Their mission is compromised. Their cover is blown. And FBI Special Agent Spence Malone has found his partner—and love of his life—disoriented and suffering from drug-induced amnesia. NSA cybercrimes expert Angelica Thorne has forgotten her name, her mission and, worst of all, Spence and their nights of passion. And now they’re in a race against an unseen enemy bent on nuclear destruction. Spence vows to protect her and help her remember…everything. All Angelica knows for sure is that when Spence holds her in his arms, she feels so right. Why, then, does everything else seem so wrong?

Leaning down, Spence kissed her forehead.

The light touch of his lips set off a chain reaction of shivers that had more to do with her internal engine than with the snow and cold. Her inner machinery had definitely come back to life. She exhaled on a soft moan.

“What else?” he murmured.

Resisting him wasn’t going to be easy. “Nothing much.”

“It’s okay. You can tell me.”

But maybe she’d better not. Though his tone was gentle and cajoling, she knew he was digging, probing, interrogating. If he discovered the gaps in her memory, what would he do? He said he was a federal agent, but that didn’t mean he was innocent.

She turned the tables with a question of her own. “What do you do for the FBI?”

Frozen Memories

Cassie Miles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CASSIE MILES, a USA TODAY bestselling author, lives in Colorado. After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. She’s discovered that almost anything tastes better with wine. When she’s not plotting Harlequin Intrigue books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanical Gardens near her high-rise home.

A salute to the geniuses who work at NORAD and still

manage to run the Santa Tracker every Christmas.

And, as always, to Rick.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Extract

Chapter One

Jagged branches clawed the arms of her sweatshirt and tangled with her bare hands as she fought her way to the edge of a clearing in the mountain forest. Falling snow blanketed the open space. Spears of afternoon light cut through the snow and clouds, but she still couldn’t see all the way across, to the wall of pines on the opposite side. She shivered violently. If she tromped straight through the clearing, she’d leave tracks. They’d find her.

Who were they, those men with guns? What did they want from her? She peeked over her shoulder but didn’t see them following. Her ears prickled, but she didn’t hear them coming after her.

They’d left her on the floor in the back of the van. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t opened her eyes. They must have thought she was unconscious. One of them had nudged her with his steel-toed boot, but she hadn’t given any sign of wakefulness. They’d talked about whether or not they should take her into the cabin with them. And they had decided not. They hadn’t wanted to carry her. If she froze in the van, they didn’t care.

Glad that they were so stupid, she’d waited until they’d gone inside. Then she ran. Without a parka. Without mittens. Without boots. Wearing only sneakers and a hooded sweatshirt over a flimsy pair of hospital scrubs, she’d staggered into the storm. The cold should have awakened her, but she’d felt lethargic. Her legs were heavy; her feet weighed her down like cement boots. She lurched through the trees, uncoordinated, unable to keep her balance.

As she’d gone farther, her physical abilities had improved. But that didn’t mean she was out of the woods—literally out of the woods. Making an unfunny joke, I messed up the punch line. Still, she chuckled. When she stretched her mouth, her lips cracked. I always wanted to die laughing.

My God, what was wrong with her? She ought to be terrified. Instead, she felt oddly giddy and confused.

The gusting wind threw icy flakes into her teeth. Her clothes were cold and wet. Her shoes soaked through. She’d seen photos of people who were frostbitten, with their fingers and toes turning black and falling off. But she’d also heard that dying of hypothermia was supposed to be peaceful, like drifting into a gentle sleep.

Sleep would be good, maybe just for a minute. Her eyelids closed. She imagined a boat pulled by snow geese with a glittering snow god at the helm. All she needed to do was climb aboard. Looking down, she smoothed the white feathers of her gown. Sleep was so very good. Or not! Delusions were a symptom of hypothermia. Her mind was going. She needed to find warmth as soon as possible. Leaving a track across the clearing was a small price.

She charged forward with the storm beating at her head and shoulders. The accumulated snow was almost up to her knees. When had it started? When would it stop? With the sun blocked out by the snow clouds, she could only guess that it was afternoon.

