Prologue

Rhys Wielde paced erratically in his office, strong hands tightly locked behind his broad back. His explosive rage escalating as the full impact of the wrenching betrayals just revealed to him began to resolve in his mind. Genoreach Technology, Inc. was his company, the company he had founded shortly after graduating from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. How dare they? How dare they subvert his company? The sting of the bitter betrayal by those who must be of his trusted associates was nearly incapacitating.

Turning at the end of his circuit, Rhys suddenly looked up and caught sight of a wild-eyed man staring without recognition back at him. The sight of his own reflection in the window startled him. As usual, his thick raven black hair was tousled from the repeated raking of his hands as he habitually did when upset, a sure sign of his barely repressed anger. His well-defined features, set in a deeply tanned face, matched the savagery reflected in his errant hair. His expressive blue eyes glittered with determination, his nostrils imperceptibly flared from the effort of restrained physical violence, and his lips were pursed at the mental images of betrayal that flickered through his mind at lightning speeds. In exasperation he stepped forward and extended his large hands from behind his back and, arms outstretched, he wearily pressed his palms flat against the massive windowpane above his bowed head. Momentarily he assumed a posture of raging defeat as he continued to gaze down through the wall length window at the bustling business district of Memphis, Tennessee.

As he continued to scrutinize the city 's massing crowds and compression of cars his eyes narrowed in fixation on the dark-suited men exiting his building and inconspicuously heading toward the parking lot within the press of the crowding humanity. They were representatives from the US Drug Enforcement Administration and the Department of Justice. He tightly clenched his hands into impenetrable fists as they exerted dangerous pressure against the glass. With closed eyes, he stood immobile while remembering their chilling detachment while relating that he had been fully investigated by the federal government. Further, he was deemed "low risk" enough to be informed of Genoreach's involvement in industrial espionage and drug trafficking. Momentarily stunned into incredulous silence, Rhys could do little but gape helplessly as the agents continued to explain the purpose of their visit in cold formalities.

According to their DEA investigation, intense research done by Genoreach had escalated the drug war by creating a genetic receptor for all known illegal drugs. The abominable creation was designed to annihilate the biological receptors in the brain responsible for addiction and necessary for withdrawal and rehabilitation. The destroyed receptors are then replaced by artificial receptors incapable of purging drugs and ultimately proving fatal with any attempts to remove the drug or gene receptor from the body, thereby assuring drug traffickers a captive market from the addict, his family, and eventually the government.

The biological development of this artificial gene, appropriately code named Omega for its ruthless capability to irreversibly end one's autonomy, had been positively traced to his company. Further, the DEA's Computer Forensic division had determined that subsequent black market and international cartel auctions and advertisements had been transacted through his company's extensive information systems.

The agents, following through with their devastating allegations, proceeded to demonstrate the methodology of how this potential carnage was accomplished. As proof, they produced confiscated demonstration disks, which had been intercepted en route to Cuba and Peru during their Foreign Cooperative Investigation. Given the evidence, Rhys had no doubt the research originated in his company. He disbelievingly loaded the disks into his office computer, which was directly connected to the company main frame, and attempted to trace the data origin. In the short time he had with the agents and their proffered files, he could find no evidence to lead him to the formula's creator. Rhys exhausted all his systems prowess and program machinations until bitterly realizing how efficient an instructor he had been to his research team.

Finally, the impassive agents worked their way around to the main purpose of their visit subsequent to emphasizing the irrelevance of his permission or approval in continuing their investigation. They wanted his involvement and expertise in revealing and prosecuting those disreputable members of his research and development team responsible for this atrocity. Knowing he desperately needed time to absorb these devastating revelations, the agents informed him they would soon contact him for a decision. After efficiently gathering their evidence and purging his hard drive of residual files, they wordlessly departed as competently, expressionless, and slightly menacing as they had arrived.

Rhys resumed his feral pacing while recalling parts of the inconceivable discussion that had transpired.

"Total annihilation of all recuperative brain functions.cartel auctions and advertisements.espionage and trafficking.Genoreach used to create a weapon of irrevocable destruction."

His eyes became the fiery blue of angry flames as the litany in his mind reached a deafening crescendo.

Stumbling back from the window he landed heavily in his massive leather desk chair as the clenching muscular cords of his arm finally gave vent to his frustrated fury with a powerful sweep across the length of the oak desk. Vital files, the customized monitor, his full coffee cup, and all the surface contents aimlessly flew across the room on a trajectory finally broken by the smooth white surface of his inner office wall.

