Rocky Mountain Maverick

If he didn’t know who she was, he couldn’t have tracked her here. Unwillingly, Nicola turned her head so that they were face-to-face. Their bodies were pressed together intimately. As if they were lovers. She was no longer afraid of the man who’d pinned her to the ground in self-defense. She was very much aware of him—no longer as an enemy, but as a man.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I might even be able to help.”

“Nicki Carson. Nicola, actually.” She listened to her own voice with a sense of disbelief. She had intended to stay silent. But somehow the thought of having assistance—from this stranger—was just too tempting.

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

This month Harlequin Intrigue has an enthralling array of breathtaking romantic suspense to make the most of those last lingering days of summer.

The wait is finally over! The next crop of undercover agents who belong to the newest branch of the top secret Confidential organization are about to embark on an unbelievable adventure. Award-winning reader favorite Gayle Wilson will rivet you with the launch book of this brand-new ten-story continuity series. COLORADO CONFIDENTIAL will begin in Harlequin Intrigue, break out into a special release anthology and finish in Harlequin Historicals. In Rocky Mountain Maverick, an undeniably sexy undercover agent infiltrates a powerful senator’s ranch and falls under the influence of an intoxicating impostor. Be there from the very beginning!

The adrenaline rush continues in The Butler’s Daughter by Joyce Sullivan, with the first book in her new miniseries, THE COLLINGWOOD HEIRS. A beautiful guardian has been entrusted with the care of a toddler-sized heir, but now they are running for their lives and she must place their safety in an enigmatic protector’s tantalizing hands! Ann Voss Peterson heats things up with Incriminating Passion when a targeted “witness” to a murder manages to inflame the heart of a by-the-book assistant D.A.

Finally rounding out the month is Semiautomatic Marriage by veteran author Leona Karr. Will the race to track down a killer culminate in a real trip down the aisle for an undercover husband and wife?

So pick up all four of these pulse-pounding stories and end the summer with a bang!

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Harlequin Intrigue, Senior Editor

Rocky Mountain Maverick

Gayle Wilson

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Five-time RITA® Award finalist and RITA® Award winner Gayle Wilson has written twenty-seven novels and two novellas for Harlequin/Silhouette. She has won more than forty awards and nominations for her work. Recent recognitions include a 2002 Daphne du Maurier Award for Romantic Suspense.

Gayle still lives in Alabama, where she was born, with her husband of thirty-three years. She loves to hear from readers. Write to her at P.O. Box 3277, Hueytown, AL 35023. Visit Gayle online at http://suspense.net/gayle-wilson.

The Confidential Code

I will protect my country and its citizens.

I will stand in the line of fire between innocents and criminals.

I will back up my fellow agents without questions.

I will trust my instincts.

And most of all…

I WILL KEEP MY MISSION AND MY IDENTITY STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Colleen Wellesley—Colleen’s first assignment as head of the newly organized Colorado Confidential is to find the kidnapped heir of the Langworthy empire. She soon discovers that the case she’s been given involves far more than a missing baby….

Nicola Carson—An intern in Senator Franklin Gettys’s Washington office, Nicki staged a disappearing act when she realized her life was in danger. Now, hiding in plain sight of her enemies, she tries to unravel the mystery behind why she became a target.

Michael Wellesley—Burned-out ex-CIA agent Michael Wellesley undertakes one last assignment as a favor for his sister and finds himself embroiled in a situation as perilous as any he’s ever faced.

Charlie Quarrels—Foreman of the mysterious Half Spur ranch. Is Quarrels an innocent dupe or the mastermind of a diabolical experiment?

Ralph Mapes—The old man knows more about what’s happening on the Half Spur than he should, but will he be willing to tell before it’s too late?

For Emily,

who is smart, independent, feisty

and a bit of a maverick.

One day you’ll make a great heroine

for your own hero—just not too soon, please!

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

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Prologue

It had happened several times in the past couple of weeks—an eerie, eyes-on-the-back-of-her-neck feeling. Often enough that whenever she was out in the city alone she had to resist the urge to keep glancing over her shoulder.

