Jax’s heart beat wildly in his chest at the sight of the woman entering the limo less than a hundred feet away from him. It was Brenda – he was sure of it. He couldn't see her face from this angle, but the hair, the body, the way she walked, all told him that it could be no other than Brenda – his Brenda. She was alive!

He was momentarily frozen, mesmerized by the sight of her after all this time. It had been nearly two years since he’d laid eyes on her – in his waking state, that was; for scarcely a night passed that she hadn’t haunted his dreams. But now she was no mere ephemeral illusion that would drift away from him as he was drawn from the sweet serenity of his dream world to the harsh realm of the real world; she was real and she was here – and she was once again drifting away from him!

"Brenda!" he yelled, as he realized that the limo was pulling away from the hotel entrance below. He moved to race down the steps to the landing below where the limo was just leaving, but his progress was impeded by a couple of workmen transporting a crate up the steps, and by the time he made it past them, the limo was rounding the corner on its journey to somewhere else.

"Damn!" he muttered, looking wildly around for a taxi that he could grab to follow the limo. Brenda had finally stepped out of his dreams and back into his life, and he wasn't about to let her get away from him now! There were no taxis in sight, but he spied the hotel doorman, who was watching him closely.

"Pardon-moi, s’il vous plait," Jax said as he approached the doorman. "Parlez-vous Anglais?"

"Juste un peu," the doorman nodded. "I speak a little English," he said, his accent heavy as he struggled to answer Jax in English.

"Comprendez-vous Anglais?" Jax asked, thinking that might be the easier way to go here.

"Oui, très bien!" the doorman smiled and nodded enthusiastically.

"Good!" Jax exclaimed, as he pulled out his wallet and took out the well-worn picture of Brenda that he carried with him always. At least the man had no trouble understanding English. "Was this the woman who just left in that limo?" He handed the doorman Brenda’s picture and then pointed in the direction that the limo had just gone.

The man looked intently at Brenda’s photo and quickly remarked, "Elle est très belle femme."

"Yes, she is very beautiful," Jax replied. "But is this the woman you just helped into that limo?"

The doorman looked from the picture to Jax, cannily sizing up both Jax and the situation. This was definitely the same woman – Mlle. Devereaux – but she was Monsieur Cordoba’s fiancée, and Monsieur Cordoba had paid him generously during his stay here to give out no information whatsoever about either himself or Mlle. Devereaux. "C’est possible`," the man shrugged.

Jax had seen the immediate look of recognition in the doorman’s eyes at Brenda’s picture, but now he could also see the hesitation that clouded the man’s face. Evidently the man felt a certain loyalty to Cordoba – or at least to Cordoba’s well-padded wallet. Well, he’d put the contents of his wallet up against Cordoba’s any day.

"Does this improve your memory?" Jax asked, as he pressed a wad of several thousand francs into the man’s hand.

"Merci, monsieur!" the doorman sputtered, as he looked at the considerable amount of money that Jax had just given him. Monsieur Cordoba had been generous to him, but it had been nothing compared to this! "C’est Mlle. Devereaux définitivement!"

"Devereaux?" Jax repeated the name aloud. Why was Brenda using that name?

"Oui," the doorman answered. "C’est Mlle. Veronica Devereaux, Monsieur Cordoba’s fiancée."

"Fiancée?" Jax felt as if all the air had been sucked from his lungs. She was engaged to Cordoba…

"Oui, Monsieur," the doorman answered, as he looked back at the picture once again, then shook his head sadly. "Elle est très belle – mais toujours triste," he said as he handed Jax the picture.

"Sad? – She’s always sad?" Jax repeated, and the doorman nodded. Was Cordoba forcing her to marry him, Jax wondered? He looked back to the doorman, suddenly realizing that as he stood here pondering all of this, the limo with Brenda and Cordoba inside was getting further and further away. "Mlle. Devereaux’s limo – where was it headed?"

"L'aéroport," the doorman replied quickly.

Jax felt his heart skip a beat. He’d just found her, yet he could lose her again just as quickly if he didn’t get to the airport immediately.

Having seen the look on Jax’s face just then, the doorman anticipated Jax’s next question and headed toward the street, waving down an approaching taxi for him.

"Merci beaucoup," Jax said, handing the doorman a few hundred more francs as he entered the taxi.

The doorman smiled and nodded as he shut the door behind Jax, then added, "Bon chance!" as the taxi sped away.

"L'aéroport maintenant!" Jax barked at the taxi driver, then pulled out his phone to call his pilot as the taxi driver nodded then sped away in the direction of Orly Airport. "Chuck, this is Jax. I want the jet fueled and ready for take-off in less than thirty minutes… I don’t care if it takes a bloody miracle to pull it off; I want it ready to fly by then! As for the flight plan… Well, make it open-ended for now, and I’ll tell you where we’re headed as soon as I know myself…"

He closed his cell phone and shoved it back into his pocket, sighing as he glanced out at the Parisian night and realized that the taxi was barely moving. He looked up to see the driver’s reflection in the rearview mirror; the man was eyeing him curiously.

"You are in a great hurry, oui, monsieur?" the driver asked in his best English, spoken with a heavy French accent and a smattering of French thrown in.

"Yes, I am," Jax answered curtly. "Is there any way you can go faster?"

"The traffic – it is very heavy tonight, monsieur," the driver apologized, shrugging his shoulders as he pointed to the congested street. "But then again, it’s always heavy in Paris!" he added, laughing.