Reaching the forest on the other side was a relief. She staggered up a hill. Her lungs throbbed. Her thigh muscles ached. She shivered madly.

Then she saw lights.

Nothing had ever been more beautiful. As she moved closer, she realized she was approaching a snow-packed road, a large building and a two-story cabin with lights in the windows. Left, right, left, right, she lurched toward the glow, the warmth, the light that would save her. Closer and closer, she tried to call for help but her throat was as frozen as the rest of her.

The larger building beside the house was a church with a snow-covered cross above the entrance. These had to be kind, decent people who wouldn’t turn her away. They had to be.

She climbed the two stairs to the wraparound porch. With the last of her strength, she knocked.

The door was opened by a barrel-chested man with a neat, white beard. He wore a plaid flannel shirt and red suspenders. At the far end of the room, a fire danced on the hearth.

“My dear girl,” the old man said. “Come in and get warm.”

She stumbled across the threshold into a charming, pine-paneled cabin with dozens of photos on every wall and cute knickknacks on every flat surface. The main features—apart from the fireplace—were a long dining room table with enough room to seat fourteen and an upright piano. As the old man closed the door, heat shimmered around her and wakened her senses. Her skin tingled. She’d made it. She was alive, painfully alive.

The sounds of classical music rolled down the staircase, and a woman’s voice called from the second floor. “Clarence, is someone here?”

“It’s a young woman, Trudy. The poor thing is half froze.”

“She’s out in this weather? Good heavens, I’ll come down and help you take care of her.”

“Okeydoke.”

Lacking the strength to remain standing unassisted, she clutched the back of a chair. Her vision blurred. The prickling of her fingers worsened. Her skin was on fire.

“Take it easy.” The old man braced his arm around her. “You’re going to be all right.”

She looked up at him. His cheeks were rosy, and his eyes were a bright blue that matched a stripe in his plaid shirt. She moved her mouth, wanting to thank him, but no words came out. When she licked her lips, she tasted blood.

“I’m Clarence,” he said. “Pastor C. W. Lowell.”

She noticed his short, military haircut. “Air force?”

“You are correct. I was a chaplain for twenty-three years.” He looked into her eyes. “Now you know all about me. Let’s hear about you. What’s your name?”

Her mind was blank. Her name, what the hell was her name? She could have made something up but didn’t want to lie. And so, she spoke the truth. “I don’t...remember.”

“Not surprised,” said a small woman in a long nightgown and bathrobe as she shuffled down the staircase. “I’m Trudy, and you’re probably in shock.”

I’m in shock. That must be it. She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her jaw against the flaring pain. Everything burned—her arms, her thighs, her hands and feet, her nose, even her earlobes. She would have passed out, but gentle hands guided her into a tiled bathroom. Trudy shouted directions to her husband while she seated her on the closed toilet. Together, she and Trudy peeled off her wet clothing and shoes.

“Dry off with the towel,” Trudy instructed while she grabbed fresh clothing from the pastor, who stuck only his hand into the bathroom. “These jammies ought to fit. They belong to my granddaughter, and she’s your size. How tall are you?”

“Five feet nine inches.”

“I used to be tall.” Trudy glanced into the mirror above the sink, gave herself a smile and adjusted her long silver braid. “Lately, I’ve been shrinking.”

“Still beautiful,” she said, and she meant it.

“Later, we’ll get you into a bath. For now, we need to warm you up slowly and get your blood circulating. You’re not frostbitten but close. Hurts, doesn’t it? You’re very brave.”

She appreciated the compliment. Though running away from those thugs didn’t seem particularly courageous, she’d survived what was clearly a bad situation. What if the bad guys came this way? “Danger,” she mumbled, “dangerous men...they’re after me.”

“You’re safe now. Clarence doesn’t look like a tiger, but he’s a very good protector.”

She fastened the last button on the warm, dry pajamas and stumbled to her feet so she wouldn’t fall asleep on the toilet. Though her skin still stung like fire, she felt stronger as she hobbled into the front room. After sinking onto the sofa, she pulled up the wool socks on her poor, frozen feet and tucked a fuzzy yellow blanket around her shoulders.

