Exit Strategy

“Kate Donovan’s Parallel Lies is so full of action it will keep readers on the edge of their seats from start to finish. Her characters are well-developed and her dialogue and description are great.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

“Identity Crisis is a terrific CIA suspense thriller that never slows down until the final confrontation between the Feds and the bad guys occurs.”

—Harriet Klausner

A rough voice reminded her of the danger to an agent on an unsanctioned op in a foreign land. “Freeze!”

Miranda spun toward the voice, and as she did so, the test tube of HeetSeek slipped from her grasp, crashing to the floor at her feet.

She jumped back, certain that the lab would be rocked by an explosion. When nothing happened, she almost laughed with relief. Then she raised her hands above her head, looked directly into the angry eyes of the armed men in the doorway and said with a cheerful smile, “I guess I’m busted. And so is my loot.”

Dear Reader,

Every once in a while when I’m writing a story, I fall in love with the wrong guy—a guy the heroine would never choose because he’s so flawed. She rides off into the sunset with her chosen love, and I’m left with two choices—rehabilitate my guy so that he’s hero material, or just keep him for myself.

At least, that’s the way it used to be.

Enter Silhouette Bombshell, which gives me a third choice: find a heroine who loves my flawed guy, warts and all. Because in Bombshell, he really doesn’t have to be a “hero” in the sense that he saves the day—the heroine takes care of that! He just has to be the right guy for her. And he has to be sexy.

Which brings us to fiery, tortured Ray Ortega. If you read Identity Crisis, you know how badly he screwed up. If you didn’t read it, even better! This story tells you all you need to know about Ortega’s shortcomings—and his impressive strengths.

But most of all, you’ll be impressed by Miranda Cutler. She really does save the day—in ways you could never expect. I hope you agree they’re an incendiary pair!

Best wishes,

Kate

Exit Strategy

Kate Donovan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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KATE DONOVAN

is the author of more than a dozen novels and novellas, ranging from time travel and paranormal to historical romance, suspense and romantic comedy. An attorney, she draws on her criminal law background to create challenges worthy of her heroines, who crack safes, battle bad guys and always get their man. As for Kate, she definitely got her man and is living happily ever after with him and their two children in Elk Grove, California.

To Paul—writing this story was a breeze

because I had you to inspire it.

Love, Kate.

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 1

“T his is such an honor, Ms. Smith. Working with you and your team. You guys are legendary at Langley. Especially you.” Twenty-six-year-old Miranda Cutler took a deep breath to stop herself from gushing. Then she adopted a more businesslike tone. “May I ask why I was chosen for this assignment?”

“You have all the necessary qualifications,” Jane Smith explained, reaching across the kitchen table to finger a lock of Miranda’s hair. “You live in a building with security cameras, and you have red hair. Or at least, almost red. If there was more time I’d make you lighten it, but this will have to do.”

Miranda stared for a moment, certain that the older agent was joking. Then without pulling away she murmured, “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t be misled. It’s a compliment that we’re trusting a rookie with something as sensitive as this. Of course, we had no choice. But still, you’re lucky. I would have killed for this kind of opportunity when I was starting out.”

The bitchiness underlying Smith’s attitude stung Miranda, but the younger CIA operative reminded herself that this woman was the best of the best. The mere whisper of her name in the espionage world evoked stories of daring exploits and black ops phenomena. And for reasons that were about to be revealed, this superspy was seated at Miranda’s kitchen table.

With that reminder in place, she used a respectful tone as she asked her guest, “What kind of opportunity is it, exactly? I mean, red hair and security cameras? There must be more to it than that.”

Smith nodded. “Less than five hours ago, a high-ranking government official was framed for murder. If the story reaches the public, that man’s reputation will be ruined for life, as will the reputation of the president. We’re going to prevent that from happening.”