Nicola Carson couldn’t quite put her finger on when or why that nervousness had begun. All she knew was that at one time she hadn’t minded working late, even if the Senate Office Building was nearly deserted by the time she finished. Now she had to steel herself to face stepping out onto the nighttime streets of Washington, D.C.

And that’s ridiculous, she told herself, as she hurried down the steps, holding the collar of her coat closed against her throat with one gloved hand. There was a hint of snow in the December air, making her homesick for the crisp, cold air of the Colorado Rockies where she’d grown up.

Which is also ridiculous. She was living her dream, working as an intern in the office of one of the most powerful men in the capital, and all she could think about lately was a life she once couldn’t wait to leave behind.

Despite her pep talk, as she walked, heels clicking against the sidewalk with a quick, staccato rhythm, her uneasiness grew. Don’t look back. Don’t look back. She chanted the words in her mind, determined not to give in to this unreasonable paranoia.

She wouldn’t have been out this late if Senator Gettys hadn’t handed her a package as he was leaving and asked her to deliver it personally before she went home. She couldn’t imagine why the disk she’d just left at the senator’s campaign headquarters couldn’t have been couriered over tomorrow, but it wasn’t her place to ask those kinds of questions. It was her place to be as useful as possible.

Normally, she wouldn’t have had any problem with anything she was assigned to do. She had no illusions about her role in the grand scheme of things. For someone who had grown up on a farm, helping with every unglamorous chore required to keep it running, she had never felt that any task was beneath her dignity.

She was grateful to be here. Grateful to have been chosen for an internship out of all the other applicants. Grateful for the opportunity to live in the nation’s capital and participate in government at work.

Even as she repeated the litany, trying to bury her uneasiness in the enumeration of all the things she had to be thankful for, behind her—like an echo—came the sound of another set of footsteps. Her heart rate accelerated suddenly, and adrenaline pumped into her bloodstream in a gut-clenching rush.

The Metro entrance was half a block away. Surely, despite the cold, deserted streets around her, there would be someone there. At least there would be more light. Nothing ever seemed as frightening if you didn’t have to face it in the darkness.

She increased her pace. By the time she reached the escalator that descended to the Metro, she was almost running. And none of the strategies she had used before against this insane panic seemed to be working.

She wanted to get on the train. Out of the darkness and among others who were leaving their offices late and heading home.

Hand on the rail, she clattered down the moving metal stairs, her own descent making so much noise that she couldn’t possibly hear anything else. At the foot of the escalator, she turned and looked quickly toward the top.

There was nothing there. No one was following her. Maybe there had never been anyone behind her. No footsteps but her own, loud in the emptiness of the dark streets.

She took a breath in relief. Then, clutching her coat around her, she headed toward the platform.

She pressed her fare card against the red circle without really looking at it. Almost there. Almost to the train. People. Safety.

As she walked toward the track, the sound of her heels on the red, hexagonal tiles echoed and reechoed against the walls. This time she ignored the sound. After all, she knew there was no one behind her. And absolutely no cause for the sense of panic she had felt.

She breathed deeply, trying to calm the near hysteria that threatened. She could hear the train in the distance. Thankfully, despite the lateness of the hour and this less trafficked location, there were a few people waiting on the platform.

She was less than fifty feet from the track, the sound of the oncoming train was growing louder by the second. Her attention focused on the waiting passengers, all of whom were watching its approach, she caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye.

Before she could turn to identify its source, a hand fastened onto the long strands of hair that spilled over the back of her coat. The pressure was strong enough not only to jerk her head backward and stop her forward motion, but to physically pull her in its direction.

Because it took too long to realize what was happening, a gloved hand fastened over her mouth before she could release the scream crowding her throat. Not that it would have made any difference. The train came ever closer, filling the waffle-weave concrete tunnel with noise.

Eyes watering from the pain, she clawed at the fingers over her lips. The hand that had grabbed her hair released to snake around her body, the forearm settling under her breasts.

Driven by panic, she increased her efforts to break out of her attacker’s hold, futilely twisting and turning. She aimed a few kicks backward, but they never seemed to connect solidly with whoever was behind her.

