Native Born

“She will be with us for her Sunrise Ceremony.”

“Are there drugs involved? Peyote or some such? Because I will bust you, all of you, so fast.”

Clyne rolled his eyes. “You see. This is the trouble. You don’t know anything about us.”

“I know it’s illegal to give drugs to a minor.”

“We won’t.”

“Fine. Dress her up in feathers and beads. It won’t change her.” She stomped across the room and then back, her arms flapping occasionally. Finally she stopped before him. “I can’t believe I kissed you.”

He gave her a satisfied smile. “Well, you did.”

Native Born

Jenna Kernan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JENNA KERNAN has penned over two dozen novels and has received two RITA® Award nominations. Jenna is every bit as adventurous as her heroines. Her hobbies include recreational gold prospecting, scuba diving and gem hunting. Jenna grew up in the Catskills and currently lives in the Hudson Valley of New York state with her husband. Follow Jenna on Twitter, @jennakernan, on Facebook or at www.jennakernan.com.

For Jim, always.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

If Cassidy Walker had known what would happen that Monday morning, she most certainly would not have worn her new suit. As an FBI field agent, Cassidy had drawn the short stick on assignments today or perhaps this was her boss’s idea of humor. He knew there was no love lost between her and Tribal Councillor Clyne Cosen. Yet here she was watching his back.

Did her boss think it was funny assigning her to Cosen’s protection or was this still payback for her bust in January? Was it her fault he was skiing in Vail when she and Luke had found both the precursor and the second meth lab? He’d gone back to the Organized Crime Drug Enforcement Task Force to report his agents had made the bust, but he hadn’t been there.

Another feather in Cassidy’s cap.

She glanced over at her supervisor, Donald Tully. Because of his dark glasses, she could not see his eyes. But his smirk was clear enough. The man could hold a grudge.

Cassidy adjusted her polarized lenses against the Arizona sun. From her place behind the speaker, she scanned her sector for any sign of threat. Her assignment was to protect the speaker from harm. This was not her usual duty, but today the stage was filled with a mix of state and national officials and that meant all hands on deck.

Outdoor venues were the most dangerous, but the Apache tribal leaders had insisted on staging the rally here in Tucson’s downtown river park.

As the next speaker took the podium she tried hard to ignore his rich melodious voice and the fine figure he cut in that suit jacket. The long braid down his back had been dressed with leather cords and silver beads. His elegant brown hands rested casually on either side of the podium. He had no speech. Clyne Cosen, tribal councilman for the Black Mountain Apache, didn’t need one.

She gritted her teeth as she forced her gaze to shift restlessly from one person to the next, looking for anyone lifting something other than a cell phone. Judging from the wide-eyed stares from most of the women in the crowd and the way they were using up their digital storage snapping photos of the handsome tribal leader, it seemed she was not the only one who admired the physical presence of this particular speaker.

Cassidy glanced at the cheery arrangement of sunflowers just before her feet and resisted the urge to kick them off the stage. She had a personal grudge with this speaker and was struggling to maintain her focus.

The next up would be Griffin Lipmann, the president of Obella Chemicals. The Bureau had already suited Lipmann in body armor as this latest spill had made him public enemy number one in the minds of many. He was the main reason the Bureau had lobbied to hold this rally indoors. Of course Clyne Cosen and his band of Apache activists wanted to be right beside the river that was now an unnatural shade of yellow.

Cosen knew the power of the television cameras and social media. Until he finished speaking, he was her damned assignment and the way he was going on and on, it didn’t look like he’d be stopping anytime soon.

She tried to set aside her personal issues with him and do her job. But her teeth kept gnashing and her hands kept balling into fists. Soon she’d be meeting Clyne in a personal capacity, him and all his brothers. Damn that Indian Child Welfare Act. It had left her with no options, no more appeals. Nothing but the judge’s final ruling. For the first time in her life she considered breaking the law and running for Mexico.

She glanced back to Clyne Cosen, who now motioned toward the ruined water. She knew he had spotted her before he took his place because his usually sure step had faltered and his generous smile had slipped. Did it make him nervous to have her behind him, watching his back? She hoped so.

Her gaze shifted again, from one face to the next. Watching the expressions, keeping track of their hands. The sunlight poured down on them. It was only a little past ten in the morning but the temperature was already climbing toward eighty. March in Arizona, her first one and hopefully her last. She’d planned to take the first assignment out of here, Washington hopefully or New York. She’d certainly earned a promotion after her last case. But now, if her daughter would be here she might... If they won, would she even be allowed to see her?

Cassidy jerked her attention back to her assignment. How she hated the outdoor venues. There were just an endless number of places to secure.