"Listen, I need to get to the airport as soon as possible!" Jax answered, the frustration rife in his voice. "I can make it well worth your while if you can get us there quickly!" he added, waving several thousand francs as the driver watched in his rearview mirror.

"Oui, monsieur!" the driver shouted and then sharply turned the taxi across traffic and onto the sidewalk, amidst the blare of horns and the onslaught of shouted French obscenities and rude hand gestures from the shocked pedestrians who were forced to scatter from its path.

Once back on another street and headed in the proper direction, the driver glanced once again into his rearview mirror, expecting to see either panic or gratitude on his fare’s face at his deft maneuvering, but instead he found the man staring intently at something he’d pulled from his wallet. Even from this distance and this angle the look of love in the fare’s eyes was obvious, and the driver had no doubt that the man was looking at a picture of the woman he loved, and the romantic in him told him that this mad dash to the airport was to either get back home to this woman whom he missed or to get to her before she boarded a plane and ran out of his life forever.

Jax was unaware of both the driver’s stares and his wild driving, as he held Brenda’s picture in his hand, willing himself closer to her, just as he had thousands of times since that fateful day nearly two years before when she’d been snatched from his life. Each of those thousands of times before, he’d felt sorrow and regret and despair that he would never again see her in person… never again hold her securely in his arms… never again whisper his love for her and then show her for hours on end that he was indeed a man of his word; but now… now she was alive – he knew it – and he had hope for the first time in so long. His Brenda was alive and he was going to find her…

"Nobody leaves, Brenda," he whispered aloud. "And when I finally find you, we’re *never* going to be apart again…"

"Monsieur Cordoba, Mademoiselle Devereuax, I hope that your stay in Paris was pleasant," the tall, blonde hostess chirped as she ushered them into the private lounge area of Orly Airport. They had just been through Customs, and they’d come to the lounge while they waited for their luggage to be loaded into Cordoba’s private jet.

"Yes, it was wonderful, as always, Marie, " Armand Cordoba replied, flashing the hostess a blinding smile, then turning his attention back to his silent companion. "Veronica would have liked more time to shop, but I have pressing business in Rio now. But we’ll be back soon for the spring shows and then she can buy to her heart’s content. Isn’t that right, darling?" He leaned over and gave his traveling companion a quick kiss on the cheek, as she merely nodded and smiled briefly in response.

"May I get you a drink?" Marie asked, looking from Armand to the woman.

"Nothing for me," Armand replied, as he pulled his cell phone from the inside pocket of his Armani jacket. "Excuse me, I have some calls to make." He moved to a quieter area of the room for some privacy with the call, but he never took his eyes off the interaction of the pair he’d just left.

"And you, Mlle. Devereuax… May I get you something? Perrier, perhaps?" Marie asked, remembering that on previous occasions here the young woman had usually asked for the water.

"Nothing to drink, thank you," she replied quietly.

The hostess nodded. "Would you care for anything else? A magazine perhaps?"

Veronica took off her glasses, then nervously raking a hand through her dark hair, she looked up at the hostess plaintively. "Yes, there is something else that I need..." She shifted uncomfortably on the leather seat, then cast a furtive glance in Armand’s direction. He was talking animatedly on the phone and she noted that his attention was no longer on her. She took a deep breath, then looked back up at the hostess, who was waiting patiently for her request. "Do you know me?" she finally asked quickly.

Marie appeared momentarily thrown by the question. "Mais oui! You and Monsieur Cordoba have been frequent guests here recently," she replied, wondering why Mlle. Devereaux would ask such a thing?

Veronica glanced briefly in Armand’s direction once again, noting that he was still preoccupied with his call, then, laughing nervously, she flashed the bewildered hostess a quick smile. "Of course, you know me from all the trips we’ve made here in the past few months, but I mean do you know me from a few years ago? Do you remember me accompanying Monsieur Cordoba on any trips here more than two years ago?"

Marie shook her head, still wondering what Mlle. Devereaux was getting at? "No, but I have only worked here a few months…"

Veronica was about to ask her if anyone in the lounge area *had* been working there for over two years when she noticed that Armand had finished his call and was heading back to her. "Thank you," she said, quickly dismissing the puzzled hostess, who shrugged, then moved on to greet more VIP travelers who’d just entered the private lounge.

"Is everything all right?" Armand asked, as he watched Marie look at him strangely as he approached; Veronica seemed to a be a bit flustered as well, but she nodded and smiled brightly at him. "Okay, well, the pilot called and all of our bags are on board, so we can board anytime." He glanced at his Rolex then looked back up at Veronica. "And since we are already running on a tight schedule, I suggest we board now."

Veronica merely nodded again, then, putting her sunglasses back on, she stood and walked quietly toward the door, as Armand followed closely behind.

Marie opened the door to the private lounge for them, and smiled brightly as they exited. "Bon voyage!" she called after them and they both smiled and nodded, but she thought that Mlle. Devereaux’s smile looked forced and wistful, and she remembered her strange conversation with Mlle. Devereaux just moments before and she wondered what exactly that had been all about? But her questions about Mlle. Devereaux were quickly forgotten as some new guests entered the private lounge. "Bienvenu," she smiled…

Armand Cordoba sipped his Scotch and watched as she settled into the leather seat of the Lear jet and fastened her seatbelt. As always, she had chosen the seat furthest from him in the cabin and she was already staring out the window as a way of further distancing herself from him, despite the fact that there was nothing out there to see but the lights of the airport runway.