There was no doubt in her mind it was a man. Not only was he stronger than she was, but given the angle at which he was holding her, he must top her own five foot ten inch height by a good two or three inches.

She knew by now that this wasn’t a robbery. The strap of her purse had slipped off her shoulder in those first desperate moments. The purse had fallen to the floor, items rolling from it to clatter out onto the tile. He had ignored it completely, meaning…

She stopped prying at his fingers and began battering at his face with her fists. She couldn’t see it, of course, and the blows, delivered above and behind her head, seemed to have as little effect as clawing at his hand had done.

Where the hell was security? The Metro was supposed to be safe, every area equipped with cameras to prevent attacks like this. Her eyes searched for the one that should cover this location. It was there, but for some reason, its lens was pointed away from the platform entry. By accident or design?

The train arrived, filling the station with noise, and the fingers that had been fastened over her mouth began to move. So that he could put both hands around her throat? Or to allow him to take out a weapon?

A knife? Oh, my God, not a knife.

In the endless seconds she fought, her imagination conjured up every urban horror story she had ever heard, playing them in her head like a tape running on fast forward. In desperation, she bent her knees, lifting her feet off the ground and letting her full weight pull against his hold.

For a split second, as he tried to counteract that move, she would be out of his control. She knew that was all she would have. A split second to decide her own fate.

Everything seemed to happen at once, yet each movement, each breath, each heartbeat was etched with complete clarity on her brain. As she’d anticipated, his body began to shift in an attempt to maintain his balance. He tried to set her on her feet, but in order to do that, he had to bend forward, negating the advantage his height had given him.

Before he could straighten away, Nicola put her feet back on the ground and used the muscles in her thighs and buttocks, strengthened by years of horseback riding, to propel her body upward. The top of her head collided with the man’s chin, striking so hard that she heard his teeth snap together.

And hard enough that the air thinned and darkened around her. She fought to stay conscious as she staggered forward like a drunk.

Behind her she heard something metallic clatter against the tile. The knife she had thought he was reaching for?

Her purse lay directly in her path. She bent, scooping it up by the strap without slowing. Ahead of her the doors of the train car were beginning to close.

The same fear that had driven her to use her skull as a weapon drove her in a sprint toward them, determined that they wouldn’t close her out, leaving her trapped on a deserted subway platform with a madman.

She wedged her arm between the doors, forcing her shoulder through as the rubber-lined edges began to close against her body. She didn’t stop to consider whether or not she could pry them open enough to get in. There was no choice. This was life or death, and she didn’t want to die.

Dear God, she didn’t want to die.

Her body slid through the narrowing opening as the doors closed with a whoosh. Panting from exertion and terror, she leaned against them, trembling, her eyes squeezed tight against the threat of tears.

And then she opened them, knowing there was something she still had to do. She turned, looking through the window behind her as the train gathered speed.

The emptiness of the platform was broken only by shadows cast by the grill-encased lights above it. There was no sign of the man who had attacked her.

A man who had known exactly where to find her. A man who had had that information in time to push the security camera out of alignment.

And there was only one person who could have told him. They would try again, she realized. Unless…

She closed her mouth, aware for the first time that her breath was sawing in and out, loud enough to be audible over the noise of the train. The woman in the seat across the aisle was staring at her, eyes wide with shock.

Nicki bent her head, gathering control. She realized that she still held the strap of her purse in her hand. She lifted the soft, leather bag, fumbling inside it with her left hand until her fingers closed over the familiar shape of her bill-fold.

She didn’t have to go back to her apartment. Never again would she go back there. Or anywhere else he might expect her to be. She had everything she needed right here, she thought, her hand resting protectively over the wallet that contained her ticket to safety.

Her upbringing had taught her the value of money. She had saved as much as she could, carefully putting part of what she made into her savings account every month. All of it was accessible through any of the thousands of ATM machines in this city.

There was enough there. Enough to get her somewhere far away from here. Far enough to be safe.

Please, God, let somewhere be far enough for that.