Surveying the jumbled carnage and visibly shocked by the audible reflection of his raging emotions, Rhys heavily collapsed back in his chair sublimating the savagery of his rage with the certain knowledge that he would assuredly assist in bringing these traitors, these criminals, these murderers to justice; and so very much more!

Chapter 1.

Westcliffe, Colorado

"Finally," breathed Skye in frustration while studying the confident movements of her assignment, through the lens of her high-powered binoculars, as he emerged from his rustic cabin. Her observation point was an adjacent cabin a half-mile up a sloping hill obscured by the density of aromatic pine trees.

"So this is Rhys Wielde, child prodigy, CEO, philanthropist, dupe, and now vigilante," she cynically whispered her summation while adjusting the focus range for a closer inspection.

He was certainly handsome by the standards of most women, tall, broad shoulders, and a strong muscled chest. The biceps of his arms stood out invitingly under the sleeve of his navy blue polo shirt, as he carried a cumbersome tool kit with easy familiarity. His ebony hair was too long to be conservative. It brushed the lower part of his neck, not quite reaching shoulder length. His smooth skin was sun darkened and she knew from his dossier his eyes were blue.

He had always shunned the public interest and media pursuits, which Skye thought unfortunate as his compelling attraction could rival, if not exceed, any of the current male celebrities touted for their handsome features and appealing physique. He was wearing stonewashed jeans that molded the hard muscular contours of his thighs as his brow wrinkled in scrutinizing the condition of the cabin before settling next to the septic tank. He subconsciously ran his hands through his hair, a habitual gesture that Skye thought endearingly boyish, before confidently opening the toolbox in preparation for making repairs. Lost in concentration, she savored the experience of phonetically whispering his name again, "Reese" as she mentally recalled his innumerable accolades and humanitarian exploits.

Genoreach Technology, Inc. was the company Rhys Wielde had built shortly after graduating from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Wielde had been identified and nurtured as an information systems prodigy by defense industries and collegiate institutes from his middle school years. His uncanny understanding and subsequent manipulation of the, then standard, computer complexities fortunately had been channeled positively after his single, astoundingly successful, foray into computer hacking at the age of 13.

The precocious teen had effectively entered several highly sensitive and top-secret military defense programs of government contractors. Neither stealing nor manipulating data, he had merely left a polite email message after each visit; "Have a great day!" After that, he constructed a complex maze of programs, passwords and subroutines calculated to lead the irate recipients of the message to "discover" him in precisely two months time.

Skye had laughed out loud when she had read that part of his dossier She could well understand this mischievous but honest juvenile rebellion and bravado.

Far from prosecuting him to the 'full extent of the law,' the Defense Department sought to cultivated his abilities and his parents were only too willing to accept the offers of full college scholarships in exchange for his freelance consultation and software development in working with industry security teams in shoring up information systems of government contractors.

In the course of working in these industries, he discovered the scientific and technological advances in mating biology to computers. Rhys reveled in the endless possibilities of enhancing the human condition. Overwhelmingly allured, he had committed his life to creating and marketing opportunities to improve the quality of life for others.

He excelled in earning undergraduate and graduate degrees in Bioinformatics and opted to continue on at MIT for a year longer as their youngest research professor. Finally, frustrated with the proclivity of technology and medical industries to proliferate weapons of war at the expense of less lucrative humanitarian advances, he started his own company. A company with a dual mission; one dedicated to research and development but also set up as a philanthropic foundation. Though the youngest staff member, he held the senior information systems position working closely with his team of renowned biologists and computer systems experts in whom he was assured shared the humanitarian visions of his company. His unwavering faith placed in his colleagues made his present situation all the more devastating. He had recently discovered that his trust had been misplaced-someone on his research and development team had betrayed him and the principles of his life's work!

"Great!" Skye thought sarcastically, "There's nothing like the support and loyalty of one's friends and colleagues. What a beautiful world we live in."

His work in categorizing and isolating active brain neurons in coma, cataleptic, and autistic patients had made him a contender for the Nobel Prize several times in past years. It was widely believed his goal of translating this brain activity into interactive language through information systems and, thereby, enabling patients to communicate would finally earn him that coveted accolade. The compassion and innovations of his ongoing economic development initiatives in the Mississippi Delta and the Appalachian Mountains had consistently decreased the poverty and illiteracy statistics in those communities for going on five consecutive years.

