"You wouldn't lie to me, would you, Jack McClain?"

"On my honor, the water's great. Don't you trust me?"

"No!" Clara retorted, and he grinned. Their private joke, she thought, and had to grin in return.

"All right, you bully, I'll try it, but if it's cold I'm coming out."

She shed her robe, letting him take her hand as she waded gingery into the sea. The first incoming wave poured gallons of water so cold it must have come straight down from the Arctic Circle around her bare legs.

"Brrrr! It's freezing! Now I remember why I don't trust you, Jack McClain!"

"It's not cold once you get used to it," he protested as she started to scamper back to the beach. Catching her by the wrist, he whirled her back into his arms. Laughing, struggling, she felt his arms slide behind her knees and around her shoulders and shrieked.

"Jack! What are you doing? Put me down! Don't you dare drop me in this freezing water! Do you hear me? Jack!"

He was wading out to sea with her in his arms. She clung to his neck, certain that he meant to drop her at any minute, half laughing as she scolded. He held her carefully out of the water as it churned around his hips.

"What will you give me if I take you back without dropping you?" he asked with a wicked grin.

"That's blackmail!" she gasped.

"Whatever works," he said, shrugging, and she had to laugh.

"A dollar," she suggested, grinning.

He shook his head. "A kiss."

That certainly wasn't any hardship. With the moon glinting off his black hair, black stubble sandpapering his cheeks and chin, and those green eyes gleaming wickedly in the ghostly light, he looked as devilishly handsome as the pirates she wrote about. Twining her arms tightly about his neck, she lifted her lips to his. He let her kiss him for a minute, his lips still under hers while she nibbled with her teeth and teased with her tongue. Then, without warning, the kiss changed. He drew in his breath, slanting his mouth across hers, kissing her with bruising intensity so that her head fell back against his shoulder and the world whirled away around her. There was nothing left but him, his mouth, his arms holding her safe.

Then he dropped her.

Clara screamed, the sound drowned in a gurgle of icy water as it closed over her head. Furious, freezing, she found her footing and shot spluttering to the surface. Jack was laughing. She went for him with a roundhouse punch that would have taken his head off if it had connected. Unfortunately, he ducked.

"You creep! You low life! You...!" she raged, plunging after him through the waist-high water, throwing punches right and left. He retreated, laughing, holding his arms up in front of his body to ward her off. She could barely see where she was going. Her soaking wet hair blinded her. Sweeping it back with one hand, she aimed one more punch at the no-good dog before turning her back and tromping off toward land. The ebb and flow of the waves made walking difficult, dragging her back one step for every two she took, but she made it to the shallows and kept going, feet splashing through the icy froth. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering with cold, gritting her teeth with rage. Not even the white-hot blast of her anger could warm her. Jack, who apparently didn't care if he got back to the villa with a whole skin, trailed along behind her, still laughing.

"Don't be mad, Clara."

"Don't be mad? Don't be mad? I'm not mad, I'm furious!"

"I'm sorry, Clara. Really. I just couldn't resist."

"Go to h.e.l.l!"

"d.a.m.n it, Clara, it was just a joke! I said I was sorry!"

"Sorry? Sorry? I'll make you sorry, you..." With that she swung around, both hands clenched into fists, to find him right behind her, grinning from ear to ear. Realizing that his wide grin was probably largely on account of the ludicrous picture she must make, clad in the s.e.xy silk teddy that was nearly transparent when wet, her hair in dripping rattails, teeth chattering, flesh ridged with gooseb.u.mps, she saw red. This time the roundhouse punch connected solidly with his cheek.

"Yow!"

"Serves you right!" She turned around, stalking toward the beach. No sooner did she set foot on solid sand than she heard him coming after her. Glancing over her shoulder, she was surprised at the fierce gleam in those green eyes. Instinctively she started to run. Before she had taken more than three steps he downed her with a flying tackle that sent her tumbling to the sand.

"Let go of me! Don't you dare manhandle me! Did you hear me? Let me go, you bully!" Her struggles were useless. Despite her attempts to prevent him, he pulled her backward until she was eye level with green eyes that promised vengeance. She turned onto her back, trying to kick him to free herself. He prevented her by the simple expedient of throwing one hard wet thigh over her thrashing legs. Then she tried to punch him again. He grabbed her hands and had her trapped. Looming over her, he supported himself on one elbow while the other hand held both her wrists prisoner against her waist. Helpless, panting, she glared at him. Suddenly he grinned.

"If I'd known you had a right like Mohammed Ali's I would have ducked. From the feel of it, I'm going to have a black eye."