She was always willful, but she had been unusually defiant tonight, deliberately taking her time leaving the hotel, when he’d expressly asked her to hurry. He’d told her that he had an important, last-minuter meeting in Rio at noon tomorrow, for which he could not afford to be late, and that had seemed to fuel her defiance even more. He knew that she hated what he did – dealing in weapons. There was nothing illegal in what he did – most of the time, at least – but he knew that she hated his chosen field just the same. She had told him once that she hated violence and she wondered how he could make his fortune supplying the very weapons that helped to perpetuate the violence in the world? He had merely smiled at her apparent innocence.

If she only knew that in her former life she’d been involved with a mobster, whose every move was shadowed by violence. In fact, she herself had nearly been killed in the shower when a rival mob boss had taken umbrage with something that her mobster lover had done and had riddled their apartment with bullets as a message to her lover. … And then there was her "real" fiancé, who, along with his brother, had made a small fortune in the arms trade long before she had met the man. In fact, it was that particular area of their business acumen that had brought the brothers into Armand’s realm so many years before, and it was that encounter that was responsible for the creation of Veronica Devereaux in the first place.

He had known her true identity from the moment that one of the crew of his boat had pulled her from the murky waters of Lake Erie. Even half-dead and blue from the cold, there was no mistaking that beautiful face of hers: she was Brenda Barrett-Jacks, former wife and current fiancée of Jasper "Jax" Jacks, who happened to be the brother of Jerry Jacks, with whom Armand had had dealings in the past and whom Armand hated with a passion.

Armand had seen this as an opportunity and he’d planned to use her as a bargaining chip to up the score – and his bank account – between himself and the Jacks brothers, but fate had stepped in to alter those plans. Within days of finding her, he learned that the entire Jacks family was under investigation by the FBI for money laundering and anyone who had contact with them at that point could also be suspect. Since many of his own dealings stretched the envelope of legality, Armand had backed off his original plan to exchange Brenda for a king’s ransom – or a Jacks’ ransom, in this case. He had no desire to float onto the radar screen of the FBI or the CIA or any other governmental agency and invite trouble by being linked with the Jacks family in any way, shape, or form at that point in his "career." So he had simply decided to wait patiently for the heat around Jax and Jerry Jacks to die down and then he’d carry out his original plan, with plans to up the ante further to compensate for his additional time and trouble.

In the meantime, he had had Brenda airlifted from the private clinic in New York, where he had taken her immediately upon pulling her from the chilly waters of Lake Erie, to a small and equally private state-of-the-art clinic in the Bahamas, which was known for both its medical staff and its policy of complete discretion about its patients. Many of the famous – as well as the infamous – were rumored to have been treated there since it was opened a few years before, but only rumors of such things circulated because no one’s identity was ever divulged to the public. And the only stories that were leaked were those that the patients or their families wished to be leaked.

He knew that security there was tighter than at Fort Knox and that no information about any patient was given out to any unauthorized person, but he further insured that no one would learn that Brenda Barrett-Jacks was alive and recuperating there by supplying both clinics with a false name and a false history for her. "Veronica" had come from one of the two coherent words that she’d murmured as she’d been pulled from the water, just before she’d lapsed into the coma. Armand later learned that Veronica was Brenda’s mother’s name and she had been with Brenda when they’d taken that deadly drive off the cliff near Port Charles, New York, and into Lake Erie. "Devereaux" had been a name that he’d simply pulled from thin air at the clinic when he’d been pressed for a surname when she’d been admitted.

The second word that she’d murmured over and over again had been "Jax." In fact, that was the last word she’d said as she’d fallen into a coma that would last for nearly a year. At the time, the fact that she’d had another man’s name on her lips as she’d lapsed into unconsciousness hadn’t bothered him in the least. After all, at the time he’d had no emotional ties to the woman; she was merely a meal ticket to him. And the fact that she was murmuring the name of Jasper Jacks with what could have been her last breath just assured him that her love for the man was strong, and he had bet that Jacks felt something equally strong for her, which meant that he would pay a fortune to get her back.

But now as he remembered that time, he hated that she’d loved that man so deeply that she’d used what she had thought was her last breath uttering his name, and his jealousy toward Jacks once again began to seep its way into his thoughts. He knew this feeling was irrational; after all, her doctors had told him that it was doubtful that she would ever remember anything of her previous life – including her love for Jasper Jacks – but the jealousy was there nonetheless, staining his heart and clouding his mind.

She’d always been somewhat aloof with him, perhaps sensing that they truly had never been lovers or in love, but in recent days she’d seemed even more distant toward him. He had always assumed that she would warm to him and eventually return his feelings; after all, there had never been a woman before her who could resist his charm – or his considerable money. And for a time she had seemed content with her life with him. There was even a time when he was certain that she had accepted their "history" and was even beginning to accept that they were meant to be together. But that had all changed in the past few days, as she’d begun to spend more and more time sleeping or staring out any window that she happened to be near.

He had initially thought that the medication that she was on to control her pain was too strong, but her doctor had cut the dosage and she still seemed to be sullen and withdrawn most of the time lately, retreating further and further into herself. And the more she withdrew into her dream world and away from him, the more jealous he became as he wondered what – or whom – was sharing that dream world with her? He shook his head, wondering just exactly when he had lost control of his emotions and she had gained it?