In contrast to the high visibility of his professional life, information on his private life was sparse. He deftly evaded personal publicity, always preferring to place his company and staff in the forefront of media feeding. Hence, little was known of this mythic CEO and after 10 years at Genoreach's helm he had yet to become recognizable to the general public.

Skye tossed back the loose curls of her shoulder length black hair, annoyed with its length after wearing it secured during her undercover work in Ecuador for the last two months. Her hands absently caressed the binoculars, coaxing them to reveal secrets about the man restlessly surveying the outside condition of the rugged cabin after emerging from his initial hibernation subsequent to arriving in the early morning darkness.

She knew that prior to his establishing a temporary residence in the mountain cabin, personnel from the DEA headquarters had thoroughly briefed him on his role in the international operation to retrieve Omega. He had arrived unnoticed on an early morning flight aboard a DEA jet providing for efficiency, speed, and necessary expedience not afforded by commercial flights. His arrival on the sole runway of the dilapidated local airfield had been purposely planned at night, afterwhich Rhys was provided a blue Ford pickup truck in which to drive alone to the cabin. The late arrival time and vehicle used so as not to arouse local suspicion regarding his purpose in this sparsely populated mountain community.

The cabin had been selected for its isolation in these Colorado Mountains, its rustic exterior concealing comfortably sparse furnishings, animal skin rugs, and Native American decor in keeping with the region's cultural heritage. He had arrived with a simple carry bag and briefcase and quietly slipped into the cabin, not to emerge until his late afternoon decision to improve the outer structure of his transient home.

Standing at the curtained window, wearing a faded turquoise fitted T-shirt, black jeans and worn tennis shoes-clothing selected to minimize attention, Skye suddenly realized that her careful study of this man was rapidly growing beyond what she had afforded her previous assignees. "Dad would just love this," her lips lifted in a smirk as she thought of her father's approval of his oldest daughter "ogling," no matter the professional capacity, a man.

Her father had been a US Air Force aviator-hence her name-stationed in Madrid, Spain, when her mother had captured his heart. Her elegantly petite mother was the only daughter of a noble Spanish family, which endeavored to continue that reign through her arranged marriage into one of the most prominent families in Madrid. The subsequent controversy of her marriage, never officially recognized in Spain, severed her from the rich family heritage of her native country. The loss of which, to Skye's recollection, she had never shown any regret.

Her tall dark father had unwaveringly bore the equivalent burden of cultural and societal expectations with silent dignity. As part of the heralded rare breed of African-American aviators during the raging warfare of American civil rights, his marriage embittered the majority of factions in his fractured country and served only to fortify his union with his Spanish bride.

Despite their differences of language, culture, and race they had forged a marriage stronger than Skye had ever witnessed. Though she had long since resolved that such intimacy was unavailable to her, she had always been inspired by her parent' s relationship. Four children and 40 years later her parents were still deeply in love and carrying on a "torrid love affair" as her mother took great pleasure in describing the affection she shared with her husband.

It was from her mother that Skye had mostly inherited her features. She'd worked hard in maintaining her voluptuous figure, which a college boy friend, whom had majored in Latin American Studies, had once compared to castanet wielding Spanish senoritas seductively beckoning the lusty blood of conquistador admirers. Back then, she had been irritated at what she thought was false flattery. Now she took pride in maintaining one of her major assets as an agent. Her physical strength, unrelenting endurance, and attractive body had often been the deciding factor in numerous escapes from potentially lethal situations.

Her piercing brown eyes framing a sharp, aristocratic nose were a definite inheritance from her Spanish mother. Her sensuously generous lips were the only hereditary concession from her African-American father.

Skye felt that it was her mother to whom she could attribute her unconventional career choice. Theatrical and daring, Rosita Mathews had ensured that her children were imbued with her native Spanish tongue and that they fearlessly embraced life with independence and determination. In admiration, Skye indulged in both her mother's love of the theatre and her father's aviation prowess.

After earning degrees in Latin American Studies, International Relations, and Commercial Aviation, she had sought a career in which to use her eclectic education and theatrical interest.

It was during her college years that a recruiter from the DEA first interested her in law enforcement. Shortly before earning her second graduate degree, she was given an interview by Gabe Kinski, chief of DEA Special Operations. In addition to being her boss and mentor, in many respects he was her closest friend.