Miranda leaned forward, impressed with the plan, and finally understanding the interest in the security cameras. “We’re going to provide him with an alibi? Make it look like he was here with me when the murder occurred?”

Smith glanced over her shoulder at the pair of male operatives who had been quietly pacing Miranda’s living room floor. “She’s quick, just like I predicted.”

“And built,” the blonder of the two men added. “Ortega’s gonna love her.”

“Ortega?” Miranda shook her head, certain that she had misunderstood. “You don’t mean Ray Ortega, do you? I mean, I know you and he used to work together—”

“And now he’s the director of the Strategic Profiling and Identification Network,” Smith confirmed. “More importantly, he’s the president’s choice for the next director of the FBI—a position with much more influence. Ortega’s going to kick ass in that job, and there are those who want to keep that from ever taking place.”

“So they framed him for murder? My God.” Miranda sat back in her chair, trying to absorb the information while marveling at her good luck in landing this high-level assignment. First, Jane Smith ringing her doorbell in the middle of the night. Now Ray Ortega—another legend. This one, an out-and-out hero. And if half of what she’d heard about him was true, a genius at reading people. Not to mention at killing them.

“Earlier this evening, Ortega arrived at a Southern California beach house for a meeting with one of the president’s advisors. He found the advisor dead on the floor under circumstances that were clearly arranged to incriminate Ortega himself. His first impulse was to call the police, but he knew it would create a scandal. He could clear his name eventually, of course. But it would ruin his chances of becoming the Bureau’s director. He wants that job—not for the glory, but because he wants to clean up this country. The scum that framed him fear him for that very reason. So…” Smith took a deep breath, then explained, “Ortega did the smart thing. The right thing. He called me.”

“For an alibi.”

“A temporary one. Until he can prove he was framed. Luckily I was in L.A. with most of my team, so we immediately started cleaning up the crime scene. Restaging it so that it looks like a simple break-in gone wrong. Once it was under control, I headed back here.

“Meanwhile, Ortega was smuggled out of town to a private landing strip where we had a plane waiting for him. He flew to Dallas and changed planes, using a fake identity to take a commercial flight home. It took precious extra time, but was necessary. Flight records will have to be doctored, of course. There are a million details,” Smith added, as though speaking to herself rather than Miranda.

Then she patted the younger agent’s hand. “When Ortega’s plane touches down, you’ll be there. You’ll ride back here with him and enter the building, pretending to be returning home from three dates. The cameras will record every move, then my team will splice the footage into existing tapes.”

“Three dates?”

Smith grinned. “One would seem too convenient. So you and Ortega are going to reenact a series of them. It’s all in the script we’ll provide for you. You’ll study it on your way to the airport. Be convincing. A great man’s reputation is riding on it.”

Ray Ortega. He was a great man. And a noble one, if half the stories were true. The thought of someone ruining him, negating all the sacrifices he had made for his country, not to mention all the great deeds he was still destined to accomplish, angered Miranda, and she insisted quietly, “I won’t let you down.”

Smith surprised her with an actual smile. “Your file is impressive for a rookie. I’ll use you again soon if I’m satisfied with your performance.”

“You mean, if Ortega’s satisfied,” the blond man interrupted with a lascivious chuckle.

When Miranda shot him a disgusted glare, Smith chided her. “If you’re going to succeed in this business, you’ll need to develop a thicker skin. And a sense of humor.”

Not waiting for a response, the older agent stood up and walked into the bedroom. Miranda trailed after her, watching as she began pulling clothes out of the closet. “First date, this. With jeans. Sexy, but not overwhelming.” She shoved a white eyelet shirt that was styled like a bustier into Miranda’s hands. “Second date…let’s see.” She rejected a series of items, settling finally on a medium-length black skirt and a black leather jacket. “With boots. And some sort of camisole or tube top.”

Miranda nodded.

“And for the big night, this is perfect.” She pulled out a short, sassy dress made of shimmering dark green fabric. “Green eyes, green dress, right? With sandals. No stockings. No bra. A signal dress.”

