Peacekeeper

By Marisa Carroll

Major Nick Apostalis Represented Everything She'd Cast Out of Her Life.

He was used to danger. He was a risk taker, a man who put his life on the line for a cause. Kara Hartman had been widowed by one such man. She would never get involved with another.

But as a strange odyssey threw them together, she began to care for Nick more than she'd expected–or wanted to. And once they were home, back in their respective worlds, she found she had one more tie to this man she wished she could forget. She was having his baby .

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Sep 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781488723490

Marisa Carroll

The writing team of Marisa Carroll came about when one half, Carol Wagner, parted company with her first writing partner, an old high school friend, after publishing two books. Carol saw the writing on the wall - the line they were writing for was on life support - her friend didn't. Enter the second half of the duo: her sister, Marian Franz. The combination has lasted for 28 books, 26 of them for Harlequin's various lines. Ideas come from one or both. Carol does most of the writing. Marian does the research, all of the editing and proofreading, and ruthless weeding out of run-on sentences.The partnership isn't always smooth sailing, but like most long-term relationships, even those among non-siblings, the sisters have learned to put petty differences aside for the greater good of the book. They've established a goal of 50 published books, a kind of Golden Anniversary for the partnership. And they intend to stick to it, no matter how many arguments it takes.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

NICK APOSTALIS braced his feet against the gentle sway of the teak deck, curled his hands around the railing as he leaned his weight on his palms and scanned the horizon. The village of Kolovri, on the west coast of the island of Corfu, was spread out before him. It was a tiny place, a dozen or so whitewashed houses with red tile roofs, three or four shops, a taverna or two and a pink stone monastery nestled in a grove of pines on the beach, its reflection visible even from a distance in the turquoise blue waters of the cove. Lemon, orange and silvery gray olive trees clung to the cliffs behind the village, and in the distance Mt. Pantokrater rose toward a cloud-filled sky, so blue it hurt to look at it too long. It was exactly what the cruise line had advertised, small, quiet and off the beaten track, just like every other place they’d visited in Greece, with the exception of Athens.

But Nick wasn’t interested in the picture-postcard view. He watched the last stragglers—sunbathers and snorkelers mostly, along with a few bird-watchers who’d spent the afternoon in the monastery’s cypress-shaded, landscaped gardens—boarding the Ionia. So far, his father, Peter, was not among them. Neither was Lynn Fremont, the American widow the older man had been spending so much time with during the cruise.

A small prickle of apprehension lifted the short hairs at the back of Nick’s neck. He ignored the warning, something he didn’t usually do. His father was not a stupid man. He wouldn’t do anything rash even though they were only a few kilometers from the Albanian coast.

No sign of them yet, Major?

Nick narrowed his eyes against the brilliant sparkle of sunlight off the water as he turned to face Kara Hartman, Mrs. Fremont’s sister and traveling companion, also a widow, according to his father. She had stopped beside him and leaned out over the railing, balancing herself on her elbows, watching their sunburned, paraphernalia-laden fellow travelers make the tricky passage from tender to ship several stories below them.

I thought we agreed that you would call me Nick, he said gruffly. Somehow he always managed to sound that way around her. It was one hell of a defense mechanism he’d built up over the years, he realized, treating attractive women as though they were junior officers he’d just as soon not have under his command. Most of the time it did the trick. But sometimes, with this woman especially, he wished the behavior had not become second nature.

She shifted position, leaning back to watch him speculatively from beneath long, dark lashes that effectively shadowed the emotions reflected in her peat brown eyes. She was far too serious for a woman her age. He doubted she was thirty yet, which would make her about ten years younger than he was. For a moment she looked as if she would turn and run, then her lips firmed and she obviously decided to hold her ground. You don’t sound as if you care to be addressed so familiarly this afternoon, Major.

I’m sorry, he said, and meant it. That was the trouble with this woman. He didn’t want to treat her like a not-too-bright second lieutenant, but he’d almost forgotten how to behave otherwise. I didn’t mean to snap at you. Her frown was replaced by a tiny, almost reluctant smile. I just escaped from high tea on the Lido deck, he added by way of apology.