A woman wearing a cropped T-shirt reached into her purse. Cassidy leaned forward for a better look as Clyne lifted his voice, decrying the carelessness with which Obella Chemicals had released the toxic mix into their water. The woman lifted a silver cylinder from her bag and for one heart-stopping moment Cassidy thought it was the barrel of a gun. She reached under her blazer, gripping her pistol as the woman fumbled with a white cord. She plugged the cord into her cell phone and the other end into the cylinder. A charger, Cassidy realized and relaxed.

That was when the three-foot-tall vase of sunflowers beside the podium exploded.

“Shots!” she shouted, and took down her assignment, diving on Clyne’s back as other agents moved before the line of dignitaries on the stage, making a human shield.

Griffin Lipmann, the representative from Obella Chemicals, hit the stage unassisted. His personal security force sprang before him an instant later, hustling him off the stage.

Her weight pitched Clyne forward, but he kept his balance, spinning toward her and then hitting the second flower arrangement before toppling backward onto the stage with her sprawled on top of him. She pushed off his torso and drew her weapon.

He tried to sit up.

She pressed a hand into his chest.

“Down!” she ordered, ignoring the firm body beneath her as she lifted her weapon and rolled to a kneeling position.

Two more agents stepped before them. Below the stage the audience members screamed and many turned to run.

“What’s happening?” Clyne asked.

She didn’t know. It could have been a shooter or some kid with a slingshot.

“Up,” she snapped. “That way.”

Cassidy followed the plan, tugging Clyne up and guiding him off the back of the stage, pushing him before her. He was two steps down the staircase and she had reached the top step when something struck her in the back. It felt like someone hit her with a Louisville Slugger right below her left shoulder blade. The impact was so strong that it pitched her forward onto Clyne Cosen’s back. He staggered. Then he grabbed both her forearms and kept running, making for the cover of the side entrance of the waterfront hotel. Cassidy tried and failed to draw a breath. The blow had knocked the wind right out of her and all she could manage was a wheezing sound.

He carried her along like a monkey on his back, never slowing as he stretched his long legs into a full-out run that made the wind whistle in her ears. Those Apache moccasins he wore were tearing up the ground faster than any cross trainers she’d ever owned. Local law enforcement held open the door. Cassidy glanced backward as they charged into the corridor.

The crowd erupted into chaos as men and women scrambled to clear the riverfront park that had turned into a shooting gallery. A bullet struck the building beside the exit and a chunk of concrete flew into the air. The officer holding the door moved to cover as Clyne grasped the closing door and hurtled inside.

Cassidy peered over his shoulder as the striped wallpaper and heavily painted desert scenes flashed past. She wanted to tell him to put her down or to make for the safe room. But she still hadn’t succeeded in drawing a breath and now feared she was going to faint.

Finally he slowed, moving to the wall and swinging her around as if she were a dance partner instead of a rag doll. He made her feel small by comparison. Clyne Cosen had to be six-four in his flat footwear.

He lowered her to the ground in an alcove beside one of the restrooms. She slumped against the wall. Only then did she regain her breath. It came in a tortured gasp. Her eyes watered but she could see he’d gone pale.

Dignitaries and FBI agents rushed past them toward the rendezvous point. Cassidy still gripped her pistol.

“I think I’m hit,” she said.

Clyne pulled off her blazer, sticking his finger through a hole in the back as he did so.

“Damn, that was Armani,” she said.

“The shooter?” he asked.

She shook her head. Clearly Councillor Cosen did not know fashion. He dropped the blazer in her lap and she stroked the gray pinstripe like a sick cat. Then she holstered her weapon.

He expertly unclipped her shoulder holster and she grasped his wrist.

“Don’t touch the gun,” she said.

He met her scowl for scowl.

“Fine. You do it.” He lifted his hands as if he was surrendering to her custody.

She did and the motion made her wince, but she managed to slip out of her holster and draw it down into her lap. When she finished she was trembling and sweat glistened on her skin.

Cosen tugged her blouse from the waistband of her slacks. A moment later she heard a rending sound as he tore her pristine white blouse straight down the center of her back. Then he leaned her forward to drag her blouse down off both shoulders so they puddled at her wrists. She now sat in only her slacks, practical shoes, body armor and her turquoise lace bra.

She flushed the color of ripe strawberries, a hazard of those with fair skin and felt her face heat as his eyebrows lifted. He hesitated only a moment and muttered something that sounded like “none of the guys in my unit wore lace.”

She felt the pressure of his hand on her back.

“Perforation,” he said, pressing on the sore place on her back. “Got you here.”

She bit her lip to keep from whimpering. More people ran past in the corridor but she could see only trousers and dark shoes.

“Get me up,” she said.

He ignored her, splaying a hand over her chest and pitching her forward like a ventriloquist’s dummy. A moment later his other hand slipped under her vest at the back, rooting around.