“Signal? Oh…” Miranda struggled not to flush. “Gotcha.”

“Remember, you’re doing it for your country,” the fair-haired man said from the doorway.

“Shut up,” Miranda advised him, adding to Smith, “I guess you’re right. I’ve got no sense of humor where this pig is concerned.”

Smith nodded, then turned toward the blond man. “Enough with the needling, Mark. Do something useful. Check to see if Ortega’s plane is on time.”

“I just called. It’s ten minutes ahead of schedule.”

Smith nodded again, then told Miranda, “Get dressed. Mark will drive you to the airport. You’ll study the script on the way there. You and Ortega can spend the ride back getting acquainted. And by getting acquainted,” she added dryly, “I mean, having sex in the limo.”

“What?” Miranda grimaced. “Is that another joke?”

Ignoring Mark’s laughter, Smith explained. “I want the camera to record two people who have been dating for a week and are just about ready to explode from repressed lust. Professional agents will be watching this tape to verify Ortega’s alibi, and I want them to either be too embarrassed to study it intently, or so caught up in the erotic elements, they won’t notice tiny imperfections in our work. Which means you and Ortega have to put on a convincing show.”

Miranda’s thoughts flashed back to her father, who had reacted with disdain when she had first announced her plans to join the CIA. “You’re too pretty,” he had informed her bluntly. “They’ll use you like a whore.”

Stung, she had reminded him about the awards that covered the walls of her childhood bedroom. Marksmanship and archery—the girl with the perfect aim. But he had just shaken his head, muttering, “You’ll see,” and she had vowed never to discuss it with him again, a vow she kept until the day he died, six months later.

“Is this a problem?” Jane Smith asked her now, her tone every bit as disdainful as Roger Cutler’s had been. “Do I need to find someone else?”

“No, it’s fine.” Miranda took a deep breath, knowing it was useless—and unwise—to argue with Smith. Better to wait until she met Ortega. Surely he’d understand that they could be convincing for the camera without such extreme tactics. And if he agreed with Smith, well…

“I’ll do whatever it takes to help Director Ortega,” she announced finally.

The older agent flashed a triumphant smile. “Smart girl. This could make your career, you know. So get dressed. We’ll clear out of here.

“And remember. When you walk through your front door and into the hall, the show starts. Don’t look up at the camera, but be aware of it. You’re a single girl—one who hasn’t gotten laid in a while. You’re headed for O’Leary’s hoping to find the guy of your dreams. Keep the act up until you clear the front walkway. Then go around to the Baker Street side. Mark will be waiting for you with the file. Study it on the ride. Once you hook up with Ortega, follow his lead. He’s a pro.”

“So am I,” Miranda assured her quietly. “Don’t worry about Ortega. He’ll be in good hands.”

During the half-hour ride to the airport, Miranda ignored the suggestive jokes and lame double entendres of her escort, concentrating instead on the script and discovering that this was really a fairly simple assignment. All she had to do was act naturally while keeping in mind the location of the four video cameras—one on the front steps of the apartment building, one in the lobby, the elevator camera, and the one positioned over the exterior of the elevator doors at the end of the hall leading to her apartment.

For the first “date,” she and Ortega were apparently just going to talk, and while the security system wouldn’t actually record their words, the script reminded them to get into their roles and stay in them. The date would end in the hallway, with Ortega kissing her respectfully.

The second date was also fairly mild. More talking for the cameras, but in an intimate fashion, with occasional nuzzling. A lingering kiss at the door, an invitation into the apartment, from which Ortega would be taped leaving after only a few minutes with a look of frustration on his face, as though he had been sure he was about to score.

Clever, she had to admit. Sounds like a real second date.

The third date was scripted as an inferno, complete with make-out sessions in the lobby, elevator and hall. Ortega would again be invited in, and this time he’d stay until early morning, when the cameras would catch him leaving, a satisfied expression on his face.