He had never intended to fall in love with her… In the beginning she had simply been a means to a lucrative end. He’d always been very astute when it came to spotting a potential profit in any situation, and he’d immediately seen the financial promise in this situation. As it happened he’d felt that fate had handed this opportunity to him. After all, he was only there at that location because one of his Canadian contacts had asked for a meeting in an out-of-the-way location, and Armand had figured that Lake Erie at night was as out-of-the-way as it got. So his motives in saving her life had been purely mercenary – and vengeful, as well. He’d seen this as his opportunity to get back some of the money that the Jacks brothers – or more specifically, Jerry Jacks – had stolen from him years before.

But as the days and weeks had passed, he’d found himself drawn to her more and more, and soon his motives for getting her back to health had less to do with extortion and revenge than they did about his own need to make this woman his own. And once she’d finally awakened from the coma and he’d had the chance to look into the depths of those rich, chocolate-brown eyes of hers, he’d known that there was no turning back. He wanted her for now and forever; there was no way that he would ever allow another man to have her again.

Such possessiveness when it came to women was completely out of character for Armand. In fact, he had always preferred sexual liaisons to emotional ones; no strings

meant no mess when the time came to part – and that time always came quickly for Armand. He had always been a love ‘em and leave ‘em kind of guy. No woman had ever held his interest for long, and no woman had ever held his heart at all – at least before *she* had come into his life.

She was the first woman to touch something deep inside him, and to this day he still wasn’t sure what it was about her that made him love her. Certainly she was beautiful, but since his early days in LA he’d been surrounded by beautiful women, yet he had never before felt for any of them what he felt for this woman. Her allure for him was beyond his comprehension – almost mystical. He couldn’t explain what it was about her that made him want her completely – for it would never be enough for him to simply take her body; if that were all he wanted from her, he would have done it months ago. No, he wanted all of her – her body and her heart. And he knew that it was the possession of her heart that most eluded him, which is why her prolonged periods of self-imposed solitude so troubled him. How could he reach her heart when she was determined to keep it locked from his reach? But in time he would capture her heart. After all, they had the rest of their lives together for her to fall in love with him…

Love… He shook his head, remembering how he had spent the first thirty years of his life emotionally distancing himself from others to avoid love in any of its guises. Love to him meant giving a part of yourself over to another, and when that happened you couldn’t be in control of your own life. He’d learned that as Andrew Thompson, a young boy growing up poor in Nevada, watching his starry-eyed mother fall in love with loser after loser and allowing each successive man to take over her life, stifling her in the process, and in so doing, stifling him as well.

He’d tried to fight against the abuse both he and his mother suffered at the hands of her successive string of drunken lovers, but he was young and weak, and his attempts to protect himself and his mother were usually met with additional abuse for both of them. Eventually the county stepped in and he was farmed off to foster home after foster home; a total of seven different foster homes in less than three years. Each time he’d been kicked from one home to the next, they’d added another black mark to his records and another unwarranted adjective for dysfunctional to describe him, finally labeling him unruly and unreachable, but he was neither in his mind. He had merely learned his lesson well at the hands of both his mother’s lovers and the system: not to allow anyone else to gain control over him, and that included not connecting emotionally with anyone else.

The summer that he turned fifteen, things changed for him. Practically overnight he grew six inches and gained thirty pounds – all of it muscle. It was then that he decided that he was finally old enough and strong enough to take back his own life. He’d had enough of being kicked around by drunk ne’er-do-wells and well-meaning do-gooders alike, so he stole money from the Sloans, his last foster family, and returned to his mother, intending to take both him and his mother as far away from Mineral County, Nevada, as that $175 would get them. But he was too late in his plans; by the time he finally arrived at his home, he found his mother lying dead on the floor in a pool of her own blood; Ed Johnson, her latest live-in boyfriend, dead drunk beside her, bloodied bat still in his sadistic hands.

He really didn’t have a clear recollection of what exactly happened next, but by the time he left that house and Mineral County, Nevada, that night there was very little recognizable left of either Ed Johnson’s face or his body, and he read later that they found large splinters from the bat – which had broken somewhere between the first swing he’d taken and that final swing when he knew the bastard was beyond hurting anyone else ever again – imbedded deep within what little was left of Ed Johnson’s shattered cranium. He did remember crying and running for what seemed like hours when he left that night, and then finally climbing into the back of a ramshackle pickup that was parked outside the Miner’s Café on old Route 7 and hiding under a tarp that was there. The truck headed west to California, so that’s where he went as well, eventually ending up hiding out on the mean streets of LA.

It took him four days of hiding in the backs of trucks of unsuspecting – or too drunk to notice – drivers to make it to LA, and when he finally arrived he was cold and hungry and scared out of his mind at both what he’d encounter in this unknown place and at what he’d left behind. He’d killed another human being – a worthless, abusive, gutless excuse of a man, to be sure, but another human being just the same. And he knew that the authorities would eventually connect Johnson’s death to him and sooner or later they’d come looking for him, and if they found him he’d be sent to a juvenile correction facility – or possibly even prison. And he knew he would rather die than be in either place, where his every move would be controlled by someone else, day-in and day-out, possibly for the rest of his life.

So he ditched his clothes, which were muddy and bloodstained, and he ditched his identity, too. That night Andrew Thompson had gone into the same fire that destroyed his clothes and what few belongings he’d brought with him, and "Armand Cordoba" had risen from the ashes in his stead. He’d chosen "Armand" because that was the name that Crazy Jack, this old, homeless guy who’d befriended him his first night in LA, had called him. And "Cordoba" had come from the car that Ricardo Montalban shilled on TV – the Chrysler Cordoba, with its interior of fine Corinthian leather. As a kid he’d thought that both that actor and that car epitomized class, which is why he’d chosen that as his surname. In his young mind, if he had a classy name and wore nice clothes, then he was more likely to garner respect and rise from the streets to make something of himself.