Pastor Clarence placed a mug of fragrant lemon tea on the coffee table. “Don’t drink too fast,” he warned.

“But you need to rehydrate,” Trudy said.

She nodded and took a sip. “I want...to thank you.”

“You’re doing much better.” Trudy handed her a tube of lip balm. “Are you well enough to recall your name?”

Carefully, she applied the salve to her cracked, chapped lips. Her mind was blank. “Maybe...in a minute.”

Trudy sat in the overstuffed chair nearest to the sofa and tucked her robe snugly around her. “You said there was danger.”

“Yes.”

“Let’s ease into your memories gradually,” Trudy said. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“A van...there was a van...men with guns.”

Trudy shot a nervous glance toward her husband, but her voice stayed calm. “What color was the van?”

She took another sip of tea. The liquid soothed her throat. “I think it was black...or dark blue.”

“I want you to concentrate,” Trudy said. “Tell me about the men. How many of them? Did they say each other’s names?”

“Four of them. One had an accent... Southern, I think.”

The pastor scowled. He went to a window at the front of the house and peered into the storm, on the lookout for danger.

“Where was the van parked?” Trudy asked.

“At a cabin...a log cabin.”

“And what did this cabin look like?”

“I think the door was painted green.”

“One story or two?”

She cleared her throat. The words came more easily if she whispered. “Don’t know... I couldn’t see it very well through the trees and the snow. Those men...they might come after me. I didn’t cover my tracks very well. I’m sorry.”

“You did the right thing, getting out of the storm, and I appreciate the warning.” Clarence opened the door to the front closet and reached up to a high shelf. “If we’ve got wild-eyed criminals running around in my forest, I sure as heck want to be ready for them. What else can you tell me?”

“Their weapons were HK417 assault rifles.”

“That’s mighty specific, little lady. How come you know so much about guns?”

She shrugged.

“You might be in the military.” He took a hunting rifle down from the shelf and set it by the door. Then he removed a long wooden box from the closet and carried it to the table.

A sign flashed in her mind. “Peterson Air Force Base.”

“That’s not too far from here. Is that where you’re stationed?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

Another image replaced the first. She was staring into the maw of a tunnel large enough to drive a couple of semitrucks through. This huge half circle abutted the mountain, Cheyenne Mountain. It was the entrance to the underground NORAD complex, and she wasn’t supposed to talk about it—not even with nice people like Trudy and the pastor.

She’d said too much already, should never have given her trust so freely. What did she really know about Pastor Clarence and his wife? Nothing! The pastor unloaded a SIG Sauer and two Colt revolvers from his wooden box. Plus there was the rifle by the front door. These two definitely weren’t helpless woodland creatures.

“Honestly, Clarence.” Trudy rolled her eyes. “If you’re going to play with your guns, put down some towels so you don’t scratch my table.”

He put the revolvers away in the box and tucked the SIG into his waistband beside his suspenders. “I’m going upstairs. The windows up there make better vantage points.”

“Before you go,” Trudy said, “would you please call 911? I’d like to get the sheriff up here. And an ambulance.”

“Not for me,” she said.

“I’m afraid it’s necessary, dear.”

She didn’t want to go to the hospital. Turning herself in would violate her mission. Her mission? What mission? “I’m already feeling a lot better.”

“Except you can’t remember your name.” Trudy leaned forward to pour. “More tea?”

“Yes, please.” She studied the older woman. Trudy’s movements were disjointed, her right arm seemed stiff, and her hands were twisted in a knot. Under her flannel gown and robe, she was very thin, possibly sickly. “If I can borrow a coat, I’ll be on my way.”

“Don’t be silly.” Trudy’s voice was sharp edged. “In this weather, you won’t make it a mile. I didn’t haul myself out of bed and help you get warm only to have you go running outside to freeze again.”

“You’re right.” She sank back against the sofa. “I’m sorry...for waking you up.”

“I wasn’t sleeping, just lying down. It’s too early for bed.”

“She has rheumatism and a nerve disorder,” Clarence explained as he picked up his cell phone. “There’s only so much we can do to alleviate the pain. The one thing that relaxes her is music.”

