Green Beret Bodyguard

The unknown soldier

He may have lost his memory, but not his mercenary skills. And once Jack Coburn learned his real name, he sought out the woman who could help him piece together the rest of his past. Lola Famosa had hired the green beret months ago to find her missing brother. And that mission had nearly cost him his life.

But locating the lovely doctor presented new dangers. Someone was determined to keep Lola from her quest, and her life hung in the balance. Jack’s first concern might have been regaining his memory, but now it was all about protecting Lola. For she was the one thing this loner was determined to keep.

“Nothing’s ringing any bells.” Except Lola in those jeans as she bent over the drawer. That rang his bells.

She spun around, pinching a card between two fingers. “Got it.”

“It’s a start. Maybe this guy can tell me if I have a home, a family…a wife.”

Lola’s long, dark lashes fluttered. “I doubt it.”

He plucked the card from her fingers and slipped it into his back pocket. “You doubt I have a home, a family and a wife?”

“You may have a home and a family, but no self-respecting wife would allow her husband to go gallivanting around the world saving other people’s families.” Her jaw formed a hard line as if daring him to dispute her logic.

“I don’t know about that.” He held up his left hand. “But I don’t feel married.”

Could he be lusting after this hot doctor if he were?

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Carol Ericson lives with her husband and two sons in Southern California, home of state-of-the-art cosmetic surgery, wild freeway chases, palm trees bending in the Santa Ana winds and a million amazing stories. These stories, along with hordes of virile men and feisty women, clamor for release from Carol’s head. It makes for some interesting headaches until she sets them free to fulfill their destinies and her readers’ fantasies. To find out more about Carol, her books and her strange headaches, please visit her website at www.carolericson.com, “where romance flirts with danger.”

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Jack Coburn—He has a name on a piece of paper and a million bucks in a suitcase, but no memory. He turns to a beautiful Cuban-American doctor to help him find his way, but ends up bringing danger to her doorstep…in more ways than one.

Lola Famosa—Her brother is missing in Afghanistan and now the man she hired to negotiate his release is back in Miami with no recollection of his mission and a target on his back. She jumps at the chance to help him regain his memory, but fears that his old life will torpedo their growing attraction.

Gabriel Famosa—A research scientist, he was kidnapped to further a terrorist plot. Will the man his sister sent to rescue him regain his memory in time to save him? Or will he be complicit in a plan to hold the world hostage to terrorist demands?

Emilio Diaz—A shady associate of Lola’s crime-boss father, he may just hold the key to Jack’s identity…if he’s not killed first.

Eddie Hidalgo—This young boy is Dr. Famosa’s favorite patient, but being close to Dr. Famosa has its risks.

Dr. Lesley Jerome—A psychiatrist at Miami Hope Hospital, Dr. Jerome is willing to help Jack try to regain his memories by any means necessary.

Hector Villagrande—The man who murdered Eddie’s mother has a grudge against Lola, and getting out of jail on a technicality allows him plenty of opportunity to get even.

Farouk—Prospero’s former nemesis has expanded his business model and taken his terror worldwide, and this time it’s personal.

Colonel Scripps—Prospero’s coordinator, the colonel knows he can summon all of the former team members with one call. He just hopes it’s not too late to save Prospero’s leader, Jack Coburn.

For Margery. Thanks for keeping me company in “The Lounge”.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Prologue

An invisible net tightened around Jack Coburn.

His gaze flicked to the black suit with the dark shades. Was he speaking into his lapel? A man at two o’clock straightened his shoulders and reached beneath his jacket. Was he going for a gun?

Adrenaline spiraled through Jack’s body, and the hair on the back of his neck stood at attention. He’d arrived in Miami under an assumed name. Did the suits know that fake name? Had they given him that name?

Shifting his eyes to the left, he marked another suspicious person, this one dressed in a loud aloha shirt and talking to himself. Jack picked them out with the ease of a bloodhound on a scent…only he was the prey.

Hanging back a moment, Jack slipped his hand through the arm of a pretty blonde who’d given him a dazzling smile in the coach section of the airplane. She let out a little gasp and Jack ducked his head, his lip close to her ear.

