Without a Trace

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Authors: Nora Roberts
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Bangkok and gotten roaring drunk on ouzo in Athens, and he had eight stitches in his right shoulder from a knife wielded by a man he’d killed while serving his country. Yet at that moment he felt like a child being scolded without justice or cause.
    “I guess that’s the only thing I ever said to you that you really heard. Nothing’s changed here. It never will.”
    “You’ve chosen your way, Trace.” His son had no way of knowing that Frank wanted nothing more than to open his arms and take back what he’d thought he’d lost forever. And was afraid Trace would only turn away. “Now you’ll have to make the best of it. At least have the decency to say goodbye to your mother and sisters this time.”
    It had been Frank, his eyes blurred with tears, who had turned away. Trace had walked out of the dressing room and had never gone back.
    He opened his eyes now to find Gillian watching him steadily. She looked different with the short, dark wig he’d made her wear. But she’d stopped complaining about it—and the horn-rimmed glasses and drab, dun-colored dress. It was padded to make her look frumpy, but he couldn’t quite get his mind off what was hidden underneath. In any case, she’d blend into the scenery, which was just what he wanted.
    No one would mistake the woman sitting beside him for the spectacular-looking Dr. Gillian Fitzpatrick.
    He’d switched planes and airlines in San Diego, charging the tickets to a credit card under one of his covernames. After rerouting in Dallas, he’d picked up the fielder’s cap and sideline jacket he was wearing. Now, as they headed into Chicago, they looked like a couple of dazed, weary tourists who wouldn’t rate a second glance.
    Except he could see her eyes, those deep, dark, intense green eyes through the clear lenses.
    “Problem?” he asked.
    “I was going to ask you the same thing. You know, you’ve been brooding ever since we boarded.”
    He pulled out a cigarette and played with it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “I’m talking about the fact that you’re ready to bite my head off if I so much as say pass the salt. I’m wearing this hideous wig, aren’t I? And this very fashionable dress.”
    “Looks great.”
    “Then if you’re not upset about my disguise, what is it?”
    “Nothing’s wrong with me,” he said between his teeth. “Now back off.”
    Holding on to her temper, Gillian sipped the white wine she’d been served—with a pitying look from the flight attendant, she thought with some disgust. “There certainly is something wrong with you. I’m the one who should be having an anxiety attack, but I’m not, because we’re actually doing something. But if there’s a problem … I should be concerned about, I’d appreciate you telling me.”
    His finger tapped on the armrest between them. “Do you always nag?”
    “When it’s important. Lives are at stake, lives that mean the world to me. If you’re worried about something, then I need to know.”
    “It’s personal.” Hoping to dismiss it, he pushed back his seat and closed his eyes.
    “Nothing’s personal now. How you feel will affect your performance.”
    He opened one eye. “You’d be the first woman to complain, sister.”
    She flushed but didn’t let up. “I consider myself your employer, and as such, I refuse to have you keep secrets from me.”
    He swore at her, quietly but with considerable imagination. “I haven’t been back in a while. Even I have memories, and they’re my business.”
    “I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath. “I haven’t been able to think about anything but Flynn and Caitlin. It never occurred to me that this might be difficult for you.” He didn’t seem like a man of deep feelings or genuine emotions. But she remembered the pain in his eyes when she’d spoken of Forrester. “Chicago … is it a special place for you?”
    “Played Chicago when I was twelve, and again when I was

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