“Vest is distorted right over your heart,” he said. He released a long breath. “Didn’t penetrate,” he said. His hand stroked her back, skimming over her bra and out from beneath her vest. “No blood. Your vest caught it.”

He eased her back until she leaned against the wall. He was propped on one knee as he looked down at her, his eyes were the color of polished mahogany.

“Still need a hospital,” he said.

She flapped her arms, now decorated with what was left of her Ann Taylor white blouse. He’d torn the collar right off the back as if he were tearing tissue paper.

She tried for a full breath and didn’t make it.

“Hurts like hell, doesn’t it?” he asked.

It did.

How did he know that?

But then she remembered. Clyne Cosen was a former US marine. His jacket didn’t mention that he had taken lead.

His smile held and she felt herself drawn in. Three words from his character profile bounced around in her head like a Ping-Pong ball dropped on concrete.

Charismatic.

Charming.

Persuasive.

“Took one here and here.” He pointed to his stomach and ribs. Making them part of an elite club, she supposed. The two of them. Only she was the one struggling with her breathing.

“A vest saved my life once before.”

She didn’t understand. He hadn’t been hit. She’d kept him from that, protecting him like she was in the secret service and he was the president.

“Before?” she asked.

He pressed his open palm over her middle, his fingers splayed over her abdomen and she swore she could feel his touch even through the body armor. He met her stare.

“Agent Walker, you just saved my life.”

Chapter Two

“You can thank me later,” Cassidy said. The bullet meant for Cosen had struck her in the back. She’d done her job, acted like a human shield and was trying very hard not to feel pissed about it.

Who wanted him dead? she wondered.

Cassidy slipped the shoulder harness over her right side and winced as she reached to get that left arm through. She managed it.

“Let me help,” he said, reaching for the buckle.

“Did I warn you about the gun?”

He drew back. Once she had it clipped she was sweating like a marathon runner. But she still managed to drag her gray pinstripe blazer over her body armor, removing the view of turquoise lace from Clyne and any of the persons in the hallway. The tattered remains of her sleeves peeked out from the cuff of her ruined jacket.

She pushed off and he helped her up. Cassidy resisted the urge to bat his hand away.

“You’re uninjured?” she asked.

“Yes. But you need to see a doctor.”

“You carrying?” she asked, trying to surmise if he wore a holster under his blazer or clipped to the belt that sported an elaborate turquoise and red coral buckle. Her gaze dipped south of his buckle and she flushed. And wouldn’t you know it, when she lifted her gaze it was to find Cosen’s gaze intent and his body perfectly still. Only now the tension in his tightly coiled muscles seemed sexual and arousing as all get-out.

“Sorry,” she said.

He made a sound in his throat that fell somewhere between a growl and an acknowledgment.

She shook her head to clear the unwelcome arousal that stole through her. “Rendezvous point. Come on. Not safe here.” Man, it hurt to talk.

Cassidy motioned for him to proceed down the hall. They’d made it about halfway when two of the field agents from her unit, Pauling and Harvey, appeared in the hall. Pauling came first, jogging so the sides of his suit coat flapped open to reveal both the shield on his belt and the butt of his pistol under his left arm. Keith Pauling was young, hungry and a former army ranger, with neatly trimmed hair and a hard angular face that screamed Fed from a hundred yards. Behind him came Louis Harvey, more experienced, heavier set but the haircut was a dead ringer.

“She’s been shot,” said Clyne.

Harvey took charge of Clyne and Pauling flanked Cassidy as they ushered them to the rendezvous room and her supervisor, who no longer looked smug.

“Walker. What took you so long?” he asked.

“She’s been shot,” Clyne said again.

Cassidy cast him a look. She didn’t need him as her mouthpiece. Her ribs were feeling better and she’d be damned if she was going to spend the afternoon in the hospital when they had a shooter out there.

Clyne was herded away. He gave her one last long look over his shoulder, his braid swinging as he went. He was one of the most handsome men she had ever met and for just a moment, the confident mask slipped and she saw her daughter’s face. The resemblance took her breath away.

Amanda. The arch of the brow, the worry in those big brown eyes. And then he was gone.

She scowled after him. If she had saved his life, then he had also protected hers. When other speakers on stage had run or fallen or flattened to the platform, Clyne had acted like a soldier, recognized that she was injured and carried her to safety.

She hated to owe him anything and wondered if he felt the same. She had met him before this. On a snowy evening on the Black Mountain reservation while investigating a meth ring. And again in court when her attorneys succeeded in delaying the process for challenging her daughter’s adoption.

Cassidy saw a medic first, who decided that her ribs were bruised. The slug that they dug from her vest appeared to be a thirty caliber. She declined transport and borrowed an FBI T-shirt from Pauling that was still miles too big for her. The navy blue T said FBI in bold yellow lettering across the front and back. She covered what she could with the blazer.