And what a meteoric rise from the streets he’d had! He’d been far luckier than most other runaways in that respect. Most of the kids he’d lived with in those early days never made it off the streets; instead, they died young from drug addiction or violence or AIDS, which at that time was still as yet unnamed but already lethal and taking its toll among the young and the promiscuous. He had managed to avoid both deadly traps of drugs and hustling, which snared most young runaways. His size made him appear far older than his early teens, and his dark good looks – for which he could thank his long-absent father – seemed to give him a leg up on the competition. It seemed that in this land of abundant sunshine and even more abundant beautiful people, all he needed to do was smile and be charming and all things came to him – women, friends, and money – especially money.

The first couple of weeks after arriving in LA, he lived literally from hand to mouth. The money he’d stolen from the Sloans didn’t last long, especially since he had to buy clothes to replace the ones he burned and that used up nearly every last penny that he had. He’d remembered hearing once that clothes made the man and since he was a few years shy of legally being a man, he thought he’d at least dress the part, which meant classy clothes – at least as classy as he could afford with the money he had. Even though he’d gotten those clothes at a second-hand store and he was assured that the price was cheap for LA, they had still cost a small fortune compared to the cost of used clothing in Mineral County, Nevada. Hell, they’d cost a small fortune compared to the cost of *new* clothes in his hometown! But his hefty investment in that bit of window dressing paid off in the long run, as it helped him land a job by the end of his second week in LA.

That particular job wasn’t much – hawking maps of the stars’ homes on Hollywood and Sunset Boulevards – but it paid him decent money and his boss didn’t demand proof of his age or a look at his social security card. But the best thing about that job and those clothes that he’d spent his last dollar buying was that they got him noticed by Vincent Gardeno, the man who became the closest thing to a father that he’d ever known in his life and the man who put him where he was now.

Vincent Gardeno wasn’t the kind of man who needed to buy a map to find the home of a star – he already knew where most of the big names of Hollywood lived because he lived among them – but he stopped to buy a map from Armand, just the same. Years later Vincent told Armand that he’d stopped because he was drawn to Armand’s presence – his movie star looks and his cocksure attitude – and because he saw the potential that Armand had and he knew he could help him realize that potential – and he had indeed done that. Armand would always be grateful that fate had allowed Vincent Gardeno to emerge from the Café Med on Sunset at the same time that he was working the sidewalk area in front of the restaurant, otherwise he would never have had the opportunities in life that he’d had.

Soon after taking him off the streets and under his wing, Vincent supplied Armand with all the "legal" documents that he needed to "officially" become Armand Cordoba, including a birth certificate, social security card, and passport, and through his many connections he helped Armand construct a background that was so intricate and believable that no one had ever questioned its authenticity.

Vincent Gardeno was an entrepreneur extraordinaire, and he had his fingers in nearly every moneymaking pie there was, from movie production to computer technology to international high finance. If there was a buck to be made in any venture, then Vincent Gardeno was there, making two. He seemed to have a sixth sense about which ventures were winners and which weren’t, and he had that same knack when it came to people. He’d told Armand once that he’d known that he was a winner from the beginning. And Vincent’s faith in him – as well as his intensive tutoring in everything from proper etiquette to smart business maneuvers and his financial backing – had turned Armand from that cocky kid on the street fifteen years before into the self-assured, successful businessman he was now.

Vincent had taken an instant liking to Armand and hired him that first day right off the street to work for him as his "assistant." In those early days, Armand did everything from washing Vincent’s cars to walking his dogs to being his personal shopper at holiday time, eventually moving onto overseeing much of the financial end of Vincent’s entrepreneurial empire. After he had worked for Vincent for several years and proven his savvy in handling both money and people, Vincent gave Armand his choice of businesses to take over, but it was Vincent’s brief dabbling in the weapons market that had most intrigued Armand. There was something about leveling the playing field between the have and the have-not factions and nations that gave him a sense of satisfaction, and the fact that it was extremely lucrative and afforded him frequent travel abroad as well as the opportunity to rub elbows with both the famous and the infamous, were also added bonuses for him.

Despite the fact that his investments weren’t always strictly legal, Vincent had never felt comfortable investing in either the production or the sale of high tech weaponry, so his foray into that market had been brief, though decidedly profitable. He questioned Armand’s choice, pointing out that arms dealing was, at best, a volatile business, inevitably buffeted by the storms of political posturing and international intrigue; but at worst it was a lethal venture, in which he could easily end up dead, courtesy of one of the very weapons he’d provided an adversary. But Armand had pointed out that no business was without its hidden dangers, and at least in this particular profession he knew what ammunition they’d use against him. Although he knew that Vincent had found his macabre attempt at humor to be unsettling, Vincent had never again brought up his misgivings about the possible deadly consequences of arms dealing. Instead he’d helped Armand make inroads into the surprisingly competitive field by supplying him with both contacts and sources.