“I used to be a music teacher,” Trudy said with a wistful smile. “And I’m still the choir director at our church.”

When she’d first entered the cabin, she’d heard a symphony from upstairs. “You didn’t have to turn off your CDs because of me. I adore classical music.”

“You’re sweet to say so,” Trudy said.

She sat up straighter on the sofa, roused by a vivid memory. “I play the violin.”

“Do you?” Trudy lightly applauded. “I’d love to hear you play.”

If it would keep them from sending her to the hospital, she could play all the Mozart concertos with Beethoven thrown in on the side. She’d do whatever was necessary to evade the danger that encroached on all sides. From the thugs in the van to the vicious storm to her unnamed fear of being hospitalized, everything appeared to be against her. She felt as doomed as a skier racing downhill, trying to escape a churning, roaring avalanche. Her chance of survival was slim.

Chapter Two

Through the ragged curtain of falling snow, FBI Special Agent Spence Malone spotted headlights approaching. “About time,” he muttered.

Spence wasn’t running this operation, but his directions had summoned two vans—one for the local SWAT team and another from the FBI—to this isolated mountain cabin with a dark blue van parked in front. It had been twenty-seven minutes since he called for immediate emergency backup.

His tension was epic. When it came to making sharp, street-smart decisions, he trusted the instincts he’d learned at an early age in foster care. But this assignment was different. Not only was he dealing with a global situation, but his partner was the woman he loved.

Spence feared that he’d made the wrong decision by not going after her when he found the van. He could easily have followed her tracks into the forest. But he’d wanted to make sure these four thugs were apprehended and secured. Backup was required.

He bolted from his rented SUV and charged toward the vans. The SWAT commander and an agent in an FBI jacket joined him on the road. A wall of pine trees separated them from the cabin.

After introductions, Spence filled them in. “My partner is missing, and I think these men grabbed her.”

“Her?” Ramirez, the agent, yanked off his FBI watch cap and combed his fingers through his thick black hair.

“Agent Angelica Thorne is NSA, not FBI. We’re partners for the duration of this assignment.” And the assignment was top secret. They didn’t need details about Angelica. “I followed her tracking signal to the van and checked inside, where I found evidence.”

“Evidence?” Ramirez questioned.

“Her prints and hairs,” Spence said dismissively. “Trust me, she was in that van.”

“But not anymore,” Ramirez said.

“As far as I can tell, she’s in the wind. But she left these four goons behind. I’ve been observing them with a heat sensor. They’re all in the kitchen.”

The SWAT commander gave a quick nod. “Armed and dangerous?”

“Yes,” Spence said. “I’ve got questions for them and would appreciate if you keep them alive.”

“Consider it done,” the commander said. “I’ll deploy two snipers in the trees, just in case. And we’ll storm the house from the front and side.”

“Go for it,” Spence said. “I’m sitting this one out.”

He and Ramirez returned to his SUV, where he picked up his rifle, infrared goggles and a backpack. He needed to hurry. Dusk had fallen. Soon, it would be dark.

“Should I come with you?” Ramirez asked.

“Not necessary.” If Spence couldn’t find Angelica, he might as well throw himself off the nearest cliff. He wouldn’t be able to live with the guilt if he lost her. “I need you here to take those four into custody.”

“No problem. We’ve got a cage at headquarters that’s just the right size.”

Ramirez chewed on his lower lip. Spence guessed the other agent was fighting to suppress his excitement. There probably wasn’t much action at the FBI offices outside Colorado Springs. Spence held up his cell phone. “Call me when they’re in custody.”

Ramirez exchanged numbers with him. “Tell me about the NSA agent. How did she get grabbed?”

“This is the first time Agent Thorne has been in the field.”

“Inexperienced,” Ramirez said with a disgusted shake of his head. “Am I right? The chick is a typical rookie.”

“Don’t say chick.” Spence retrieved his phone. “And there’s nothing typical about her.”

“Sorry, man.” Ramirez raised both hands, placating. “I’ll call when we’ve got these guys.”