He had discussed the varied missions of the administration and how her diverse education, skills, and ethnicity would serve as an asset. She had been mesmerized with the endless adventures of bringing criminals to justice. Since being hired on with the administration, her classic Latin looks coupled with her command of the Spanish language, perfect mimicry of dialects, theatrical realism, and her pilot skills had resulted in her being highly regarded as a field agent by both the DEA leadership and her colleagues, especially within the offices of Central and South America in which she was assigned.

Hence, it was a rare occurrence that Skye should find herself enmeshed in a domestic operation with not a hint of Spanish speaking peoples or the trappings of a Latin American environment.

Her current assignment of guarding Rhys Wielde, founder of Genoreach Technology Inc., had all the makings of a challenge. Protecting Rhys, who had unwittingly become enmeshed in a high stakes and deadly drug trafficking operation, provided her with the opportunity to hone her deception skills as an American, as opposed to her expertise as a Latin American.

Skye pulled a crude wooden chair to the curtained window and lowered her hips heavily into the seat. The sparsely furnished three-room cabin boasted a crudely built bed with a colorful earth toned quilt and matching shams. The windows were curtained with Native American designs and woven rugs covered the bedroom floor and adorned the walls.

An efficient bathroom with a narrow shower stall, a living room cozily furnished with a wood burning stove, animal skin rugs, and wall hangings completed the decor. A nice enough cabin, but not home. She sighed deeply while thinking of how she had looked forward to spending several recuperative weeks at her personal cabin in Wetmore, 25 miles east of Westcliffe, after having spent two months in South America.

Establishing an identity and operation base in Ecuador had been challenging. Given the continuing economic upheaval and border disputes, Ecuadorian President Arcon had requested US assistance in providing contingency plans. The DEA had inserted her into the country to make the assessment of how to proceed in garnering details of drug activities associated with the Ecuador-Peru border skirmishes.

Skye had opted to establish a role in the country's entertainment society as a nightclub singer with a temperamental nature. In choosing this identity, she was made privy to information provided by her underworld and government patrons. As bartenders the world over are aware, the relaxed atmosphere of entertainment clubs often produce instant trust and camaraderie which Skye had used to her advantage. She was just beginning to make very useful contacts when Gabe had recalled her.

Alas, 'the best laid plans of mice and men.' are so easily disrupted by the administration. Gabe had met her at the airport in Miami, Florida upon her return from Ecuador. While they had waited for her luggage to appear on the baggage claim carousel, Gabe had provided a pre-briefing on her current assignment.

"Skye, I've assigned you to a quick and easy assignment in Colorado. An ideally isolated location since you've already requested time off for some rest and relaxation at your cabin and to visit your parents in Denver. As a matter of fact, I especially chose Westcliffe, Colorado for the operation base to accommodate the vacation plans of my best agent." Gabe concluded with an impressive show of sincerity accompanied by his warmest look of admiration.

She'd favored him with a withering look mindful of their crowded surroundings before informing him that his Irish gift of the blarney was well and truly transparent even as she acquiesced in undertaking the assignment and preparing for another round of her life's adventures.

"Well he looks fit enough, I wonder if he is also a runner in addition to being into weight lifting," Skye mused in attempting to fill in the knowledge blanks on Rhys that had been omitted in her perusal of his dossier and briefings from the administration headquarters.

Suddenly, Skye's shoulders stiffened as she noticed a blue sedan, from a distance of two miles winding a path on the dirt road toward Rhys's cabin. The front of his cabin faced the road and Rhys was just now hauling a tool kit from the septic tank at the side of the house to the back of the cabin.

"Could be anyone, maybe someone's lost," she hoped as the sedan continued toward the cabin. "Get back in the cabin!" Skye muttered the command with heightened emotions hoping Rhys would somehow receive the warning telepathically.

Incredibly, he blithely continued his ministrations to the back of the cabin's exterior oblivious to the potential danger as he deeply concentrated on his task.

"Does he think this is a Boy Scout camping trip? So much for giving him the code name cougar," she bit as her irritation mounted. Rhys's code name was an additional security measure of cloaking his identity in the event the operation's radio transmissions were intercepted.

The sedan was within firing range now and still Rhys remained absorbed in repairing the outdoor septic tank, his hair sweat dampened from his exertions.

