Praise for the bestselling novels of
Iris Johansen
DEAD AIM
“Smoothly written, tightly plotted, turbocharged thriller … Megaselling Johansen doesn’t miss.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Readers will stay up all night reading this cat-and-mouse chase.”
—Booklist
“The nonstop action and slick plotting won’t disappoint.”
—Publishers Weekly
NO ONE TO TRUST
“With its taut plot and complex characters, [No One to Trust] is vintage, fan-pleasing Johansen.”
—Booklist
“Fast-moving plot … another zippy read from megaselling Johansen.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Gritty, powerful and fast-paced, No One to Trust starts off with a bang and never lets up.… This is one thriller that will keep you on the edge of your seat.”
—Romantic Times
BODY OF LIES
“Filled with explosions, trained killers, intrigues within intrigues … It all adds up to one exciting thriller.”
—Booklist
“A romantic thriller whose humanity keeps the reader rooting for its heroine every step of the way.”
—Publishers Weekly
“[Johansen] doesn’t let her readers down.”
—The Star-Ledger, Newark
FINAL TARGET
“A winning page-turner that will please old and new fans alike.”
—Booklist
“A compelling tale.”
—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“Thrilling … will have fans of the author ecstatic and bring Ms. Johansen new readers.”
—BookBrowser
THE SEARCH
“Thoroughly gripping and with a number of shocking plot twists … [Johansen] has packed all the right elements into this latest work: intriguing characters; a creepy, crazy villain; a variety of exotic locations.”
—New York Post
“Johansen’s thrillers ooze enough testosterone to suggest she also descends from the house of Robert Ludlum. Johansen pushes the gender boundary in popular fiction, offering up that rarity: a woman’s novel for men.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Fans of Iris Johansen will pounce on The Search. And they’ll be rewarded.”
—USA Today
THE KILLING GAME
“Johansen is at the top of her game.… An enthralling cat-and-mouse game … perfect pacing … The suspense holds until the very end.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Most satisfying.”
—Daily News, New York
“An intense whodunit that will have you gasping for breath.”
—The Tennessean
THE FACE OF DECEPTION
“One of her best … a fast-paced, nonstop, clever plot in which Johansen mixes political intrigue, murder, and suspense.”
—USA Today
“The book’s twists and turns manage to hold the reader hostage until the denouement, a sure crowd pleaser.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Johansen keeps her story moving at breakneck speed.”
—The Daily Sun, Chicago
AND THEN YOU DIE
“Iris Johansen keeps the reader intrigued with complex characters and plenty of plot twists. The story moves so fast, you’ll be reading the epilogue before you notice.”
—People
“From the first page, the reader is pulled into a realm of danger, intrigue, and suspense with a touch of romance and enough twists and turns to gladden the hearts of all of her readers.”
—Library Journal
LONG AFTER MIDNIGHT
“Flesh-and-blood characters, crackling dialogue and lean, suspenseful plotting.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A lively, engrossing ride by a strong new voice in the romantic suspense genre.”
—Kirkus Reviews
THE UGLY DUCKLING
“Outstanding. A real page-turner. Many will add [Iris Johansen’s] name to their list of favorite authors.”
—Associated Press
BOOKS BY IRIS JOHANSEN
AND THE DESERT BLOOMS
THE TREASURE
TOUCH THE HORIZON
GOLDEN VALKYRIE
CAPTURE THE RAINBOW
A SUMMER SMILE
STORMY VOWS / TEMPEST AT SEA
STALEMATE
AN UNEXPECTED SONG
KILLER DREAMS
ON THE RUN
COUNTDOWN
BLIND ALLEY
FIRESTORM
FATAL TIDE
DEAD AIM
NO ONE TO TRUST
BODY OF LIES
FINAL TARGET
THE SEARCH
THE KILLING GAME
THE FACE OF DECEPTION
AND THEN YOU DIE
LONG AFTER MIDNIGHT
THE UGLY DUCKLING
LION’S BRIDE
DARK RIDER
MIDNIGHT WARRIOR
THE BELOVED SCOUNDREL
THE MAGNIFICENT ROGUE
THE TIGER PRINCE
LAST BRIDGE HOME
THE GOLDEN BARBARIAN
REAP THE WIND
STORM WINDS
THE UGLY DUCKLING
A Bantam Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam hardcover edition published May 1996
Bantam mass market edition published January 1997
Bantam reissue / October 2007
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 1999 by I. J. Enterprises
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 95036175
Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-307-79439-0
www.bantamdell.com
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Preview of STALEMATE
Prologue
Greenbriar, North Carolina
“I didn’t mean to break it.” Tears were running down Nell’s cheeks. “Please, Mama. I was holding it and it just fell.”