Most of the footage would be spliced into existing tapes, but this last bit—Ortega’s final exit—would be caught in real time, which meant he would actually spend the rest of the night with her.

It was already close to 4:00 a.m., and it would take at least an hour to get back to her place and film the three dates. They had to be finished long before 7:00 a.m., when the residents of her apartment building were first expected to venture into the hallways. Had it been a weekday morning, the timetable would have been almost impossible to plan, but this was Friday night—or more accurately, Saturday morning—and so they had a little more leeway.

“Time for your hot date,” Mark announced, slowing his black SUV to a stop on a dark stretch of road near the airport. “Ortega’s limo should be showing up any minute.”

She nodded. “I’m just going to leave this script with you if that’s okay.”

“Sure.” His gray eyes twinkled. “Enjoy yourself. I know Ortega will.”

“Did I mention you’re a pig?” she grumbled.

“I’ll call you when this is all over. We’ll have a drink and laugh about it. No hard feelings.”

“I’d love to get together when we’re both off duty,” she said with a purr. “It’ll give me a chance to beat the crap out of you.” Jumping from the vehicle, she slammed the door, then rested her thumb and little finger against her cheek in imitation of a phone, mouthing the words “Call me.”

Her driver scowled, revved the engine and sped away, just as a limousine rolled into view. It pulled up until the right rear passenger door was within inches of where she stood. Then the door opened, and she had to remind herself to take a deep breath before peeking inside. “Director Ortega?”

“Agent Cutler?” A handsome, dark-haired man gave her a reassuring smile. “Get in. We’ve got a lot to do, and not much time to do it.”

She slid in next to him, still forcing herself to breathe normally, but it wasn’t easy. For one thing, he was better looking than she had imagined he’d be. High cheekbones; wavy blue-black hair; an infectious smile. And his eyes were amazing—dark brown with flecks of bronze. She was sure he was well-built, but for the moment, she couldn’t get past his arresting face to check out the rest of him.

Of course, she’d find out about the body soon enough….

“Jane really outdid herself,” he told her simply. “You’ve got just the right look. I assume she told you about my history with sexy redheads?”

Miranda flushed. “If there had been more time, I would have done something to bring out more red highlights—”

“It’s perfect the way it is. Auburn, right?”

She nodded.

Ortega touched her arm. “This is an unconventional assignment, especially for a rookie. It’s okay to be a little nervous.”

“I’m just excited,” she countered, then she flushed again, fearing he’d misinterpret her enthusiasm.

“Great. So? I assume you’ve read the script? How would you like to proceed?”

Miranda gave her shoulders a small shrug. “Jane Smith seemed to think we should…well…fool around a little—”

“Jane Smith is a freaking robot about this kind of thing,” he interrupted, his jaw muscles visibly clenching. “I apologize for her.”

Miranda closed her eyes and was able to breathe normally for the first time since she’d entered the vehicle. “That’s okay.”

“Do you need a drink?”

“No. Not at all.” She gave him a grateful smile. “It really is an honor to assist you, sir.”

“How much did she tell you about my predicament?”

“You’ve been framed for murder. It’s outrageous,” she added staunchly. “No one would believe you’re a killer—”

“I am a killer,” he corrected her. “But not a murderer. So? What do you say we get acquainted? The old-fashioned way. By talking,” he added, his warm smile returning.

He had read Miranda’s file—in fact, he seemed to have memorized it—and asked thoughtful questions about her life on the ranch both before and after the accident that put her father in a wheelchair. He remarked on her awards, complimented her performance during training and smoothly integrated some suggestions regarding their upcoming dates, mostly having to do with her comfort level as he repeatedly reminded her that as his date, she always had the right to say “no” to any move he made. If at any time his pace made her uncomfortable, she had only to say one word to make him back off.

Just like a real date….