Her people had already found the location of the shooter, now long gone. He’d left at least one rifle cartridge behind, despite taking two shots.

“He was on the roof of the adjacent hotel,” said Tully. Her new boss peered at her with striking blue eyes. His hairline had receded to the point that it was now only a pale fringe clipped short at the sides of his head, but his face was thin and angular with a strong jaw and eyes that reminded her of a bird of prey.

She knew from his previous comments that he liked running their unit and didn’t like that she wanted out. He took it as some kind of black mark that she was not satisfied to bake out in this godforsaken pile of sand called Arizona. But Cassidy wanted to join a team that chased the big fish, not the endless flow of traffickers and illegals that ebbed and flowed over the boarder like a tide.

Tully plopped her down before a computer and made her write her report. While the others moved out to investigate; she sat in the control room. The reporting didn’t take long. After she finished, she went over the footage of the event with one of the techs, watching her movements when the vase exploded from the first blast and then the proceeding mayhem. They had not stationed on the roofs because the threat was not deemed great enough to warrant the added security. If they had, her people might have been in place when the shooter arrived.

Her partner returned. Luke Forrest was Black Mountain Apache and Clyne’s uncle, though as she understood it, he was Clyne’s father’s half brother and born of a different father and clan, though she didn’t understand the clan system very well. Luke had not applied to the Bureau, but had been recruited right out of the US marines.

“How you feeling?” he asked.

“Bored,” she said.

He laughed, his generous smile coming easily on his broad mouth.

“Well, there’s worse things,” said Luke.

His hair was short, his frame was athletic and slim and he only vaguely resembled Clyne around the eyes and brows.

Cassidy stared at Luke and wondered what Clyne’s mother had looked like because she was Amanda’s biological mother, too.

“What?” said Luke.

“Did you know Clyne’s mother?”

“Of course.”

“What was she like?”

He gave her an odd look, but answered. “Beautiful. Strong. Protective of her kids.”

Cassidy nodded. Strong and beautiful, just like Clyne, she realized.

Why was she comparing everyone to Clyne Cosen? With any luck she wouldn’t have to see him again. Her stomach twisted, knowing from her attorney that she would lose. Clinging to the only loophole allowed in the Indian Child Welfare Act. Thank God her daughter had turned twelve last June. Of course neither had known her real birthday until recently and had always celebrated on her adoption day on February 19.

“Where’ve you been?” she asked.

His eyes did that thing, the quick narrowing before his face returned to a congenial expression.

“Luke?”

He chuckled. “I must be losing my edge. I was with Tully and with Gabe Cosen. They’re both on the joint task force.”

She knew that Gabe had been invited belatedly to the joint drug enforcement task force that had been behind the operation to find the mobile meth lab and precursor needed to make the drugs. They had done an end run around Gabe, the chief of the tribal police force, and her partner because they were both Black Mountain Apache and therefore also suspects. Reasonable precaution, she had thought at the time. Now she felt differently.

“Listen, I’m sorry they left you out of the loop,” she said.

“Yeah. Me, too.” He gave her a long look. “You sure you’re okay? You had a close call today.”

“Yeah.” Cassidy waved away his concerns as if they were smoke.

She refused to think about it, refused to consider that her daughter might have been left without a mother, again. Would Amanda then be turned over to her birth family?

She focused on what Luke had said. “So does Tully think this has to do with the bust on Black Mountain?”

“It might. Might be someone after Obella Chemicals. Hell, it might be someone from Obella Chemicals.”

“In other words, they have no leads.”

Forrest shook his head.

“Tully said that he thinks Clyne Cosen was the target. Gabe Cosen agrees and wants his brother to have added security detail when off the rez.”

“Reasonable,” said Cassidy.

Forrest rubbed his chin and Cassidy knew he was holding back.

“Spill it.”

“Your name came up as a possibility, too.” He gave an apologetic shrug.

Her first reaction was indignation but she reined that in. “They figure how I shot myself in the back?”

Forrest chuckled. “Yeah, that did put a chink in their theory.”

“Anyway, we’re trying to get Clyne to accept protection. He’s resisting,” said Forrest.

“You think Tully will pick you?” Luke Forrest would make sense. He spoke Apache, knew the culture and the tribe. He’d blend in while the other agents would stick out like flies on rice.

“Don’t know. Doesn’t matter if Clyne won’t take us up on the offer. Plus we’re still on cleanup with the Raggar case.”

Which was proving much easier now that Gabe Cosen was on board. They had the meth lab and the precursor and were working on shutting down the distribution ring, run by mob boss Cesaro Raggar, currently in federal prison. She knew this because she’d been pissed not to get that assignment herself, when she was the one who’d responded to Gabe Cosen’s call for backup once the precursor had been located. “How’s the youngest brother doing?”