“Can you pretend you’re with me? I’m trying to avoid someone, and if she sees me with you she’ll back off.”

The blonde recovered quickly and a pretend pout hovered at her lipsticked mouth. “Pretend all you want. I’ll help you out, even though you ignored me on the flight.”

Jack twisted his lips into a semblance of a smile. “I noticed you, but I’m kind of…involved.”

He pulled the cap lower on his forehead and scanned the crowd for more agents or government officials or whoever else had him on their radar. Someone jogged past him, and Jack coiled his muscles, preparing for a fight. The man swept up a child in a hug, and Jack released a long breath.

The woman at his side nudged his shoulder with her head. “You’re not involved with the woman you’re trying to hide from, are you?”

“No. She’s the one causing me trouble.”

“How long are we an item?”

“Just until we get through the baggage claim area.” Once he took off with the black duffel that contained everything he knew about his life, he’d be safe…at least for now.

The woman squeezed in front of him on the down escalator. Pointing to the right, she said, “Baggage claim’s over there. It’s been a memorable two minutes.”

Her bright, hard words pierced the brittle barrier of tension encasing his mind. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I can pay for your taxi or…”

She held up her hand, a white card with gold lettering pinched between her manicured nails. “That’s okay. Maybe you can give me a call sometime if things don’t work out with your…involvement.”

He glanced at the card before slipping it into the pocket of his jeans. “Thanks, Rebecca.”

Jack merged with the crowd as it surged into the baggage claim area, his shoulders tense, his body still sore from the tumble he’d taken down the side of a mountain somewhere in Afghanistan. He shoved his hands in the pockets of the cheap jacket he’d picked up at the airport in Frankfurt, acting as if he belonged when, in truth, he belonged nowhere.

The baggage carousel had already creaked to life and was displaying its offerings in a lazy circle. A film of sweat broke out under the band of Jack’s cap. He reached down to swipe at a black bag, but a man stepped in front of him.

“I think that’s mine. These bags all look alike.”

Jack nodded, another fear stabbing his gut. What if somebody had picked up the duffel bag by mistake? That bag had saved his life and gotten him to Miami, where he planned to claim the rest of his life.

The carousel served up another soft-sided black bag, and Jack held his breath, his fingers tingling with anticipation. He leaned over the bag and yanked the strap, lifting it clear of its unclaimed mates. He read the fake name he’d scribbled on the paper airline luggage tag and hitched the bag over his shoulder.

He caught sight of the man in the suit, standing tall and perusing the passengers hoisting their bags from the carousel and greeting friends and family. They must’ve recognized the phony name on the passenger list, but at least Jack had changed his appearance so he looked nothing like his picture on the watch list.

Jack hunched his shoulders, tucked his chin to his chest and made a beeline for the exit. As the glass doors to freedom slid open, someone tapped his shoulder. He swung around, hands fisted, jaw clenched.

The blonde from the plane, Rebecca, widened her eyes and blinked. “I don’t even know your name. What’s your name?”

His mind went blank for a second before he stuttered. “W-Will. Just Will.”

The suit from one corner of the baggage claim area and the Hawaiian shirt from the other glanced at the exit door in unison. Jack swung the duffel onto his back and sprinted outside. He dashed into traffic, crouching behind an airport shuttle van. With his heart pounding, Jack weaved through the vehicles clogging the street in front of the airport.

Finally, he jumped onto a bus headed for a parking lot. He slumped in a vinyl seat, his pulse beating a furious rhythm behind his closed lids.

He’d made it. He’d finally made it to Miami. Now he just had to track down the one woman who could help him. He knew he was Jack Coburn. The young Afghan boy had told him that much. But who the hell was Jack Coburn and why was he a wanted man?

Chapter One

Dr. Lola Famosa rubbed the goose bumps on her arms…and the chill had nothing to do with the cold, dead body reposing on the slab in front of her.

On her way to the hospital’s morgue in the basement, she’d had the sensation of eyes following her. Ridiculous, since she’d taken the elevator down alone and all the doors along the pristine corridor had been closed.