Spence took off at a jog, heading into the forest in the direction he had already tracked. It wasn’t her fault that she was missing. It was his. He shouldn’t have left her alone, not even for a minute. If his brain had been working, he would have refused to be her partner in the first place. This assignment wasn’t the type of thing she was accustomed to handling.

Angelica worked in the Cyber Security branch of NSA. She’d been there for three years and had a reputation as an outstanding hacker. Though she usually stayed behind her desk, she was chosen for this assignment because her dad was a retired general in the air force who lived in the area. People around here knew her family, and the gates of the North American Aerospace Defense Command, or NORAD, complex were more likely to open for somebody familiar and friendly. As soon as they’d arrived, she’d proved useful in cutting through military red tape. He wasn’t sure if that was due to her high-ranking contacts or her dynamite body.

He saw her footprints in the snow. Branches had been broken on the pine trees. She’d come this way. He dug into his pocket for his GPS device. The blip from her implanted tracker was loud and clear. She was close, less than a mile away. He dared to hope that she’d be all right as he moved quickly through the trees.

She’d charmed him six months ago, on the first day they’d met at Quantico, where she’d come to do a consultation. If he’d been a movie producer looking for a woman to play the part of a secret agent, Angelica would have been number one on his list. She was five feet nine inches tall with long, slender legs and classic curves. Her black hair fell straight and sleek to her shoulders. And she was stylish in high-heeled boots, tailored clothes and expert makeup that showed off her mysterious green eyes. One thing was for damn sure, Angelica didn’t look at all like a computer geek—which was exactly what she was, an NSA expert called in to advise on an FBI hack.

To say that he and Angelica got along well together would be an understatement. From their first kiss, he’d known that she was special. They’d started dating after that first case was closed, which shouldn’t have been a dating-in-the-workplace problem because he never expected to work with her again.

Behind his back, he heard the sounds of the SWAT team assault on the cabin. His shoulders tensed as he listened for gunfire. First, there had been three loud explosions from flash bangs. Then there were loud shouts. He counted gunshots. One. Two. A spray from an automatic, two more, then there was silence. The whole thing had taken less than five minutes, a good sign. Quick operations were usually successful.

He hoped that his and Angelica’s mission would also be swift and effective. They were investigating an attempted hack at the supposedly impregnable NORAD complex. With Angelica’s technical expertise and his experience in undercover ops, their collaboration should have gone smoothly, except that she’d been abducted within twelve hours of their arrival.

At a clearing in the forest, he paused. Obvious tracks went straight across the middle. The fact that she hadn’t taken time to disguise her route told him that she must be desperate. He charged across the snow and up the hill on the opposite side.

Spencer saw the lights of a cabin beside a church, an obvious safe haven against the storm. The wind had erased most of her tracks, but he still saw indentations as he rushed toward the two-story cabin. The lights were less than ten yards away. He could smell the smoke that rose from the chimney.

The gentle strains of a violin wafted through the air as he pulled off his glove and rapped on the door. There was no answer. He hammered more loudly and shouted, “Open up. FBI.”

The door opened, just a crack, and a voice commanded, “Step back.”

When Spence saw the barrel of a rifle, he decided to cooperate. An elderly, bearded man came out onto the wide, covered porch and pulled the door closed. There was a Santa Claus thing going on with the white beard and the red suspenders, but this old guy wasn’t jolly and smiling. He aimed his Remington at Spence’s chest. Bad Santa.

“I’ll need some ID,” the man growled.

Spence reached inside his parka pocket and took out his badge. “I’m looking for someone.”

“What for?”

“She might be in danger.”

“I’m going to let you inside. But if you make one false move, you’ll be sorry.”

As soon as the door opened, Spence saw her. With perfect posture, she perched on a wooden chair, wearing flannel jammies and playing a violin.

He called out, “Angelica.”

Abruptly, she lowered the bow and stared at him.

An elderly lady, who seemed to be the mate of the man who opened the door, chuckled. “Angelica is a perfect name for you, dear. You play like an angel.”

“A snow angel,” her husband said.

Unable to keep his distance, Spence strode across the room toward her. He needed to gather her in his arms, to stroke her hair and whisper reassurances that he would never leave her unprotected again.

“Stay back.” She stood and faced him. “How do you know my name?”

