Thomas Leandro? The balding professor who spouted Marxist doctrine and combed what hair he had in a swirl around his glossy dome. In a strong wind, he looked like a bird’s nest that had blown out of a tree.

Pedro Harara? The five-foot-three banker who dressed like a character in a thirties gangster movie and wore a girdle to hide his paunch. He’d almost put her to sleep standing up with his scintillating discussion of international fund transfers.

Louis Rinaldo? The tough-looking minister of development who’d worked his way up from street gang member to cabinet officer. He wore three gold rings on his fingers to prove he’d made it.

Or what about the man who called himself William Johnson, the one with the horse face and the drawl that stretched all the way to Texas? She had no idea who he was or what he was doing at the party, but she’d had him on her list to check out. Too bad she’d never gotten a chance.

The only guest she was sure hadn’t given her up to El Jefe was President Juan Palmeriz. San Marcos’s elected leader hated Sanchez and was praying for an excuse to get him out of power. But his fear of a coup was so great that he didn’t go to sleep at night without first looking under the bed.

After hours of fruitless speculation, Marissa felt as if she’d go insane if she didn’t have someone to talk to. Maybe that was what Sanchez wanted. And she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of breaking her. So she began to make up long silent conversations with various friends and enemies.

She mentally discussed with Abby the character defects that had gotten her into this mess. Abby kept saying it wasn’t her fault; she wished she could be as sure.

She railed at Victor Kirkland for sending her on a mission that, in retrospect, had been foolhardy.

She tried to rehearse plausible answers to the questions Sanchez was eventually going to ask her. If he wasn’t simply planning to let her rot here.

But when she felt most alone and terrified, she talked to Jed Prentiss. Particularly at night when it was dark and he couldn’t see her face.

She knew that was a silly contrivance. He wasn’t even in the cell with her. She wasn’t sure she could trust him. She didn’t even know whether he was still in San Marcos. Yet it was somehow very comforting to lie in bed and mentally whisper to him in the dark, as if they were lovers instead of uneasy rivals.

Somebody turned me in. Was it you? She posed the question to him in her mind for the dozenth time, holding her breath as if she really were waiting for his answer.

I wouldn’t do that, honey bee.

She wanted to believe him with all her heart. For the time being, she gave him the benefit of the doubt.

You’re the only one who knows what’s happened to me.

Yeah.

Are you doing anything to get me out of here?

She waited in the blackness, her mind forming the answer she wanted to hear: he was moving heaven and earth to spring her from this cell. But it was hard to have much faith in wishful thinking. Or anything else.

She closed her eyes and allowed herself to imagine that he had shifted to his side, that he had put his muscular arms around her so that they lay on the bunk spoon fashion. She sighed and scooted a little closer, almost swearing she could smell the spicy after-shave he wore, feel the hard wall of his chest against the back of her head. She pictured his broad shoulders and the sun-streaked hair that always made him look as if he’d climbed out of a lifeguard’s chair. It was so good to delegate some of the fear and uncertainty to him. To let him give her his protection.

She longed to ask more of him. Gently she touched her finger to her lips, stroking back and forth with a feather-light touch, imagining what it might be like to kiss him. A little shiver went through her. She’d wanted to taste his mouth. A couple of years ago she’d finally admitted that to herself. Almost every time they met, she looked at his lips. But there was no such thing as sharing a chaste kiss with a man like Jed. He would want more.

Vivid images invaded her mind, and she could feel her body trembling. In the darkness she struggled for control for the calm center of her soul where she was in charge of her life. It took longer than usual. Her emotions were in too much turmoil, her nerves too raw. But finally her will prevailed the way it always did.

Years ago she’d figured out what was necessary for her survival. Like the way she’d acted to keep Jed at arm’s length. She knew he’d been puzzled at first. The perplexity had changed to a mixture of anger and hurt. That had made her ache inside. She’d wanted so badly to erase the wounded look from his eyes.

But he frightened her too much. He was too male. Too assertive. Too much a creature of the tough, aggressive habits he’d developed during long years as an undercover agent.

He was too dangerous for her. The wrong kind of man entirely. If she was going to dare a relationship with anyone, it should be with a mild, unthreatening guy who wouldn’t make demands. Who’d let her set the pace. Yet fate kept throwing her into Jed’s path in various Latin American countries where they were both doing undercover work. And every time they met, she felt like a moth being drawn to a flame.

But it was different now. Here, in this cell, where she was so defenseless and alone, she was too weak to give up the small amount of comfort she gained by pretending he was lying in back of her, his body shielding hers, ready to overpower the guards when they finally opened the door. With a soft sigh she closed her eyes and hugged her arms around her shoulders.

* * *

JED LEANED BACK in the comfortable wing chair in Abby Franklin’s office at 43 Light Street. The setting was tastefully soothing, and he tried to fit in by crossing his legs easily at the ankles and sipping at the mug of coffee she’d offered him. Probably he wasn’t fooling Dr. Franklin. This crack-of-dawn meeting was his last stop in Baltimore before he decided whether or not to risk his life on a mission that had about a fifty-percent chance of succeeding.

“I appreciate your getting together with me so early,” he said, setting down the mug.

“I appreciate your volunteering to get Marissa out of San Marcos.”

“I’m not exactly working for free.”

Abby ignored the clarification. “Now that we know for sure that the State Department won’t do a damn thing, you may be her only chance.”

“You might have to come up with another alternative. I haven’t decided whether I’m going to take the job.”

“Jason thinks you’re the one who can do it.”

He ignored the vote of confidence and sprang a question on her. “Is Marissa just a danger to herself? Or to others, as well?”

“She’s not a danger to herself,” Abby retorted.

“You told Cassandra her sister takes crazy chances.”

“That’s a loose interpretation of what I said.”

“You have to tell me what’s going on in Marissa’s head before I make a commitment.”

Abby looked regretful. “Jed, she trusts me not to talk about our sessions. I can’t betray her confidences to you.”

“Not even to save her life?”

Abby paused before replying. “Let me put it this way. If you go back to San Marcos knowing certain things about her that she hasn’t chosen to reveal to you, she’ll sense it and react negatively. And she’ll never trust either one of us again.”

“Let me put it this way,” he countered. “Your group of conspirators has hatched a very flaky plan. And when I get to San Marcos, I’m not going to be able to clue in Marissa. She’ll have to take my opening moves on blind faith. Then the two of us are going to have to pull off a performance worthy of the stars in a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. Is she up to that? Or will she get both of us killed?”

Abby knit her fingers together in her lap. “Jed, I can’t tell you very much. But perhaps you’ve sensed that she has strong feelings for you.”