She glanced over her shoulder at the slice of window in the door to the morgue. Squinting through the mesh covering the glass, she gripped the edge of the table, her gloved fingers inches away from the lifeless arm of Elena Hidalgo. Nada.

Lola blew out a breath and dragged the back of her hand across her forehead, the smell of the latex glove competing with the scent of formaldehyde in the morgue. The twin smells jerked her back to reality and the task at hand. Dr. Trapp ran a tight ship down here, and he’d grudgingly allowed her to take a look at Elena Hidalgo while he was on a break.

Dr. Trapp didn’t get why Lola had insisted on taking a peek at the dead crack addict, murdered by her drug-dealing boyfriend. But then Dr. Trapp wasn’t responsible for the well-being of the crack addict’s child, Eddie, who’d been injured in the assault on his mother.

Lola wiggled her fingers, snapping the gloves tighter around her hands. To better treat Elena’s son, Lola wanted to get a sense of this woman, wanted to judge the extent of her trauma. Dr. Trapp planned to do the autopsy later this evening, so Elena Hidalgo lay before her battered but still in one piece.

With one finger, Lola brushed the woman’s dark hair from her bruised cheekbone. Her gaunt, lined face told a story much longer than Elena’s twenty-four years of life. Had she tried to protect her child in the end? Had she felt one last burst of motherly instinct, which had deserted her ever since she’d begged the courts to give her one last chance?

The door to the stairwell creaked on its hinges, and Lola jumped back from her examination of Elena. She banged her elbow on the open door to the freezer where Elena had lain tagged and bagged. Could Dr. Trapp be back from his break already?

Lola’s pulse danced at the base of her throat. She backed up on silent sneakers, away from the scope of the narrow window, and pressed her back against the wall. Running her tongue across her dry lips, her gaze flitted toward the tray of sharp instruments awaiting Dr. Trapp’s steady hand.

If someone broke into this room, a well-placed scalpel could stop him in his tracks. She stifled a gasp. Was that a footfall outside the door?

The morgue remained locked at all times, and she had to practically beg Dr. Trapp for his extra key. So if Dr. Trapp or his medical examiner assistant was lurking in the hallway, either one of them would have access. Folding her arms and gripping the sleeves of her white coat, Lola flattened herself against the icy wall and stared at the door handle. It turned. And stopped. Thwarted by the lock.

A cry gurgled and died at the back of Lola’s throat and she slid down the wall. She could crawl toward the instrument table, unseen by anyone peering into the room. And then what? Grab a scalpel? Hell, she could grab an electric saw.

A shadow darkened the window. Lola splayed damp hands, sweating inside the gloves, on the cool linoleum, as if securing them in starting blocks, waiting for a whistle or some sign to send her scurrying for a weapon.

Maybe someone had come down to the morgue to get a last look at Elena Hidalgo. To mourn her. To curse her.

But Lola’s thumping heart mocked this theory. She knew the stranger outside that door was here for her. He’d been watching her for weeks. Waiting.

The ding of the elevator and the rumble of the doors acted like a cool hand to a fevered brow…her fevered brow. Someone was coming. Voices spilled down the hallway, the cheery click of heels dispelling the ominous silence hovering outside the door to the morgue.

This time when the footsteps halted on the other side of the door, a key scraped in the lock. Lola shot to her feet as the door swung open.

Dr. Trapp raised his reddish eyebrows. “Are you still here, Dr. Famosa?”

Despite the chill in the room, Lola’s cheeks warmed. “I got here a little later than expected.”

“I pulled her out for you.” He plucked a glove from the box and waved it at the tall brunette, shrugging into a white coat. “Do you know Dr. Felson?”

Lola thrust out an arm, and Dr. Felson dropped her gaze to the less-than-pristine glove encasing Lola’s hand. Lola shook her head, her ponytail swinging behind her. “Oh, I haven’t examined the body physically.”

Dr. Felson gave a little wave and a smile. “That’s okay. I’ll pass.”

“I hope you’re not squeamish, Dr. Felson.” Dr. Trapp adjusted his glasses and peered at his vicious instruments. “Autopsies are not for the squeamish.”