* * *

ANGELICA, MY NAME is Angelica. She thrust and parried with her violin bow, fighting to keep the guy in the huge parka away from her. Angelica! The word echoed inside her skull, and she liked the sound. It felt right. She remembered a rowboat with that name written in fanciful letters across the stern. And so, Angelica, what are you going to do now?

“He claims to be with the FBI,” Clarence said.

“We’ll see about that.” Her first priority was to deal with Parka Guy. “Give your rifle and backpack to Pastor Clarence.”

He spread his hands. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

She touched the tip of her bow to the center of his chest. The slender, fiberglass stick looked ridiculously delicate and flimsy against his girth and strength. His shoulders were as wide as the Frankenstein monster. He could snap that bow in half and use the horsehair strings as a garrote if he felt like it. For that matter, he could snap her in half, too. If she had any sense at all, she’d be shaking in her socks.

More forcefully, she said, “The rifle. Do it.”

In a few swift moves, he unfastened the rifle. He also removed the backpack, which he held toward her. When she didn’t take it, he growled and dropped the pack on the floor next to his gloves.

He unzipped the front of his parka and flipped back the fur-lined hood. His complexion was ruddy from being out in the snow, and he had a tiny scar on his chin that she somehow knew he’d gotten in a barroom brawl. Everything else about him was perfection. Square jaw, wide mouth, high cheekbones and the most intense, ice-blue eyes she’d ever seen. His gaze was mesmerizing and predatory like a wolf.

“Now,” he said as he thumped his very solid chest. “You recognize me now, right?”

Though there was something familiar about his towering height, the pattern of stubble on his chin and the blond streaks in his hair, she couldn’t say for sure that she knew him. And she really wanted to. It’d be a shame to beat this handsome man to death with her violin bow.

“On your knees,” she snapped. “Hands behind your head.”

“Oh, my,” Trudy said with a gasp. “Sounds like you’ve done this before.”

Had she? Where were these commands coming from? How did she know what to do when threatened? Classes... She remembered the exercises; she’d taken training. Every agent in her division was required to learn the basics of law enforcement and firearms. “Quantico,” she whispered.

“That’s right,” he said. “You trained at the FBI facilities.”

The FBI? She was an agent? It hardly seemed possible that a real federal agent would attempt to subdue an attacker with a violin bow. “I don’t think I’m in the FBI.”

“You’re in the NSA, in the Cyber Security division.”

Sure, why not? She turned away from Gorgeous Parka Guy, flipped the violin onto her shoulder and played the opening notes of “Blackbird” to show there were no hard feelings. Perhaps a silly, delusional thing to do, but it seemed like a positive gesture.

Angelica asked Pastor Clarence, “Would you please reach inside his jacket and disarm him?”

“Wait,” Parka Guy said. “I can save us a lot of time if I take off my own weapons.”

“Fine.” Angelica perched on the edge of her hard-back chair and continued to play the classic Beatles song. She segued to “Yesterday.”

Concern about Gorgeous lingered in the back of her mind, but she wasn’t scared of him. The opposite, in fact. She felt safe, ridiculously safe considering that she’d just escaped from four thugs and she was some kind of agent who had special training. She really ought to worry, especially since he was carrying two Glocks, an eight-inch serrated hunting knife and a small-caliber pistol in an ankle holster strapped above his heavy-duty boots.

Stripped of his weapons and his parka, he approached her, stood and waited for her to finish her violin solo. Gently, he took the instrument and the bow from her hands and laid them on the long, wooden dining table. He came back to her, leaned down and gazed directly into her eyes. “Say my name.”

Her breath caught in her throat. The whirlwind of confusion buffeting inside her head went still, and she was suspended, floating in midair. She felt neither cold nor hot, neither right nor wrong, neither safe nor terrified. She was simply there.

“Spencer,” she said. “Spence Malone.”

And then she was in his arms. The cold from outdoors still clung to his Irish fisherman’s sweater, but the internal heat from his body raised the temperature. She snuggled against him, inhaling the natural scent of lamb’s wool and warm man.

He whispered in her ear, “You couldn’t forget me.”

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