"I am after my next fugitive," Jake said, then made her wait for whom.

Obviously he hadn't been spanked enough as a child. Her eyes narrowed dangerously, so he gave her what she wanted.

"Hyatt."

"Dewey Hyatt?" Her smile was slow and loaded enough to make Mac catch his aging breath. "Maybe you are magic, Kirby."

Peter Harding stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring out the window without really seeing the panoramic view of Denver spread out below him or the distant Rocky Mountains acting as frame. What he saw, what he always saw, was the reflection of him.

The handsome man, flawlessly turned out in a custom-made silk suit of softest gray, was still a stranger, though a pleasing one. The hair flowing thick and sleek from a high, proud forehead, and the kindly gray eyes, were his, though the blond hair color came from a bottle. The patrician face, newly restored to vigor by a visit to the plastic surgeon, and that gave him the air of a statesman, had become his own years ago. He liked to think it was the way he?d always been meant to look. He hadn't changed, just trimmed away the rough edges.

The discerning found him almost too perfect. Sensed the elusive aura of a man playing a part and playing it very well. Buried deep beneath the superficial warmth of his light gray eyes was the cold heart of a completely amoral, utterly ruthless man.

The charm with which nature had so generously endowed him dazzled those who knew him slightly. Got caught in the radiance of a personality that knew how to beam wide from a shallow base.

Those who knew him well fell into two camps. Those who were the fortunate beneficiaries of his schemes and those who were the victims of the ruthlessness with which he used the bounties nature had given him to get what he wanted. The lucky ones got only moderately singed by the casual contempt he had for their lives or hopes.

There were few lucky ones in his world.

Fools, all of them; in his opinion they deserved what they got. The cosmos allowed only a few winners and a lot of losers at any given moment. Fate had perfectly constructed him to be a winner. Now, after years of planning, fate had brought him within reach of achieving all he'd ever wanted.

His reflection showed neither satisfaction nor guilt over his ways and means. Guilt clouded the issue, though he sometimes found it useful for others to be caught in its toils. Satisfaction would be premature. He was too careful to fall into that trap.

Impatience was his choice of the hour. He looked at his watch yet again, bit back an imprecation, and noticed the wrinkling of recently smoothed skin in his reflection in the glass. He smoothed the area with the tip of one manicured finger, enjoying the feel of almost young skin.

Amazing how easily youth was restored if you had enough money. He adjusted some wayward strands in his expensively cut hair. Defying his paternal genes, his hairline was the same as it always had been.

Nice to exceed the paternal model in every way possible.

Was the petty thief looking up from hell proud of what his genes, combined with those of a third-rate prostitute, had wrought?

Probably not.

Peter smiled; the coldly satisfied smile that few rarely saw, certainly not his soon to-be-announced fianc? Only a fool let the quarry see the cold steel jaws of the trap ready to close with bruising force around them.

Peter was no fool.

The door opened soundlessly behind him, but he'd been watching for it and turned with concealed relief as Barrett Stern stepped in, closing the door behind him.

Bumps and delays were all too common on the road to power, but in the past few months Peter seemed be experiencing more of them than usual. With luck, Stern had once again removed a particularly annoying one for him.

"You're late," Peter said.

A tall man with the ability to look shorter when needed, Stern had pale hair and flat, cold eyes that looked as if light couldn't penetrate, let alone warm them. He had a thin, bland face, a thinner mouth that neither smiled nor frowned. The knack to pass almost unnoticed was a skill he'd taken pains to cultivate, content to leave the limelight to Peter. The power he sought was the kind that couldn't survive scrutiny. Like the ancient gods, he found that only the taking of life satisfied his needs.

He walked to the middle of the room and stopped, sliding his hands into the pockets of his off-the-rack pants.

"No. I'm not," Stern said, his voice flat and even.

Peter stiffened at the lack of apology in Stern's voice. Perhaps he thought that knowing where Peter's past was buried gave him a get-out-of-awe free card. He was wrong, but now Wasn't the time to tell him. Only a fool poked a snake with a stick when the bloodlust was on him.

Peter dropped into his leather chair, taking care to arrange the creases of his suit for minimal wrinkling. He nodded toward one of the wing chairs in front of the desk, but Stern strolled between them instead.

This also annoyed, but Peter didn't let that show either as he leaned back, his fingers making a steeple for his chin to rest lightly on. "I hope you have something good to report."

Stern's shoulders moved in what might have been a shrug. "He's dead. I'm not sure if He's gone."

"Did you find-"

"If he had anything, it Wasn't on him. Could've been taking a pass, planning to go back later."

"How the hell did he get into the RABBIT files? He didn't have clearance. If the Feds find out-" Peter shuddered, a frown once again pulling at his refreshed skin until he realized it and stopped himself. RABBIT, a highly specialized supercomputer chip they were developing for the military, was responsible for most of the bumps plaguing him right now. Stern had warned him about getting involved with government contracts, but the money had been too good to pass up.

"How are they going to find out?" Stern shrugged; the movement made his ill-fitting jacket gape and exposed the holster at his waist. "I got his company ID. And if someone does happen to make the connection, I've erased all records of his incursions into the secure files."

Peter Wasn't convinced. His instincts, the only thing he trusted, were twitching like they hadn't since the night he lost Nadine. Just thinking about her started a tic below his right eye. "We have no clue what he found or if he told anyone?"

"Nope." Stern stood quietly, unmoving except for the rhythmic flutter of his light lashes. "I was on him as soon as the computer flagged the intrusion. Took the same flight. Followed him all the way to his bolt-hole. But I couldn't see him every minute."

"Did you question him?"

Stern stirred, a flicker of pleasure passing through his dead eyes. "He Wasn't very resilient."

Peter looked away, disquieted by the sudden urge to make sure that if push came to shove, Stern died first. "Great, so we don't know who his contact was?"

Stern shrugged again. "Only thing I found in the dive was some very fancy computer equipment and a bunch of flyers."

He extracted a sheet from his inside pocket and tossed it to Peter, who opened the sheet, studied it, then frowned.

"He headed for Montana like an arrow. Why would he have flyers for a bar in Estes Park?"

Stern looked bored. "No way to know if he brought them or they were already there."

Peter crumpled the edges of the flyer, then loosened his grip, smoothing the sheet and studying it again. "Do you think it's important? Maybe you should check-"

"I've already sent one of my men. Country-western bars aren't my natural habitat."

"I guess not." Peter looked amused before worry over took him again. "Lucky you were here to see the security flag come up."

"Maybe." Stern didn't believe in luck.

"What a mess!" Peter jumped up and paced to the window.

"That's why we have a backup plan."

"I don't like the timing. We're announcing the engagement and my candidacy on Sunday."

"How is the prospective first lady?"