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      JUSTINE DAVIS

      lives in Kingston, Washington. Her interests outside of writing are sailing, doing needlework, horseback riding and driving her restored 1967 Corvette roadster—top down, of course. Justine says that years ago, when she worked in law enforcement, a young man she worked with encouraged her to try for a promotion to a position that was, at that time, occupied only by men. “I succeeded, became wrapped up in my new job and that man moved away, never, I thought, to be heard from again. Ten years later he appeared out of the woods of Washington State, saying he’d never forgotten me and would I please marry him. With that history, how could I write anything but romance?” And with a kick-ass career on the force, how could Justine not write a Silhouette Bombshell novel? Justine has put her police background to use to launch Silhouette Bombshell’s twelve-book continuity, ATHENA FORCE, with Proof.

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 1

      I need your help.

      Four small words, yet they had the power to turn an FBI agent into a burglar.

      It had been a while, but Alexandra Forsythe quickly saw that the locks at the hospital, in this basement area anyway, were not going to be a particular challenge. The security of the small-town medical center wasn’t designed to protect against people like her.

      She was thankful the practice of observation had become so ingrained in her. As a forensic scientist with the FBI, she focused on tiny details every day, so even though she’d been here earlier under horrible circumstances, she was still able to recall most of what she needed now. The layout of the building, the basement and the morgue itself.

      That she was risking her career with the FBI was something she was quite aware of. Yet, when placed on the opposite end of the scale from the woman who lay on the other side of this door, it didn’t even move the dial.

      Lorraine Miller Carrington had counted on that commitment when she’d put out the call invoking an old promise among friends. Alex had made the Cassandra promise with all the zeal of a passionate young woman, but her dedication to what it meant had never wavered as time passed. She would do what had to be done, whatever the cost. They all would, every one of the remaining six Cassandras. They would keep their word.

      It was what graduates of the Athena Academy for the Advancement of Women did.

      “Oh, God, Rainy,” she murmured, feeling her eyes brim with the tears she had been fighting so hard all day.

      Alex had come back to southern Arizona expecting trouble. She could only guess at the severity of the situation that would make the cool, unflappable Rainy put in that call for help. She knew it hadn’t been done lightly.

      But she had never expected to end up here, in the small town of Casa Grande, just north of the smaller town of Eloy, where Rainy’s car had crashed. Rainy had made it only a third of the way from her home in Tucson to Athena Academy, just west of Phoenix. It was there where four of her former mentees, the Cassandras, had waited with Athena Academy principal Christine Evans to hear what dire event had instigated Rainy’s desperate call.

      Now Alex wondered if there could be anything worse than watching an autopsy on someone you loved.

      She reined in her emotions and glanced up and down the hallway to be certain she was alone. Foot traffic down here was rare at 3:00 a.m. She’d waited in a shadowy side corridor until she’d seen a man with a cleaning cart load up with fresh supplies and get on an elevator. He was the third uniformed worker to have followed this route, and she was guessing from the fact that she’d seen three of the big carts in the storage room that he was the last of the night cleaning crew. Still, she waited a little longer, just to be sure.

      Finally she slipped on the blue uniform smock she’d liberated from a linen closet on the third floor ward, figuring it might buy her a few seconds if she was discovered. Her intractable red-gold spiral curls were already pulled up into a tight knot at the crown of her head, to further the makeshift disguise and to avoid leaving any telltale hairs behind. She’d come to appreciate the uniqueness of both the color and curls. But tonight