Clara felt some of her anger fade as she stared up at him anxiously. As far as she could see there wasn't a mark on him. She didn't even think her fist had gotten anywhere near his eye.

"Now you're going to have to kiss it better," continued her tormentor, leaning closer. "Right there." He turned his head until her lips were approximately two inches from his right eye. Clara looked up at him a minute, contemplating the possibilities. Then she sweetly lifted her head the required two inches and nipped his cheek with sharp little teeth.

"Ouch!" He jerked back, letting go of her hands to touch his abused cheek. His green eyes gleamed down at her. "That's going to cost you, baby. Now you're going to have to kiss me properly."

"Would you please let me up? I'm getting sand down my back!" She wriggled, pushing at his shoulders, trying to free herself. He shook his head, recapturing her hands and pinning them to the sand over her head.

"Not until you kiss me."

"Would you stop being so childish?" He merely looked at her, a grin lurking at the corners of his mouth and his green eyes gleaming. "Oh, all right!" She reached up and pecked his lips with hers. He shook his head, the gleam in his eyes brightening.

"You call that a kiss? This is a kiss." With that he lowered his head and took her mouth with his. And he was right: that was a kiss. Clara wrapped her arms around his neck and closed her eyes, kissing him as if she'd die if she didn't. The surf pounded in the distance and the stars twinkled overhead as he slipped her out of the teddy and shed his own shorts. They were naked in the sand, the brisk air around them turned to steam heat by the blaze of their pa.s.sion. He made love to her with a growling intensity that reduced Clara to quivering jelly. And when she had melted in his arms he made love to her again.

Afterwards, he lay sprawled on top of her, his big body warming her as well as any blanket. It took Clara quite some time to return to an awareness of exactly where they were. Never in her wildest imaginings had she thought she would some day find herself lying naked on a public beach with her love while dawn broke around them.

"Look!" He lifted his head to stare at the sky. Then he rolled off her onto his back, shielding his eyes and pointing to the east. His arm around Clara pulled her close to his side. She cuddled against him, warmed by his heat, glad to be curled up in the depression they had found in the sand. Her white robe was nearby. Stretching, she managed to catch hold of it and pull it over them.

"See? Here she comes!"

Clara looked in the direction he pointed and found herself in awe. On the east horizon, the midnight blue velvet of the sky was coming alive with glorious pinwheels of deep pink, crimson, yellow, and orange. Purple ribbons curled through the colorful display while fleecy lavender clouds floated across the surface.

"It's beautiful," she said with awe.

"I knew you'd like it." He sounded smug. Clara looked over at him, lying with one arm bent beneath his head while he marveled at one of nature's wonders. His black hair was already dry; beneath it, his crooked nose and jutting chin were bathed in an orange glow. Clara watched him instead of the sunrise, mentally tracing each blatantly masculine feature, each stubby eyelash, each stubborn whisker. In less than two weeks this man had become her whole world. The thought scared and warmed her at the same time. Looking at him, she felt a tremendous swelling of emotion. Then he turned his head and smiled at her with those incredible emerald green eyes.

"I think I love you, Jack McClain." The words came out of nowhere. Clara blinked at him, as taken by surprise as he.

There was a brief silence as his green eyes bored into hers. His hand came up to trace the outline of her lips. They quivered beneath that b.u.t.terfly touch.

"Then marry me," he said. Clara caught her breath, her eyes widening. Her crazy, s.e.xy spy wanted to marry her.

"Oh, no!" she breathed in a panic, terrified at the sudden urge she had to throw her arms around his neck and laugh and cry and kiss him and promise him anything. "I can't marry you!"

His face went as cold and hard as the rocks behind them. He sat up abruptly, then stood up as Clara gaped at him. She hadn't meant to say the words aloud. What she'd meant to say was that she needed time to think. But he'd caught her by surprise. Never had she given serious thought to becoming his wife. James Bond didn't have a wife.

"Jack, I didn't mean it like it sounded," she said, desperate at the look on his face as he pulled on his soaking shorts and sweatshirt.

"I don't think there's much room for misinterpretation," he said savagely, glaring at her. Clara scrambled to her feet, pulling on the robe and securing it with nervous hands.

Jack was already stalking back in the direction of the villas. Clara ran to catch up with him, grabbing his arm. He shook her off furiously, continuing his angry march.

She caught up with him and grabbed his arm again.

"Jack, I really do love you," she babbled, desperate to make him listen to the jumble of emotions rioting inside her.

"Yeah, you love me so much that the very idea of marrying me sends you into a spasm," he growled, shaking her off again.

"I do love you," she insisted desperately. He whirled suddenly and caught her by her arms in a grip that hurt. Clara hung suspended from steely fingers, mesmerized by the savagery in those green eyes.