“I told you never to touch my things. Your father gave me this mirror in Venice.” Her mother’s lips were tight with anger as she looked at the broken handle of the pearl-encrusted mirror. “It will never, never be the same.”
“Yes, it will. I promise.” Nell reached out and tried to take the hand mirror. “I didn’t break the mirror, just the handle. I’ll glue it. It will be exactly the same.”
“You’ve ruined it. What were you doing in my room anyway? I told your grandmother never to let you in here.”
�
��She didn’t know. It wasn’t her fault.” The sobs were choking her. “I just came to—I wanted to see—I made this wreath of honeysuckle from the fence and—”
“I see you did.” Her mother disdainfully touched the flowers in Nell’s hair. “You look ridiculous.” She held the mirror up before Nell’s face. “Is that what you wanted to see? How silly you look.”
“I thought I’d look … pretty.”
“Pretty? Look at yourself. You’re plump and plain and you’ll never be anything else.”
Mama was right. The girl in the mirror was plump, her eyes swollen and bloodshot. The bright yellow blossoms Nell had thought so beautiful looked limp and pitiful tucked in her untidy brown hair. By wearing them, she had made even the flowers seem ugly. She whispered, “I’m sorry, Mama.”
“Was that really necessary, Martha?” Her grandmother stood in the doorway. “She’s only eight years old.”
“It’s time she learned to face reality. She’ll never be anything but an ugly little mouse. She has to deal with it.”
“All children are beautiful,” her grandmother said quietly. “And if she’s a little plain now, that doesn’t mean she’ll stay that way.”
Her mother snatched up the mirror again and held it before Nell. “Is she right, Nell? Are you beautiful?”
Nell turned her head to avoid her reflection.
Her mother turned to her grandmother. “And I don’t want you filling her head with stories and fantasies. Ugly ducklings don’t become swans. Plain children usually grow up to be plain adults. She’ll have to be content with being neat and clean and obedient to be accepted.” She took Nell’s shoulders and looked directly into her eyes. “Do you understand, Nell?”
She understood. By accepted, Mama meant to be loved. She would never be beautiful like Mama, so she must make them all love her by doing whatever they wished.
She nodded jerkily.
Her mother released her, grabbed her briefcase from the bed, and moved toward the door. “I have a meeting in twenty minutes, and you’ve made me late. You must never, never come into this room again.” She glared impatiently at Nell’s grandmother. “I can’t understand you not watching her more closely.”
She was gone.
Her grandmother held out her arms to Nell. She meant to comfort, to ease the hurt, and Nell wanted to go to her, to bury her face in her shoulder. But there was something she must do first.
She turned back to the dresser and carefully gathered the pieces of the broken mirror. She would glue every piece with great care so that no one would ever know it was broken. She must work hard and be very clever and very good.
Because she was an ugly duckling.
And she would never become a swan.
One
June 4
Athens
Tanek wasn’t pleased.
Conner could tell as he watched Nicholas Tanek stride out of customs. Tanek’s expression was impassive, but Conner had known him long enough to read his body language. Tanek’s power and presence were always evident, but not the impatience.
It had better be good, Tanek had told him.
It wasn’t good, but it was all Conner had.
He ambled forward and smiled with effort. “Pleasant flight?”
“No.” Tanek walked toward the exit. “Is Reardon in the car?”
“Yes, he arrived from Dublin last night.” He paused. “But he can’t go to the party with you. I could wangle only one invitation.”
“I said two invitations.”
“You don’t understand.”
“The party is for Anton Kavinski and the invitations were issued three months ago. He’s the president of a Russian state, for God’s sake. It cost me a fortune to get even one.” He added hurriedly, “And you may not need Reardon. I told you the information may not be accurate. Our man only found a computer message at DEA headquarters that indicated this party on the island of Medas might be hit.”
“That’s all?”
“And a list of names.”
“What kind of list?”
“The names of six guests. No one that we can identify as players except one of Kavinski’s bodyguards and Martin Brenden, the man who’s giving the party. One name was circled for special attention. A woman.”
“What makes you think this is a hit list?”
“Blue ink. Our man has a theory that Gardeaux’s orders are color-coded to define action to be taken.”
“Theory?” Tanek’s voice was dangerously soft. “I’ve come all this way for a theory?”
Conner moistened his lips. “You told me to let you know anything that came up about Gardeaux.”
The mention of Philippe Gardeaux had the desired effect of tempering Tanek’s annoyance, Conner saw with relief. He had learned that no effort was too great, no action too minor, if it concerned Gardeaux.