But Vincent never gave up hope that Armand would forsake arms dealing for one of Vincent’s other enterprises and had even suggested that Armand take over *all* of Vincent’s financial empire, so that Vincent could retire happy and Armand could settle down healthy with the love of his life and raise an entire passel of little Armands, whom Vincent could pamper and spoil like grandchildren. The last time Vincent had offered that "suggestion" was just a little over two years ago, just weeks before *she’d* come into Armand’s life. Then he’d once again scoffed at his mentor’s offer because at that time Armand was a man who didn’t believe in love, and he certainly didn’t believe in happily-ever-after. But so much had changed since then – *he’d* changed since then – and now the life that Vincent had always wanted for him seemed more and more inviting, he thought as he looked longingly across the cabin at her…

There was a subtle shake of the cabin as the jet began taxiing down the runway, jockeying for takeoff position, and that movement quickly jolted Armand out of his brief stroll down memory lane. He took another swallow of his Scotch, then gave a quick glance out the window at the rapidly changing horizon as the Lear raced down the runway. Within seconds they were airborne, en route to Rio, and he returned his gaze once again to her, as she continued to lean her head against the window, staring wistfully at the waning lights of the Parisian night sky.

She had barely said five words to him since they’d left the hotel, and once again he wondered what exactly was going on in that beautiful head of hers? He hoped that her silence was merely due to fatigue; after all, this was their second transatlantic flight in less than four days, and add to that the pain medication that she was on and the heavy socializing that he’d required of her lately, and it made perfect sense that she was tired and withdrawn.

He unbuckled his seatbelt and walked over to where she remained seated, still leaning with her head against the window, her eyes now closed. She was oblivious to his presence as he leaned over her, kissing her gently on the cheek. She jumped slightly, startled from her dream world by his touch.

"I didn’t mean to frighten you," he apologized, smiling as he once again leaned in for another kiss, this time on the lips. He noticed that she didn’t dodge his kiss, but she didn’t return it either; instead, she merely seemed to ignore it, as she busied herself unbuckling her seatbelt, then standing unsteadily to stretch. He decided not to press the issue of another kiss, instead deciding to try to draw her out of her shell with conversation. "I know these back-to-back trips are hard on you," he said, taking both of her hands in his. "I promise that this will be our last trip for awhile, and when my negotiations in Rio are completed we’ll return home to the island for some real R&R."

"I’d like that," she replied, smiling faintly at him. It was then that he noticed how pale she was and that she was trembling.

"Are you feeling okay?" he asked, pressing his hand to her forehead, where small beads of perspiration were beginning to form. Her skin was cool and clammy, and she momentarily swayed unsteadily on her feet.

"I’m fine… I just I need to sit back down," she said, dropping back onto the leather seat and then leaning forward slightly, her head in her hands. "I just have a touch of motion sickness, that’s all…" she answered quietly.

But Armand knew it was more than that. "What have you eaten today?" he asked, kneeling beside her. When she didn’t respond, he answered for her: "I can tell you exactly what you’ve eaten – nothing! … And several cups of black coffee doesn’t count as food!"

"I wasn’t hungry," she replied evenly, as she straightened up in her seat and looked at him again.

"Veronica, we’ve been over this before. You have to eat! You don’t have to eat a lot, but you *do* have to eat!" he scolded.

"Dammit! You may control everything else in my life, but you *cannot* control what I *do* or do *not* choose to eat!" she exploded hotly, surprising both herself and Armand.

Armand was momentarily thrown by her outburst. In the months since she’d come out of the coma he’d seen her angry many times – at the pain, at her memory loss, and even at him – but never like this. He stood up and looked down at her, pondering how best to handle this fit of anger. His first instinct was to chastise her, meeting anger with anger, which was his usual course. But as he stood there staring down at her, seeing the fire in her eyes despite how weak he knew that she was, he thought that perhaps a change of strategy was in order. "Where is this coming from?" he finally asked, his voice even and controlled.

She gave a small, derisive laugh at that. "You’re joking, right?" His gaze told her that he wasn’t. She shook her head slowly, then took a deep breath and leaned forward once again with her head in her hands as another wave of nausea and dizziness swept over her.

"We’ll talk about this later," he said, grabbing for the nearby phone. "Right now I’m having Eric get you something to eat."

"We won’t talk about this later, Armand – we both know that," she replied caustically, never bothering to look up at him.

He seemed to ignore her comment, as he pressed the intercom button and immediately Eric, the steward who was a part of one of Cordoba’s two flight crews, answered. "Yes, Mr. Cordoba?"

"Ms. Devereaux isn’t feeling well at the moment… I think some beef consommé would be in order please."

"Coming right up, sir!" Eric replied. "Is there anything else Ms. Devereaux needs or wants?"

"Yes, Ms. Devereaux wants to be able to breathe without someone looking over her shoulder," she said sarcastically, knowing that only Armand could hear her.

Armand shot her an icy look. "No, that will be all for now, Eric," he said as he set the receiver back on its cradle. She looked up at him, steeling herself for the inevitable angry reprimand for her remarks, but his measured response surprised her. "Do you really think that I control your life?" he asked quietly.

She gave him an incredulous stare. "Do you honestly not realize that?" His gaze told her that he didn’t. "Armand, I feel more like your prisoner than your fiancée…" she began, garnering all the strength that she had as she prepared to unleash the feelings that she’d kept bottled up for so long. "At first the constant hovering was comforting… the nurses you hired, the physical therapist, the aides… They all were appreciated during those long months of recuperation after I left the hospital… But I’m healed now… I can function on my own, yet you never seem to leave me alone to do that…"

"The bodyguards are for your protection – you know that. My profession is high-risk, and my possible enemies know that the best way to get to me would be to harm you," he answered matter-of-factly, although he knew that was only one reason for the bodyguards; the possibility that someone from her "previous life" might recognize her and try to approach her was the other. "I can’t risk that happening, Veronica," he added, thinking that he would rather die than let her go back to those who had her before, especially Jasper Jacks.