"Baby, what you feel for me isn't called love. It's called l.u.s.t. You got an itch that you need me to scratch, and that's the end of it," he bit out. Then he let her go and stalked away.

Clara stood where she was, staring after him, angry, hurt tears slowly filling her eyes. Behind her, some distance away, the crumpled teddy lay forgotten in the sand.

x.x.x.

Friday, October 16, 4:55 P.M.

The secretary of state's limousine was due to arrive in five minutes. The Secret Service was already present in force, having gone over the villa on the golf course where he would be staying and the surrounding area with a fine-tooth comb, and secured it. The Chinese premier was due at approximately the same time, so that neither side would seem to be taking precedence over the other. Of course, the man who stepped out of the secretary of state's car when it arrived would be a decoy, but only a select group knew that. The real secretary of state had arrived earlier, with the bare minimum of escort, in great secrecy.

Clara waited with Captain Spencer and Jack inside the gla.s.s-walled meeting room that overlooked the circular drive where the dignitaries would alight. General Ramsey and Admiral Segram were at present closeted with the secretary of state. Security was tightly in place, things were going just as they should, but Clara could not help but be nervous. Would the ruse work? Would an attempted a.s.sa.s.sination really take place, or was the whole thing an elaborate nightmare? If shots were fired, would the decoy survive? Would the gunman be captured and, if so, could he lead them to Bigfoot?

Davey Spencer and Jack were as silent as she. All three of them stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the drive as they watched for the arrival of the cars. Clara had not seen Jack since he had stalked away from her on the beach that morning. Now, after a single wintry glance from his green eyes, he did not so much as look in her direction. Clara was quietly miserable. She had to talk to Jack in private. But now was not the time.

"Here they come." Davey Spencer's eyes were alight with excitement as he announced the appearance of a long black limousine around the curve in the driveway. Two white sedans followed the limousine. Clara pressed her nose to the window as she watched the procession of cars. They were pulling up to the curb where the secretary of state would step out.

The time was at hand. The limousine stopped. The two cars behind it stopped. A man in a uniform sprang from nowhere to open the rear door of the limousine. A double line of Secret Service agents formed from the limo door to the hotel door and looked warily about. A man in a trench coat with a hat pulled down well over his eyes stepped out, the supposed secretary of state. He paused for a moment, looked around, then was joined by another man who had ridden with him. The two of them walked slowly inside the building together, surrounded by the small army of agents.

"Nothing happened!" Clara turned to look at Jack. He was frowning, his eyebrows knit together in concentration. Davey Spencer turned away from the window as well. He too looked perplexed.

"They must have found out that we were on to them."

"But how?" Clara chanced to look out the window again. "Look, the Chinese premier is arriving. Oh, well, at least they can have the summit in peace."

"Mmmm." Jack, too, turned to look out the window. The second limousine pulled up in the same spot as the first. Again a uniformed man opened the door. The double line of agents formed. A slight figure in a Western business suit stepped out. A heavyset man in traditional Maoist dress stepped out of the following car and walked toward the first man.

"Deng En-lai," Jack identified the first man as the premier. Losing interest, Clara started to turn away from the window.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

Gunfire! She would know that sound anywhere! She whirled back around to find pandemonium on the ground below. Deng En-lai was sprawled on the pavement, agents bent frantically over him. A few feet away, more agents overpowered one of their own, who still brandished a pistol.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

More gunshots. The knot of agents who had been wrestling with the gunman fell back. He fell to the pavement, his feet beating an involuntary tattoo on the concrete as he lay, apparently mortally wounded. The heavyset man in the Maoist suit was running from the site of the shooting, heading toward the trees at the side of the grounds.

"No! Don't kill him!" Jack yelled through the gla.s.s, though it was doubtful if anyone outside the room heard him. But the agents were chasing the man, dodging his fire, before one brave soul downed him with a football tackle.

There was a moment of appalled silence as the three of them stared at the bloodbath below.

"My G.o.d," Davey said slowly. "They weren't after the secretary of state at all. They meant to a.s.sa.s.sinate Deng En-lai all along. And they've done it!"

x.x.xI.

Friday, October 16, 6:00 P.M.

"We now have an international crisis on our hands." The speaker was the secretary of state, Franklin Conran. "When the word gets out about the a.s.sa.s.sination of Premier Deng- and the information must be released within twelve or so hours or we face a worse crisis- our relations with China will deteriorate to an all-time low. Premier Deng was in this country secretly, on a highly sensitive peace mission. Most members of his own government were not aware of his intentions. Now he has been murdered on American soil, by an American Secret Service agent. The repercussions will be enormous."