“Okay, you’re right,” Tanek said. “Who sent this computer message?”
“Joe Kabler, the head of the DEA, has a paid informant in Gardeaux’s camp.”
“Can we get the informant’s name?”
Conner shook his head. “I’ve been trying, but so far no luck.”
“And what’s Kabler going to do about this list?”
“Nothing.”
Tanek stared at him. “Nothing?”
“Kabler thinks it’s a list of bribery targets.”
“He doesn’t believe in the ‘deadly blue ink’ theory?” Tanek asked sarcastically.
Conner drew a breath of relief as they came abreast of the Mercedes. Let Reardon deal with him; they were two of a kind. “Reardon has the list with him in the car.” He hastily opened the back door. “You can talk to him while I drive you to the hotel.”
“Howdy, cowboy.” Jamie Reardon’s Irish brogue was blatantly at odds with the assumed western drawl. “I see you left your boots at home.”
Nicholas Tanek felt a little of his impatience ebb as he climbed into the car. “I should have brought them. Nothing like boots to kick ass.”
“Mine or Conner’s?” Jamie asked. “Must be Conner’s. No one would want to damage my venerable ass.”
Conner gave a nervous laugh as he pulled out of the parking space.
Jamie’s long face lit with mischief, his sly gaze on the back of Conner’s head. “But I can see how you’d be displeased with Conner. It’s a long flight from Idaho for no good reason.”
“I told you it might be nothing,” Conner said. “I didn’t tell him to come.”
“You didn’t tell him not to,” Jamie murmured. “Isn’t silence assent, Nick?”
“Knock it off. I’m here now.” Nicholas wearily leaned back on the leather seat. “Is it for nothing, Jamie?”
“Probably. There’s no sign the DEA is taking it seriously. Kabler’s certainly not spending government funds to get an invitation to Medas.”
Another blind alley. Christ, Nicholas was tired of it.
“But getting away from those wide-open spaces is good therapy for you,” Jamie said. “Every time you come back from that ranch, you look more like John Wayne. It’s not healthy.”
“John Wayne has been dead a number of years.”
“I told you it wasn’t healthy.”
“It’s healthy spending your life in a pub?”
“Ah, Nick, you never understood. Irish pubs are the cultural center of the universe. Poetry and art flourish like roses in summer, and the conversations …” He half closed his eyes, savoring the memory. “At other places people talk, in my place they have conversations.”
Nicholas smiled faintly. “There’s a difference?”
“The difference between deciding the fate of the world and buying a new video game for the kid.” He lifted a brow. “But why am I wasting my time describing such beauty to you? You have only steers to talk to in that savage Idaho.”
“Sheep.”
“Whatever
. It’s no wonder cowboys are reputed to be strong and silent. Their vocal cords are atrophied from disuse.”
“They have the usual verbal skills.”
Jamie snorted.
“The list,” Conner prompted.
“Ah, he wishes his summons to be validated,” Jamie said. “He’s afraid of you, you know.”
“Nonsense.” Conner’s laugh was a little too hearty.
“I tried to tell him you’re no longer in the business, but I don’t think he believes me. I did hope you’d wear the cowboy boots. They’re so wholesome and unthreatening.”
“Stop it, Jamie,” Nicholas said.
Jamie chuckled. “Just a bit of humor.” He added in a tone inaudible to Conner, “I’ve no liking for the shifty rabbit. Every time he jumps, he makes me want to skin him.”
“You don’t have to like him. He has an inside man with the DEA.”
“For all the good it’s done us so far.” Jamie reached in his pocket, drew out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to Nicholas. “And this looks like another blank.”
“Who’s giving this party?” Nicholas said.
“A banker. Martin Brenden, vice president of Continental Trust. Continental Trust is going after Kavinski’s overseas investments. Brenden’s rented this palace on Medas for the weekend and is throwing the party in Kavinski’s honor.”
“And what connection does Brenden have with Gardeaux?”
“None that we can trace.”
“Kavinski?”
“Possible. Since Kavinski was elected president of Vanask he’s become a major deal maker above and under the table. He may have offended Gardeaux by refusing to let drugs into Vanask.” He paused. “But his name wasn’t on the list.”
“Then I’d bet on Kabler’s interpretation. Bribery. He’s been head of the DEA long enough to sift the chaff from the grain, and he’s a shrewd bastard.”
“Does that mean you’re not going to Medas?”
Nicholas thought about it. It was probably a waste of time if Gardeaux’s message was just a payola list. He had gone on too many wild-goose chases on the chance of finding the key to nail Gardeaux.