She gave an exasperated sigh. "I don’t remember anything of our relationship before the accident, Armand, but I can’t believe that I ever fell in love with a man who can’t trust me to be alone, even to walk on the beach on our own property!"

Her words hit him hard and a cold fear slowly crept over him. She was questioning their relationship for the first time. Was she beginning to regain her memory, or was it exactly as she’d said and she was simply feeling restless and confined? "Do you doubt that you loved me?" he asked, trying to keep the fear from his voice.

She sighed again, then softened her tone as she answered him: "You say that I loved you, and I have no reason not to believe you – After all, I have this ring as evidence that we were committed to one another." She held her left hand up, and, smiling for the first time since they’d begun this thread of conversation, she slowly ran the fingers of her right hand over the ring. "And when I look at his ring, I feel all that love that you say we shared…" She put her hand down and looked from the ring back to his face. "…But that’s the only time that I really feel loved… Or feel a connection to you, for that matter…"

He winced at her words, suddenly hating both the ring and the man who’d given it to her. He wanted nothing more than to pull that damned ring off her finger and toss it somewhere over the Atlantic! But he’d given birth to the lie that *he’d* given her the ring and now he couldn’t very well let her know how much her attachment to it bothered him. Instead he’d have to work harder to make her fall in love with him, and then he’d give her another ring to replace this one he hated so much.

But first she’d have to love him and at the moment she didn’t even feel connected to him… But she’d given him an idea of what would at least make her feel more comfortable with him: loosen the reins on her. And by allowing her more freedom she might see him differently, which could very easily lead to her falling in love with him…

But he knew that it was risky to allow her too much freedom, especially out in the open where she could be easily snatched by an enemy – or recognized by an old friend. But he *could* allow her more time alone back on the island. After all, it was a private island with only two villas, his and the Petersons’, and they rarely ventured to his side of the island when they were there and they were currently in the south of France for a couple of months, so the island was theirs alone until the holidays. It would be the ideal time to allow her to stretch her wings without having to worry about intruders having access to her – either unfriendly or friendly ones.

"I hadn’t realized that you saw my concern for your safety as being controlling of your life," he finally answered, deciding that now was as good a time as any to test the waters. "But I suppose that I can see how it could be seen as that…" he said, his voice softening as he once again knelt down beside her. "How do you propose that I rectify all of this and put a smile back on that beautiful face of yours again?" he asked, smiling as she looked up at him and he could see a glimmer of light back in her eyes.

"You could start by letting me have some privacy… Let me wander around the island without some goon looking over my shoulder all the time," she offered hopefully.

"Well, I doubt that Kirby or Andrew would appreciate being referred to as goons, but I get your point…" he smiled, happy to see just the hint of a smile beginning to play on her lips. "And as long as we’re in a safe area, like at home on the island, I don’t see why not," he added, and he was rewarded with a full smile from her this time.

She was happy, but not fully satisfied, so she decided to press for more. "And what about when we travel? Can I have some time alone then, too?"

He hesitated, knowing that he couldn’t allow her to wander unescorted when they were abroad – it was far too dangerous – yet he hated to throw cold water on the warming trend that he was feeling from her now. "How about we compromise there? When we’re abroad and you’re in our hotel suite or staying at a private villa or home, as we’ll be doing in Rio, there will be no bodyguards, but when you go shopping or sightseeing you have to take either Andrew or Kirby with you. Can you live with that?" he asked, watching as she chewed her lower lip while she mulled over his proposal. He wondered if she realized how that little movement of her mouth turned him on? He doubted it. She seemed oblivious to her effect on men, and especially to her effect on him. Perhaps that was what so attracted him to her – the fact that she was a challenge.

Most women fell easily into his bed and had since he’d first lost his virginity at age 16 to a young starlet. It had happened at a party that Vincent had hosted at his estate for the movers and shakers of Hollywood, and she had come with her father, a prominent film producer. He hadn’t invited her attentions, but she had definitely noticed him and she eventually followed him from the main house, where the party was in full swing, to the pool house, where Armand lived at the time. Even then he hadn’t sought out her favors; she had sought his. And it had often been that way since that memorable night, nearly fifteen years ago. Vincent once told him that it was because he had "the total package," as he’d called it: good looks, charisma, and intelligence. Now add his considerable wealth on top of that, and Vincent said that he was simply irresistible to all women. Of course, Vincent never met *this* woman…

Not that he didn’t do his share of pursuing of the opposite sex. In fact, he had quite the sensual appetite when it came to women. It was just that he never had to pursue too rigorously – until now, that was. But in the end, she’d succumb to his charms, just as all the others had. All he had to do was find the right way to maneuver her into wanting him.

In the past he’d tried jealousy as a means of getting her to look his way, parading woman after woman into his bedroom night after night, but she’d seemed indifferent to it all. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed the charms that the other women had offered him once inside his room, but he was rarely able to perform without fantasizing that she was the one to whom he was making love. And he was tired of only fantasizing; he wanted the real thing…

She stopped chewing her lip and looked up at him, her eyes brightening as she said: "I think I can live with that – but I want Kirby to go with me when I go out. Andrew never smiles, and he always grunts at me whenever I try talking to him. In fact, I’m not even sure the man can communicate in anything other than grunts and one-syllable phrases."

Armand chuckled at her observation, which made her smile – the first genuine smile she’d given him in weeks. "Thank you for this," she said softly, then she held his face in her hands and kissed him softly on the lips.