Dr. Felson rolled her eyes at Lola. “If I were squeamish, I wouldn’t have survived my training.” She added in a mock whisper to Lola, “Dr. Trapp doesn’t think women can stomach autopsies.”

“I heard that. You’re not a woman, you’re a doctor.” Dr. Trapp wheeled the scale next to the slab

“My point exactly. Anyway, I’m not squeamish, just hygienic.” To prove her point, Dr. Felson strode to the stainless steel sink and cranked on the water.

Lola eyed her wrinkled gloves and flushed again. Although you could eat off this floor if you really wanted to, it was still a floor in a hospital, and Lola’s gloves had been sweeping it moments before.

She peeled off the gloves and dropped them into the trash can. “Did you two see someone in the hallway when you came off the elevator?”

Dr. Felson twisted her head over her shoulder as she soaped up her hands in the sink. “No.”

Lola shifted her gaze to Dr. Trapp. “Dr. Trapp?”

“Hmm?” He’d picked up his saw and was testing the blade with his gloved fingertip.

“Did you see anyone outside the door or in the hallway?” Dr. Felson had turned from the sink, crumpling a paper towel in her hands and drawing her brows over her nose, probably congratulating herself that she’d refused to shake hands with the crazy doctor.

Dr. Trapp glanced up and over the rim of his glasses. “The hallway was empty. There’s nobody down here this time of the day, or should I say night? The pathology department is closed for business. That’s why I prefer to do autopsies now—fewer distractions.”

Lola rolled the kinks out of her shoulders. The intruder had heard the elevator and had taken off the way he’d come down…the stairwell. Or maybe he’d slipped out the exit to the alley. She’d seen the door handle turn. There was no mistaking that.

Dr. Trapp waved a scalpel across Elena Hidalgo’s body like a magic wand, only there was no bringing this sad woman back to life. “Are you done communing with the crack addict?”

Lola pursed her lips. Miami Hope Hospital should be thrilled Dr. Trapp saw only dead patients and not live ones. “I just wanted to have a look at my patient’s mother so when he speaks of her, I have a visual.”

“You’re a pediatrician, Dr. Famosa, not a psychiatrist.”

“Sometimes the two go hand in hand.” Lola shrugged out of her lab coat and dropped it into the laundry bin. “Dr. Felson, can you stand at the door and wait until I get in the elevator? I swear there was someone outside this door earlier and it creeped me out.”

The doctor held up her hands, elbows bent. “Sure, if you get the door. I don’t want to have to wash my hands again.”

Lola cranked open the door and propped it open with her foot while Dr. Felson wedged her shoulder against it to hold it ajar. She winked at Lola. “I don’t blame you. I’m not comfortable wandering around the basement at night, either.”

Lola slipped into the hallway as Dr. Trapp’s voice whined, “I hope you’re not squeamish, Dr. Felson.”

Lola quickened her pace over the freshly mopped floor. It occurred to her that maybe her stealthy stranger had been someone from the janitorial staff. Whoever it was, he or she had been skulking outside the door—no other word for it.

Jabbing at the elevator button, Lola threw a glance at Dr. Felson, still stationed in the doorway of the morgue. Dr. Felson called down the hallway, “I hope it’s not slow tonight. Dr. Trapp’s getting very antsy in here.”

An orange light illuminated the B above the car as the elevator settled into place. The doors rumbled open and Lola flashed a thumbs-up sign to Dr. Felson and slipped inside the confines of the four walls. Safety.

She’d grab one of the security guards to see her safely to her car, and then maybe she could shake this aura of doom that had hung over her for too long. She rubbed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. In reality, she’d never escape the dread that had overcome her life since her brother, Gabriel, had disappeared in Afghanistan…not until he was home safe and sound.

The doors slid open at the lobby level, where a few people still milled around, perhaps coming in to visit patients. Miami Hope’s emergency entrance, which would be bustling, was around the corner and facing a different street.

Lola spied her favorite security guard, Sergio, and waved. “Hola, Sergio. Qué tal?”

Sergio flashed her a big smile. “Hola, doctore. Estoy bien. Trabajando tarde?”