"Is the president aware of the situation?" Admiral Segram leaned forward in his chair, his fingers drumming on the polished wood top of the round table around which they all sat.

"I just finished speaking with him over the telephone."

"And so Bigfoot wins." Jack spoke under his breath. They were in the newly dubbed "situation room" in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the golf villas' main lodge. General Ramsey and Captain Spencer were also present. The secretary of state overheard Jack's comment and nodded.

"Bigfoot wins. Unless we can identify him and expose the a.s.sa.s.sination to the world as a KGB plot. Is there any chance of that before the information is released?"

"The a.s.sa.s.sin was a sleeper activated by Bigfoot, a sleeper with such a good cover that he survived even the stringent background checks required by the Secret Service. The second gunman is one of Premier's Deng's aides. He is claiming that he shot the a.s.sa.s.sin in an excess of emotion upon witnessing the murder of the premier. Of course he is a KGB a.s.set too. His involvement indicates that Premier Deng was the target of the plot all along. However, both Rostov and Yuropov sincerely believed that you, Mr. Secretary, were the target of the plot. Whoever is masterminding this in the Kremlin obviously believes in playing his cards close to his chest. Bigfoot must have waited until the last possible minute to activate the sleeper, or word of the change of target would have trickled back to somebody. Sources have been keeping their ears open. The sleeper was probably not informed of his real target until shortly before the hit." Jack summed up the situation in a thoughtful tone, thinking as he spoke. He threw a narrow-eyed look at Ramsey. "In other words, what we have here is an elaborate game of bluff and double-bluff."

"Has Premier Deng's aide said anything?"

Davey Spencer shook his head. "Not yet. He's being interrogated now. We'll get whatever he knows out of him, don't worry."

General Ramsey looked at Jack. "Any luck with the false information?"

Jack shook his head. "So far none of it has turned up. That could change at any time."

A knock sounded at the door. Davey Spencer got up to answer it. When he came back, he whispered something to General Ramsey, who became visibly excited.

"Mr. Secretary, I've just been informed that the prisoner has broken: he has confessed his involvement with the KGB and states that he has been in contact with Bigfoot since arriving in this country with Premier Deng. His instructions were to call a certain number upon arrival in Charleston. A man answered who knew the code. This man was, we believe, Bigfoot. The prisoner feels he can identify the voice of the man he spoke to."

Franklin Conran's hands tightened on the arms of his chair. "Excellent. Have you checked out the number?"

"A pay phone in Washington."

"Of course the son of a b.i.t.c.h would be careful." Conran sighed. "Well, all we can do is let Premier Deng's aide listen to our suspects' voices and hope he can make a positive ID. How many suspects do we have at this point?"

Jack answered. "Three, Mr. Secretary. The rest we were able to eliminate through various means."

"Who are they?"

"Oliver Simonis, deputy director of the CIA; Michael Ball, retired director of the CIA, and Senator Adam Chandler, chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee."

"Whewww!" Admiral Segram whistled through his teeth. "Those are some pretty big fish. Are you sure?"

"That one of them is Bigfoot? Reasonably. Which one? It could be any of the three."

"We need to get those men down here. First so our pigeon can listen to their voices. If he can identify the man he spoke to, we'll be halfway home. Bigfoot can be taken into custody without the media getting hold of it until we've taken steps to minimize the damage. All h.e.l.l is going to break lose when the public finds out that a Soviet spy has managed to worm his way into a position of such responsibility in our government. Won't look good for the administration." Admiral Segram was drumming his fingers on the tabletop. "We'll have to find a solution. After we've caught Bigfoot, of course. But our first step is to contain the three of them until this thing can be sorted out. Thank G.o.d, with the help of Wild Bill and his boys we can do that here. If we can get them here."

The secretary of state's taut face relaxed into a grim smile. "I'll ask the president to place a personal call to each of them telling them that we have an international crisis and they have been appointed to the Crisis Containment Committee. The emergency meeting will be held here within the next six hours."

General Ramsey snorted. "Do you think Bigfoot will buy that?"

Franklin Conran shook his head. "He already knows we're on his trail. If he runs, then he reveals himself to us. He can't be sure that he is not being summoned for precisely the reason the president gives. Although there has been no announcement, and the other two members of the Crisis Containment Committee will not be aware of the a.s.sa.s.sination of Premier Deng, Bigfoot will. Therefore he knows the crisis is genuine. My bet is that he'll come and try to bluff his way through. To have succeeded as well as he has already, he must be a master actor." He looked around the table. "Is there any further discussion?"