It was the first kiss she had ever initiated with him, and it meant more to him than anything he’d ever gotten before in his life. He was stunned – and happier than he could ever remember being. The coldness that he’d seen in her eyes for the past several weeks was gone; in its place was a warmth and a genuine tenderness for him. He wanted to remember this moment forever… He wanted to tell the world what had just happened… He wanted another kiss… but they were interrupted.

"Your dinner, Ms. Devereaux," Eric said, as he set the large silver tray on the table beside them and uncovered it to reveal the hot consommé and a delicate crystal champagne flute filled with gingerale. "I hope you don’t mind," he said, as he saw her look questioningly at the bubbly amber liquid. "… But I took the liberty of bringing gingerale as well… I know it always helps to settle my stomach…"

"Thank you, Eric," she said, blushing slightly; embarrassed that she’d acted so impetuously to kiss Armand in the first place, let alone that a crew member had been watching. Yet the impetuousness felt right; like this is who’d she’d been "before" – impetuous and fun and comfortable within her own skin. In fact, this was the most comfortable that she’d felt about herself in a long time. She wasn’t sure if it was her low blood sugar or the fact that Armand finally seemed to be respecting her wishes, but she was beginning to see him in an entirely new light – and it was a very attractive light indeed. Perhaps the dreams and the feelings that she’d had recently were real after all, and maybe – just maybe – they weren’t about her life with another man, as she had begun to wonder, but rather memories of her and Armand, happy just as he’d always said they’d been.

"Will there be anything else?" Eric asked, looking from Veronica to Armand. She shook her head ‘no’ and smiled, then cautiously sipped the gingerale.

"Nothing, thank you," Armand added, as he settled into the seat on the other side of the table and watched as Veronica smiled shyly at him over top of the flute of gingerale.

"I hope that you feel better soon, Ms. Devereaux," Eric said as he turned to leave.

"Thank you… I already do, Eric," she replied, never taking her eyes off Armand as she spoke; letting Armand know that she was talking about far more than her bout with motion sickness now.

Armand smiled happily as he thought about how his world had once again changed in the blink of an eye. Just moments before he’d been worrying that she was pulling away from him because she was remembering her former life and her former love, Jasper Jacks, and his jealousy for that man had risen like bile into his throat, choking him and sickening him. But now he had nothing to fear from the resurfacing of either her memories of the man or the man himself because neither was likely to happen. From what he’d heard, after a year of mourning his "dead" fiancée, Jasper Jacks had finally accepted that she was gone and had moved on to another relationship, and now it seemed that Brenda Barrett-Jacks was doing the same. Today she had truly become Veronica Devereaux, fiancée of Armand Cordoba. After months of waiting, nothing was going to stand in the way now of her becoming *his* completely, body and soul…

Jax was frustrated. Despite the fact that the taxi driver had been true to his word and gotten him to the airport in record time, since then Jax had hit roadblock after roadblock in trying to locate either Brenda or the plane she might have boarded. He had been there nearly forty minutes now and he was no closer to finding Brenda than he had been back at the hotel. He was certain that Cordoba would never travel commercial, feeling safer in his own private plane, but Jax had tried without success to locate either Cordoba or Cordoba’s plane, let alone a destination for that plane. And unlike the doorman at the hotel and the taxi driver who’d brought him here, none of the airport employees seemed to have memories that could be improved by the flashing of money. In fact, no one matching the descriptions of Brenda and Cordoba had been seen by anyone he’d talked to – employees or passengers alike; it was almost as if Brenda and Cordoba had fallen into a black hole somewhere between the hotel and the airport. But he knew better. He just had to find the right person to ask…

Having just gone through Customs, he was on the concourse that led to the departure area for the hundreds of private jets that flew in and out of Orly daily. It was then that he spotted the private lounge that was exclusively for the use of the passengers on those private jets. Someone there had to have seen them, he told himself, trying to bolster his waning hopes; fate wouldn’t be so cruel as to allow him a glimpse of Brenda, then snatch her away from him again forever. They were meant to be together. He *would* find her, no matter what!

He opened the door to the lounge and was immediately greeted by a tall, leggy blonde, who smiled warmly at him as he entered. "Bonsoir, monsieur. Bienvenu."

"Merci," Jax replied in return. "Parlez-vous Anglais?"

"Oui! Yes!" the hostess, whose nametag read ‘Marie,’ replied. "Do you require assistance?" she asked, as Jax pulled out his picture of Brenda and handed it to her.

"Yes, I was supposed to meet this woman and her companion here for drinks, but I think I may be a little late," Jax lied smoothly, hoping that the woman would be more willing to talk if she thought he was a friend to them both. "Have they already been in?"

"Oui, Mlle. Devereaux and Monsieur Cordoba," she replied easily. "I’m afraid you are too late. They left probably twenty minutes ago," she added, handing Jax back the photo.

Jax could barely contain his excitement; finally someone admitted to having seen them! The next step was to find out where they were going. "I’m sorry to have missed them," Jax said. "But I’m sure that they’ll have a wonderful time on their trip."

"Oui, monsieur," Marie answered, closing her eyes dreamily. "But who can’t help but have a wonderful time in a place as beautiful and exciting as Rio?"

"Ah, yes, Rio!" Jax smiled, then turned and quickly walked back out the door, cell phone already in hand. "Yeah, Chuck, this is Jax… Plot a course for South America and get us in line for takeoff… We’re headed to Rio!"