“Sí, I’m working a little late. Can you walk me to my car? Or at least watch me? I’m on this level.”

“No problema.” He took two steps toward the door leading to the parking structure and held it open for her. “Where’s your car?”

“It’s in the second aisle, two from the end. If you could just walk me to the end of the aisle that would be great.”

The soles of her sneakers squeaked on the smooth surface of the parking garage. Sergio’s solid presence beside her was comforting. When they reached her car’s aisle, she put her hand on Sergio’s arm. “This is good. Gracias.”

Lola beeped her remote. Grabbing the handle of her car door, she turned and waved at Sergio, who was still stationed at the end of the aisle. She tossed her purse into the passenger seat and dropped onto the leather on the driver’s side.

She clicked her locks, and almost immediately a frisson of fear spiraled up her spine. Then a hand clamped over her mouth from behind and a husky voice rasped in her ear, “I need your help.”

Chapter Two

The woman’s soft lips parted beneath the loose clasp of his hand, her lipstick sticking to his palm. He clicked the safety of his unloaded weapon in case she got any ideas about laying on the horn. Her hands grasped the steering wheel, her knuckles white against the black leather.

God, he felt like the slime of the earth, but he needed to take her by surprise so she couldn’t warn anyone, couldn’t warn his enemies. Her bottle-green eyes, wide above his hand clamped over the bottom half of her face, met his gaze in the rearview mirror.

“I’m sorry. I need information from you. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Air escaped noisily from her nose and her hot breath condensed on his palm. He cupped his hand, giving her space to breathe. “I’ll remove my hand from your mouth if you promise not to scream. Can you promise me that?”

She nodded, and dark strands of hair that had escaped from her ponytail tickled the back of his hand. He slid his fingers across her soft cheek and held his breath.

Crying out, she scrabbled for the door handle and he cinched her upper arm with his fingers. “I’m Jack Coburn.”

The utterance of his name had a powerful effect on her. She fell back against her seat and jerked her head around to face him. “Y-you’re Jack Coburn? Prove it.”

Out of all the passports and IDs in the black duffel bag, not one had his name printed on it. But he had something better. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew the crumpled letter. He held it out to her, and she snatched it from his hand.

She smoothed out the single sheet of paper against the steering wheel, and Jack coiled his muscles in case she went for the horn. She didn’t.

Her brow creased as she scanned the letter. “I wrote this…to Jack Coburn. But I’ve never met him before, so how do I know you’re Jack?”

He lifted his shoulders, the gun dangling from his fingers, the barrel pointing to the floor of the car. “I don’t know how to prove it to you. I got it straight from an Afghan boy, but I couldn’t bring him with me as a character reference.”

The woman, Lola, curled her slim fingers around the sheet of paper, crumpling it into familiar lines. “What are you talking about? You need someone else to tell you who you are?”

Okay, time to play the pity card, and maybe she won’t scream bloody murder and escape from the car.

Massaging his temple, he dropped his eyelids, peering at her through slits. “Yes, I do. You see, Lola Famosa—” the name rolled off his tongue “—I can’t remember a damned thing about myself or what I was doing in Afghanistan, but I’m pretty sure it had something to do with you and this guy Gabriel you wrote about in your letter.”

Was Gabriel her husband? Jack studied Lola’s profile with its firm chin at odds with the pert nose, and the long black lashes that blinked in confusion. If so, Gabriel was one lucky guy…or not. Where the hell was Gabriel, anyway?

She swung around suddenly and jabbed her finger in his chest. “Are you putting me on? What are you doing here? Why did you choose this method—” she waved her hands around the interior of the car “—to contact me? Once you located me, you couldn’t leave me a note at the hospital? You had to go skulking around the morgue?”

The morgue? Jack let that one pass. “The reason I have amnesia is because someone pushed me off the side of a mountain and then left me there to die. When I made it back to the town, the Afghan boy, Yasir, found me. He told me I was some kind of spy. I’m thinking maybe I can go directly to the U.S. Embassy or somehow contact the CIA, but I suspect neither of those august institutions would be thrilled to find me alive.”