"You idiot, get some cover!" she desperately whispered, her voice rising as she reached for the radio and called her security backup, "Tom, ID on the blue sedan?" The inquiry taking on the edge of a command as she instinctively began to reach for her weapon in preparing to join Rhys at his cabin.

"Negative on the ID. We're locked on the vehicle," was his distracted reply,

Skye knew Tom's team were expert marksmen and wouldn't hesitate to obliterate the vehicle and its occupants at the first sign of hostility.

"Why doesn't the cougar cover?" she petulantly queried, the commanding tone less evident now as she moved into the open doorway of her cabin flexing her legs for the sprint down the slope.

"Negative reply, we're still locked," Tom replied, cryptically. From his cold tone Skye could tell he didn't want to be further distracted, as he concentrated his instincts toward the highly probable attack.

Skye held her breath and moved quickly downward through the tight concealment of the trees as the sedan leisurely passed the house, the conversing elderly occupants filling Skye's binoculars lens never gave any indication that they had noticed Rhys and his tinkering behind the cabin as they continued down the road.

"Tom, apparently this assignment needs watching from a little closer proximity-I'll execute!" Skye informed her colleague in a tone less brusque than she intended as she retreated back to her cabin after watching the billowing dust from the retreating car's wake dissipate on to the road.

"Roger that!" Tom rejoined in a heartfelt sigh.

Rhys could be dead right now, his body riddled with bullets or gaping from a mortar silencer. Skye angrily exhaled as the mental picture assailed her senses and affirmed the potential deadliness of the administration's operations.

Though, she had every confidence in their ability to protect him, Rhys's lack of good sense and situational awareness angered her. Her irritation was compounded with the fact that her excessive reaction went beyond what she had ever felt for her past assignees. Her seething intensified at that realization.

She continued to ponder on the apparent oblivion of Rhys's actions. Didn't he realize the type of desperate personalities who dealt in the lucratively crippling business of drugs? She imagined that his anger at his colleagues only extended to the boundaries of a professional disagreement as to the direction of his company.

With certainty, she knew that the involvement of ruthless Latin American drug lords and US underworld criminal activities ensured the danger to Rhys's life. His opposition to their greed and inhumanity guaranteed that. Skye knew that the numerous agents hidden in the forested mountains were vigilant in assessing any unexpected activity as hostile. As innocuous as the elderly couple in the sedan appeared to be in their enjoyment of a mountain drive, they could have easily been assassins prepared to eradicate Rhys's life as if he had been nothing more than a bothersome insect.

She hoped that his overconfidence did not come from a belief that his time-delayed programmed message released within his company would not be intercepted before the following day. The odds were that the message had already been intercepted before its programmed release, setting events in motion that the administration had prepared for by way of contingency planning. Doubtless, he just couldn't imagine his "trusted colleagues" murdering him.

Sighing heavily, she retrieved her binoculars and resumed her watchfulness at the window. Skye wished she could tell him that the extent of his colleague's involvement was now negligible, as their skill and expertise had been fully exploited. They had performed their task and were expendable. Even now, his staff members could be dead, unless they had possessed enough survival savvy to ensure their indispensability until financially compensated.

As Skye intensely studied Rhys surveying the mountain range and surrounding hills, she felt sadness for him. The betrayals he had suffered at the hands of those he trusted were inconsequential in comparison to the probable menace awaiting him in the days ahead.

* * *

Impenetrable night had begun to blanket the mountain range, when Skye silently changed into black body molding clothes and secured the ebony shimmer of her shoulder length hair into a cotton head cap.

Since that episode several hours earlier she had made the decision to insert herself closer to Rhys without revealing her purpose. She no longer felt confident that guarding him from a distance was the wisest course.

While reviewing her small arsenal of weapons she briefly reviewed the plan developing in her mind to share Rhys's cabin the following evening, before focusing on her present intentions. She retrieved her 9mm pistol from her carrying case, checking the chamber and safety clip before smoothly placing the menacing steel into her shoulder holster with practiced ease. The weapon was bulkier than one she preferred to carry; however, tonight she felt a need for the comfort of the added lethal weight.

Silently she slipped lithely from the cabin and soundlessly drifted down the half-mile slope toward his cabin. She made a stealthy survey around the perimeter before returning to his bedroom window in which the only illumination of the cabin showed. She adjusted the secured ear insert of a receiver tuned to a transmitter she had previously placed in the cabin. The transmitter was capable of picking up the slightest sounds within its walls. She pressed against the outer wall of his bedroom, beneath his window and waited for his lights to extinguish.

