buckling under testing stresses had claimed her father’s life; and Brad had been ripped away from her by an enemy bullet, unexpectedly freeing her from the prison of their marriage. She took a deep, ragged breath, fighting a threatening wave of tears and guilt.
Layne sensed more than saw her mother rise and move to her side to place a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Perhaps it was a mistake,” she soothed. “Perhaps this man just looked like an agent. It’s probably nothing, Layne. Why would they send someone from the Company to sit in on your class? You know Chuck Lowell would come over if they wanted something.”
Layne raised her face, her amber eyes misty. “That’s right. Their rule is ‘Never use the telephone, it might be bugged. Always try for face-to-face contact.’” Her head felt heavy. “God, Mom, I can still hear Brad saying that,” she whispered.
“I know, sweetheart, I know…”
Taking a steadying breath, Layne muttered, “I just hope you’re right, Mom. I’m still not over Brad or the CIA. Why doesn’t it fade with time?”
Millie squeezed her shoulder. “It will, honey. First, you have to let go of all that bottled-up anger you had toward Brad. No one could have known how cruel and insensitive he would turn out to be. You need to let go of the guilt, Layne. It’s eating you alive.”
“I hate the CIA,” she whispered rawly.
Millie gave her a small shake. “The way Brad turned out is not the CIA’s fault, Layne.”
Layne looked up in disbelief. “Since when are you siding with them? Brad was ruthless because of the CIA!”
“No.”
After all this time her mother was defending the Company? Layne stared at her. “I suppose you’re an authority on them?” She hated the surly tone of her voice but felt powerless to stop.
“Listen to me carefully, Layne,” Millie replied in a low voice. “I’ve kept out of your handling of Brad’s death. I felt that you would eventually understand that the CIA had nothing to do with Brad’s behavior toward you. They don’t mold men and women into coldhearted robots! They’re anxious to see that their employees’ families understand the rigors and pressures of their work. They don’t condone or even encourage Brad’s type of behavior.”
Defiance rose in Layne. “Oh, really? And how do you know?”
Millie released her arm. “Common sense tells me that. Brad was like a bad apple, Layne, rotten at the core. And no one knew it until it was too late. Place the blame where it rightfully belongs, work through your anger and hurt,” she counseled. “And then let it go, and get on with the business of living.”
* * *
Layne’s heart sank when she entered her classroom Wednesday morning. He was there again. And he was in the same seat, with the same imperturbable look on his face. She felt beads of sweat begin to form, and claustrophobia enveloped her. Her hands trembled visibly as she jerked open the attendance roster on the lectern. For the past two nights she had experienced reawakened memories of the nightmare of her marriage. Now anger broke through her haze of fear. She hated the man in the back—hated him for what he’d slit open in her just-healing heart. And she’d been surprised at her mother’s defense of the CIA. Everyone from the Company was cold. It was natural and expected for them to show nothing outwardly, not even love toward family members.
As she completed roll call her fears were realized: the man in the back wasn’t on the roster. Lifting her chin, she aimed a cool look at him.
“You’re not on the roster here, Mr.—”
Glacial blue eyes assessed her own, but she maintained her ground, refusing to be intimidated by a Company man. Layne wanted to force his hand. Slowly, the man’s mouth curved up in amusement. “I’m auditing the course, Professor Hamilton,” he drawled.
She felt heat rise within her. Like hell you are—she bit back the words. No one was allowed to audit introductory Chinese without registering; it was a university rule. The tension strung palpably between them. Layne gripped the edges of the lectern, her knuckles whitening. “Your name.” It was an order, not a question.
“Jim Ryder.”
Liar. She knew he wouldn’t tell his real name even under threat of death. She glared at him, on the verge of saying just that. But there was some indefinable warning in his features that told her to back off for now. It wasn’t anything specific. Just the tension around his eyes. She wrote the name down, giving him a dark look.
“Your audit papers, then, Mr. Ryder?”
“I’ll bring them next time I come to class.”
Layne controlled