Ah, I understand. Ambushed by Mrs. Smythe-Wellington again, were we? she asked, her smile growing just a little wider, a little more confident as she realized his bad temper wasn’t directed at her. In some ways a cruise was like a combat mission, he’d decided. In a very short period of time you learned a great deal, both good and bad, about your fellow man. And woman. Take Kara Hartman, for instance. On the outside she appeared to be as poised and confident as any other young, intelligent, well-off American career woman. Inside? Well, that might be a different story altogether. Once in a while he caught a glimpse of something familiar in her face, a weariness, a sadness that spoke to something in his own battle-scarred soul. Her melancholy was probably caused by her recent bereavement. His was caused by what? A lack of faith? Hope? A meaningful future?

And Brian.

Ahhh, she said with mock sympathy. The ubiquitous Brian. Brian was Mrs. Smythe-Wellington’s nephew and a worse bore than she was.

During this entire week have you ever seen one without the other? Nick said in disgust. He’d gotten into the habit of not watching his words around her. That was something else he didn’t usually do.

Lynn and your father think he’s so attentive because he’s angling to be mentioned in her will.

Nick grinned, he couldn’t help it. Yes, he said, and he deserves it for putting up with the old biddy all the time.

Kara laughed, and he liked the sound of it, like silver bells at Christmastime. He took a deep breath and caught the scent of her perfume—wildflowers in a spring meadow. If he’d known their dinner-table companions would include the bombastic Mrs. Smythe-Wellington and her colorless nephew, he would have insisted on different seating. But then he would have missed the pleasure of spending the past seven evenings in Kara Hartman’s company.

She’s just drawn to you because you’re a fellow Canadian, Kara said, being generous about the elderly woman.

She’s a snob, Nick growled, looking once more in her direction. She met his gaze with a level look of her own. She was a tall woman, only half a head shorter than he was, five-six or -seven, he estimated.

Poor Nick. She made a clicking sound with her tongue. I’ll stop teasing you.

Thanks. He glanced once more at the nearly empty tender below.

She leaned forward, as well, the movement pushing her breasts against the soft cotton of her lime green T-shirt. He watched her unconsciously sexy movements from the corner of his eye. He didn’t have to look directly at her to be aware of her presence. Out of sight, out of mind, did not apply to a woman like Kara Hartman, with her sleek cap of short red-gold hair, clear skin with a dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks, and dark, intelligent eyes. She had a face and a smile a man could carry in his mind’s eye all his life.

There they are, she said, pointing. There’s Lynn and your father. She waved at the last two figures to board the ship even though neither of them was looking in her direction. It looks as if Lynn has some samples of the local weaving. They’re supposed to do particularly good work here.

He wasn’t listening and she noticed almost immediately. Nick, I told you they’d make it okay, she said softly. You worry too much.

She didn’t reach out and touch him, brush her fingertips across the back of his hand, but she might as well have. A shiver of pure lust ran up and down his spine, and he ground his teeth to keep his physical response under control. She’d never given him the slightest indication that she considered him anything more than a relatively interesting dinner companion, and he’d worked hard at keeping his interest in her under wraps. A shipboard romance might be all well and good for his father and Lynn Fremont. But it wasn’t the way he operated. And he suspected it wasn’t the way Kara Hartman operated, either.

He cleared his throat. Maybe you’re right. But he didn’t think so. He’d had a bad feeling about this trip from the very beginning. And that bad feeling was getting stronger by the hour.

I’ll see you at dinner, Kara said when he didn’t offer anything more. She walked away without a backward glance. He didn’t blame her. He was being lousy company and he knew it, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. His anxiety over his father’s future plans outweighed everything else. Six tours of duty with United Nations peacekeeping missions in some of the most troubled spots on earth over the past fifteen years had taught him to pay attention to his hunches. He’d ignored them before and lived to regret it.

He turned around and stared at the cloud-obscured coastline of the mainland only a few kilometers away. Somewhere just to the north lay the border between Greece and Albania. Until only a few years ago Albania was one of the last strongholds of communism, a country governed by a handful of men who probably still privately considered Joseph Stalin the greatest man who ever lived. A closed society, isolated, suspicious of every other country on the planet, and the one place on earth his seventy-year-old father was determined to go.

* * *

THE TENSION between Nick Apostalis and his father was thick enough to cut with a knife. It had definitely put Kara off her food, although it didn’t seem to have impaired anyone else’s appetite. She bent her head to butter her roll and studied the two men through the veil of her lashes. Something was wrong. Nick had barely said a word since he’d sat down at the table. And he ate as though he wasn’t tasting a thing.

What in the world was going on? She’d ask Lynn after dinner. Her sister would know. She and Peter had been inseparable since the first day of the cruise. He was the first man Lynn had shown an interest in since her husband, Charles, had died four years earlier. It was an encouraging sign. Grief, Kara knew, was a natural part of the healing process, but it was also a frightening and lonely experience. She was glad for Lynn that it was finally over.