The wait gave her time to reflect on her life and, most especially, her parents' expectations. Skye suppressed a smirk with the thought that her parents would wholeheartedly approve of her current nocturnal activities. They made no secret that they had eagerly hoped at her present age of 34 she should find a husband and endeavor to provide them with those duly owed grandchildren. Her two brothers and sister had since taken that path, falling nicely into her parents' script. Apparently, her nuptials and subsequent producing of progeny was the grand finale.

Too bad they'll never understand that my life is completely unsuitable for 'home, hearth, and husband'. Sadness descended upon her as she remembered the many debilitating relationships, which had brought that fundamental truth home to her. Just as quickly, she dismissed the longing with a whispered prayer of thanksgiving for the idyllic life of adventure and travels she enjoyed and to which she was so well suited.

The sudden blackness of Rhys's bedroom brought Skye out of her reverie. She caught herself caressing the lethal weapon holstered at her breast. She rose, slowly and stealthily, in the crisp night breeze, and moved, keeping in rhythm with the swaying of aromatic pines and aspens, until she finally stood in the shadows of his window. Stealthily peeking through the exposed sliver between the curtain and window edge, she looked into the room.

"At least he had sense enough to close the curtains," she complimented backhandedly as she scanned the contents of the room and finally rested her widened eyes on the occupant as her breathing increased.

Rhys laid on his back, sprawled nakedly on the bed, his covers in disarray. She couldn't tell if he was asleep, the sparsely covered dark hair on his chiseled chest rose and fell evenly as if he had found temporary anchorage within the eye of a storm. The full moonlight spilled indiscriminate rays through the scant lightweight of the curtains, the spotlight revealing the disheveled condition of his hair splayed on the pillow and his eyes gazing up steadily toward the lazy oscillation of the ceiling fan. One powerfully built arm lay across his forehead. The taut cords of his forearm moving in response to his hand bunched in a fist, as if in rage or deep reflection. Seeming to sense her speculation, his hand unclenched and languidly began a soothing rub of his muscularly sculpted chest.

Skye's throat tightened. Suddenly she began to feel heated and cursed the black pants, sweater, and cap, which she was convinced were the source of her present discomfort. Skye couldn't comprehend any other explanation for the temperature change. She removed the cap and tucked it into her pants' waist and shoved the cuffs of her long sleeved sweater up to her elbows. As if experiencing the same vortex of discomfort, Rhys's apparent agitation continued as he raised both hands up and over his head to grasp the headboard.

The movements further defined the magnificent contours of his body. Skye silently cursed herself for her unprofessional attitude in being magnetically drawn to the muscular attractiveness of his body. She impatiently swiped the gathering beads of perspiration from her forehead with her sweater sleeve before continuing her scrutiny with renewed determination.

Attempting to get back on her professional footing, she assessed that his apparent good physical condition would make it easier for them to accomplish an escape, if necessary. At least she would be unhampered by his being overweight or physically unfit, as characterized by the majority of men his age.

She mentally offered kudos to Rhys Wielde for his physical fitness and health at the age of 37 years. Good -a cool, detached, professional assessment! A self-congratulatory smile tugged the corners of her mouth upward as she enjoyed the cooling pine-scented breeze lightly rifling through her hair in support of her victorious return to equanimity.

Suddenly, in one lithe movement, Rhys rose from the bed and impatiently moved toward the window. The rippling of muscles in his thighs drew her attention to the proportions of his potent manhood as a few quick strides brought him to the window. Skye was instinctively driven downward from the window edge in a silently languid collapse by his sudden advance.

For long moments, she was aware of his presence at the still curtained window. Skye neither moved nor barely breathed, as she seemed to sense in him a palpable frustration and yearnings to accomplish his purpose. He stood immobile at the window scanning the horizon and pressing one open hand flat against the glass as if to communicate his feelings. Finally, he moved from the window and collapsed carelessly back onto the bed.

Irritated at her uncharacteristic reaction of sexual arousal, Skye greedily filled her lungs with the refreshing mountain air while mopping her moist face with her cap. After one last look of assurance that he was safely in bed, she slunk noiselessly toward her cabin in clothing drenched from her perspiring body as the litany, "Limpid and passionless he is not," accompanied her erratic heartbeat.

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