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Micah turned, clenched his jaw against rising emotions. Pregnant. With John Montgomery’s child. A child who should have been his. “And just how did this mythical child survive your wounds?” He looked pointedly at her stomach, from where he’d extracted a six-inch knife. As clear as if it were yesterday, he remembered her groans, smelled the blood caking his hands and fatigues, and tasted the fear lacing the back of his throat as he raced her to the nearest international hospital. He again tried to deny what he’d seen, but the image of John’s corpse sprawled on the warehouse floor saturated his mind.
    “She was born three months premature. If it weren’t for you …” She looked away, and he saw her fight a tremor in her jaw.
    Oh, boy, this was a bad idea. He should have known it from the way his heart had leaped from its grave and pounced on his cell phone callback button, connecting him to the switchboard at Baptist Hospital in Poplar Bluff, Missouri. He should have done the smart thing—sat down and waited for his heart, along with his common sense, to come crawling back. Instead he let it lead the way out to his pickup and across the state line. Evidently, she still had the power to make him think with his emotions, not his brain.
    “C’mon, Lacey, I was there. I saw your injuries. I saw you. You didn’t look any more pregnant than I do.”
    She gave him a look that could take out ten men. “I hid it. From you. From John. From the company. I have to live with my mistakes, but I’m not going to fabricate a daughter just to get you to help me.”
    Micah took two steps closer and clamped his hand over her mouth. “Shh. I don’t need the cavalry interrupting us.”
    She shook herself free and shot a look at the door. “Something you want to tell me?”
    “No.” The last thing he needed, besides having the NSA arrive and mar his return to active duty through a suspicious liaison, was Lacey Montgomery’s sympathy. “Let’s skip ahead. Assuming that you’re not lying—” he held up a warning finger at her flush of color—“tell me when you last saw her.”
    She swallowed hard, corralling the look of curiosity in her eyes. “Okay. On the train. We were taking the Eagle to Chicago, and it derailed last night. I have no idea where I am, because no one will give me any information. I don’t know if she’s dead, wandering around the forest, or safe in the hospital somewhere.” Her voice fell at the end. “Please, Micah. You’re my only hope.”
    He closed his eyes and turned away. He didn’t need to hear that. Lord, give me wisdom here. Don’t let me be duped by my longings or her wiles. “What’s her name?”
    “Emily.”
    “My mother’s name.” He winced at the way his tone betrayed him.
    Lacey stayed silent.
    He turned and met her gaze. In it, he saw the woman she’d been. His Lucky Penny—the clarinet player, the homecoming queen, his prom date, the MIT graduate, and master spy. Please, her eyes cried. “How old is she?”
    “Six. Blonde curly hair, John’s blue eyes. She’s probably still in her jammies.”
    He broke her gaze. “I’ll see what I can turn up.” He made to leave, but she grabbed his shirt with her hand, stretching out her slung arm. A flash of pain across her face made him flinch. He hadn’t wanted her to see that her pain could needle him right in the heart.
    “Thank you, Micah. I’ll make it up to you.”
    “You can pay me back by forgetting my name,” he said harshly, then strode out before she could see him totter over the fine precipice of control.

Chapter 4
    “LACEY, THIS CAN be easy or difficult. It’s up to you.”
    How she wished those words might be coming from the doctor, the one who’d x-rayed her arm thirty minutes ago. Her shoulder still ached from the way they’d twisted it, hoping to get a good angle. She might have picked easy, given the choice.
    But, no. The question came from NSA Deputy Director Roland Berg, a fifty-three-year-old