The strained atmosphere hovered around the two men like an invisible dark cloud, mirrored in Nick’s gunmetal gray eyes and in the frown that turned down the corners of Peter’s mouth beneath his mustache. The animosity had seemed to subside a little when the main course was served—freshly caught grilled sea bass with rosemary-scented potatoes—and everyone, the indefatigable Mrs. Smythe-Wellington included, had applied themselves to their food. But now it was back, stronger than ever with the appearance of the ship’s first officer at Nick’s shoulder, and so was the bad feeling in the pit of Kara’s stomach.

Something’s up, Lynn whispered as the waiter cleared their plates. Lynn gave Kara’s ankle a kick under the table. Kara! Pay attention!

What?

Something’s up, Lynn repeated, wiggling her index finger in Nick’s general direction behind the cover of her menu. What do you suppose it is?

I haven’t the slightest idea, Kara said with pretended disinterest. I think I’ll have the crème brûlée for dessert.

Major Apostalis. The first officer leaned over Nick’s shoulder. I apologize for disturbing your dinner. The man was tall and blond, Scandinavian or possibly Dutch, Kara thought. His English was heavily accented but fluent.

What is it, Amundson? Nick said with his customary directness.

I’m afraid there’s a problem with your Albanian visa, Major Apostalis. The first officer smiled apologetically. If you care to come with me, we can discuss the matter more privately.

What kind of problem? Nick demanded, ignoring the offer. Kara’s breath caught in her throat. For a split second she knew how a new recruit subjected to such a look must feel. Her spine stiffened and she sat a little straighter in her seat. Even the first officer shifted uncomfortably. His sunny, good-natured smile faded away.

They have denied your request to accompany the shore excursion tomorrow, he said.

For what reason?

It would seem, Major, that the Albanians don’t care for the way you earn your living.

I was under the impression that they didn’t check occupations. Nick’s eyes narrowed, looking darker still, almost black. A sharp stinging pain came out of nowhere and caught Kara just above the heart. Danny’s eyes had been blue, sky blue. Sometimes now it was hard to remember exactly the right shade. Especially when someone with eyes the color of a thundercloud was seated directly across the table.

They can do anything they wish, I’m afraid. I’m very sorry, Major.

Why, that’s preposterous, Mrs. Smythe-Wellington huffed. He’s a Canadian citizen. He has every right to visit Gji...Gji...wherever it is we’re going.

The first officer began a polite explanation for Mrs. Smythe-Wellington’s benefit. Nick didn’t even glance her way. I want to lodge a protest, he said, not raising his voice, but somehow giving the impression that the words were an order, not a request.

I’m afraid that won’t do any good. The Albanian authorities were adamant in their refusal.

But good heavens, we’re only going to be in the country for a few hours, Lynn interrupted. We’ve been so looking forward to it.

Lynn and Peter might be looking forward to the trip. Kara had the distinct impression that Nick was not. She shifted her attention to the dessert menu once more. The sharp jab of grief had subsided, but the residue of remorse that always accompanied it remained. She tried once more to tune out the altercation going on around her and concentrate on regaining her control.

It was none of her business, after all. She wasn’t going on the day trip, because by the time she’d decided to accompany her sister on the cruise, it had been too late to apply for a visa. And besides, it would be good for her to spend some time alone, without Lynn and Peter urging Nick to make a reluctant foursome for bridge or shuffleboard. She found herself speculating far too often about what Nick Apostalis thought and felt. She wished she could stop doing it, but it seemed she could not.

I’m sorry, Mrs. Fremont. Amundson shrugged, his smile back in place as he looked at Lynn. My hands are tied.

Is the Albturist representative still on board?

Kara looked up again as Nick rose from the table, drawn by the tone of command in his voice. He was as tall as the first officer but broader, harder, darker, making the other man in his spotless whites seem foppish and overdressed.

Yes, Amundson said, his official affability slipping. But it won’t do you any good to talk to her.

Nick ignored his advice. I’ll speak to her at once.

As you wish. But I must warn you, Major, the cruise line will not back you up on this protest. Twenty-seven other people on board have a visitor’s visa. We don’t want to jeopardize their trip to the mainland. Do you understand?

Perfectly.

Very well. The first officer had made it clear he’d washed his hands of the matter. Please, come with me. He gestured toward the glass doors leading out of the dining salon.