“According to your file, they’ve got you in some sort of language immersion program. What’s that about?”

“It’s something new they’re trying,” she explained. “Exposing me to twelve different languages at one time. Not so much to learn any of them, obviously, but to be able to recognize them, and identify key words, patterns, that sort of thing.”

“Have they said why?”

“No, but I’m dying to find out. Some assignment in an international hub, I’m guessing. Or—” she paused to smile “—maybe they just want to see what it does to my thought patterns.”

He nodded in agreement. “Has it affected your dreaming?”

“Not yet. But I’m supposed to keep a dream journal. Do you have a theory?”

“No. But it’s fascinating. You’ll have to tell me how it all works out.”

His mood was so calm, especially given his circumstances, the effect was almost eerie, and so relaxing that Miranda had to shake herself back to attention when the limousine drew to a halt on a side street two blocks from her apartment.

“We’ll walk from here,” Ortega explained, his tone suddenly brisk. “Remember, even though there’s no audio, we’ll stay in character—words as well as actions. You never know when someone might be a lip-reader.”

“I understand.”

The driver opened the door, and Miranda slid out of the vehicle, followed by Ortega. For the first time, she realized how tall he was, and definitely well-built in his black polo shirt and tan slacks. He was staring down at her, the bronze flecks in his eyes sparkling despite the dim lighting, and she barely noticed the limousine pull away.

“Ready?”

She nodded, moistening her lips.

He hesitated, then said quietly, “There’s something you should know, Miranda. I won’t be acting tonight. I’m extremely attracted to you.”

“It’s the hair,” she said, trying for a light tone.

“You’d be gorgeous even if you shaved it all off.” He cupped her chin in his rough hand. “Remember what I said. If I go too far, too fast, resist. I’ll slow it right down.”

“Okay. Thanks. And vice versa,” she added without thinking.

Ortega stared for a second, then chuckled warmly, and for the first time that night she felt as though she had surprised him. Maybe even impressed him.

It was a good feeling, and as she let him take her hand and escort her down the street, she reminded herself that she was more than a pliable rookie. She was a trained officer of the Central Intelligence Agency, with a lot more to offer than just auburn hair and video cameras.

She quickly learned that Ortega was a master at pretending. In fact, he turned their assignment into her best first date ever! He wanted to know everything—her favorite movie, favorite food, favorite book. He teased, bringing a smile to her lips again and again. And through it all, he was respectful and attentive.

And relaxed. She marveled at this above all. He had been framed for murder less than six hours earlier, yet here he was, bantering with her as if they were completely carefree. The alibi would succeed, she realized, not because of hot-and-heavy scenes, but because of this man’s attitude.

And the cameras had ample opportunity to memorialize that attitude, as Miranda and her date paused to chat on the doorstep, then again in the lobby. When the elevator arrived, she expected more of the same, and was surprised—and pleased—when he stepped up his attention just a bit, backing her into the corner and telling her in a husky voice how attractive she was.

Then he lowered his mouth to hers for an unscripted kiss so gentle, yet also so thorough, that she actually heard a small moan of delight emanate from her throat.

Ortega buried his face in her hair and murmured, “Nice touch,” sending a shudder of arousal right through her.

Conscious that her cheeks were flaming red, she darted through the elevator doors the instant they opened, then turned and motioned for him to join her as an afterthought. His eyes twinkled as he followed her to her door, and when she began fumbling for her keys, he reached for her again, his expression supremely confident.

But Miranda was ready, bracing her arms against his chest and pushing gently, her eyebrow arched in warning. And true to his word, he immediately backed off, a frustrated grin on his face.

“Let’s save something for next time, shall we?” she told him.

“Wednesday? I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“It’s a date.”

Unlocking the door, she swung it open, then watched as he ambled back to the elevator. When he turned to give her one last, impish smile, she felt another surge of arousal, and had to dart into the apartment and slam the door shut.