Ladies, Nick said, nodding at the table in general as he strode out of the crowded dining room.

Enjoy your dessert, Amundson said, then turned and followed Nick from the room.

Well, I’ll be, Brian Smythe-Wellington said, beating his aunt to the punch. They were the first words, other than ordering his food and asking for the salt and pepper, that Kara had heard him utter the entire evening. What was that all about? What did he mean the authorities don’t like what Nick does for a living?

He is a soldier, Lynn reminded him.

Well, yes, but that shouldn’t disqualify him from taking a few photos and poking around an old monastery or two like the rest of us.

He’s not just a soldier, Peter said, rising as he spoke. He threw his napkin down on the table and prepared to follow his son out of the dining room. He’s a peacekeeper. He’s been on United Nations peacekeeping missions all over the world.

He was in Sarajevo. I saw him interviewed on the television news one night, Mrs. Smythe-Wellington chimed in. Remember, Brian, I told you that the first time I laid eyes on him. I never forget a face.

She’s right, Peter said. Nick’s last mission but one was in Yugoslavia. And Yugoslavia’s been Albania’s hereditary enemy for as long as anyone can remember.

* * *

PETER LOOKED AWAY from the few lights of Kolovri, turning to rest his hip against the rail. He lit one of the three cigarettes a day the doctors allowed him and stared out across the Gulf of Kérkira to the low, dark headland that was the coast of Albania.

It had been a warm, moonless night just like this the first time he’d seen this coastline, more than fifty years before. Fifty years. He inhaled the thick, hot smoke from the cigarette, savored it and shook his head. Where had all the tomorrows gone? How had so much time passed so quickly?

They were all gone now, his comrades from that long-ago war, although he could still see their faces clearly. It had been a covert operation, his first visit to the land his parents had left at the turn of the century. Their mission had been to infiltrate the area, meet up with the partisan Greek freedom fighters and give the Jerries a hell of a hard time. Except that the wind was blowing stronger than they’d figured over their drop sight, and they’d ended up in Albania, not Greece.

They were a mixed unit, the First Special Service Force. There was Michael Kukla, a big rawboned Finn from the wilds of northern Michigan, and Terry O’Neil, an Irishman from his own hometown of Windsor. Their commanding officer had been Lieutenant Jack Frasier, of the First Edmonton Regiment, only a year or two older than the eighteen-and nineteen-year-olds he led, and as green as they come.

And the abbot of the monastery of Sts. Mary and Joseph, Father Georgios. It was the abbot who’d talked them into doing what they had done. What still needed to be undone. The abbot had been an old man in 1944, but still hale and hearty. He hadn’t been ready to die, but he’d given his life so that the rest of them could escape from a pursuing Nazi patrol. That was a debt that could never be repaid.

And because of that debt they’d all pledged to carry out the abbot’s last request. But Kukla never made it back to his hardscrabble farm and his deep pine woods. He’d died in France in a frozen hedgerow two days before Christmas. The rest of them had been luckier, coming home to try to forget the war, to fall in love and marry and raise families and watch the Iron Curtain slam down on the Balkans, sealing off Albania and the monastery of Sts. Mary and Joseph from the rest of the world. And then time started to catch up with them. O’Neil had been the next to die—brain cancer. And then, a year ago, only a few months after Peter’s own mild heart attack, came word that Lieutenant Frasier had died at his retirement home in Florida.

None of them had ever returned to this closed and mysterious Balkan republic. It hadn’t been possible. Not until the disintegration of the Soviet Union and the lowering of barriers all over Eastern Europe.

Now Peter was the only one left, but he had made it this far, so close he could almost reach out and touch his destination, and he had no intention of turning back now, no matter how angry it made his son. In fact he was glad Nick’s visa had been denied. Now he didn’t have to worry about him if anything went wrong, because he had not a doubt in the world his son would follow him to the ends of the earth. And that was the last thing he wanted. This was his mission to fulfill, not Nick’s.

Peter flicked his cigarette stub into the dark, restless water. It was as though the ghosts of the others were there, urging him on, making him strong, Kukla, O’Neil, Frasier and the old abbot in his rusty black cassock and stovepipe hat. He gathered in the strength they offered, savoring it the way he savored the cigarette smoke, then turned, his shoulders a little squarer, his back a little straighter and headed for his stateroom.

* * *

LYNN COULDN’T SLEEP. Kara had been out like a light since her head hit the pillow. Or at least she seemed to be asleep. Sometimes