Chapter One

I hope to hell Frost was right and home is the place where they have to take you in, Michael Wellesley thought as he pulled the SUV he’d bought in Denver into the circular drive. It wasn’t really that he had nowhere else to go, but the Royal Flush was home. It always would be.

He had realized that anew as he’d driven across the river, his stomach tightening in anticipation of his first glimpse of the house and the barn. Home.

Like a beaten dog, he was returning to his birthplace to lick his wounds. At least that’s what Colleen would think.

And what if she did? He had a right to be here, despite what his father had done.

He could now think about the provision in his dad’s will, the one that had given the family ranch to Colleen, without the bitterness and anger that had driven him away at eighteen. He still wondered, however, why his father had done something that seemed so grossly unfair.

Maybe to force him to make it on his own. To become a man. His own man. Or maybe, Michael had finally decided, because he had never told anyone, much less his father, how much he had loved this place. That had obviously been a mistake.

He shut off the ignition and opened the car door, easing down carefully from the high seat. As he’d expected, his knee had stiffened, both from the long flight and the hours he’d spent behind the wheel.

Right hand on the top of the door, left on the roof for support, he took an experimental step, testing it. Prepared for the pain, he managed to control his response to it except for a slight tightening of his lips and a nearly soundless inhalation.

It would have been smart to bring the cane, if only for the duration of the trip. Instead, he’d tossed it into one of the trash bins outside Reagan. Just as he’d metaphorically trashed everything else associated with the past eight years of his life.

Still holding on to the top of the door as he flexed the damaged knee, Michael allowed his gaze to scan the compound. The place looked prosperous and well kept. Both the barn and the house had been freshly painted. He had already noted that the grazing stock he passed on the way in from the highway were sleek and healthy. Maybe his father had known what he was doing after all.

Rejecting that thought, he stepped away from the door, slamming it behind him. Limping heavily, he walked around to the rear, opening the door there to drag out his duffel bag.

He’d stuffed every item of clothing from his wardrobe that might be appropriate for the ranch into it. And he’d been surprised by how little of that there was. The rest, with exception of a couple of suits hanging from a hook in the back seat, he’d given away.

He closed the hatch, the noise unnaturally loud in the drowsy afternoon heat. He’d half expected someone to come out by now to investigate the arrival of a strange car.

Of course, it was possible there was no one in the main house. There were always a hundred things that needed seeing to on a ranch this size, especially in the middle of summer.

He walked around the car and up the low steps, boot heels echoing across the wooden planks of the porch. Switching the duffel bag to his left hand, he raised his right to punch the bell.

Somewhere in the back of his mind the word “home” echoed. He changed the motion he’d begun, his fingers fastening around the knob instead. He opened the door, letting it swing inward to a cool dimness.

At the far end of the huge central room it revealed, the brass fittings on the old bar, a survivor from the days when the Royal Flush had been the fanciest bordello in Colorado, caught the late afternoon light. Michael’s eyes lifted automatically, searching for the portrait of his great-great-grandmother, which had always hung behind it.

Old Dora was still there. It seemed nothing about the Flush had changed. Of course, it never had.

He set the duffel bag down on the rich, heart pine floor and stood in the somnolent stillness, letting the memories close around him. As he did, he became aware of voices coming from behind the house. One was obviously male. And the other…

Colleen? If so, it might be easier for both of them if their first meeting took place outside. At least then she wouldn’t have to throw him out of the house.

His lips tilted at the image. At maybe five foot five to his six-three, she’d play hell trying. Of course, a challenge, even one of that proportion, had never discouraged his sister.

He realized he was anticipating seeing her again, just as he’d been looking forward to his first sight of the house from the moment he’d turned off Highway 9. Whatever bitterness he’d felt toward his father had never extended to Colleen. Or, if it had then, it certainly didn’t now.

In the nearly sixteen years since he’d been here, he’d been to hell and back. The only family he’d known in all that time had been the men who had fought and died beside him. Without that bond—

Deliberately he broke the thought. Today wasn’t about guilt or regret. Today was about homecoming. And the sooner he got this one over with, the better for everyone concerned.

“ALL I’M TELLING YOU—”

“And all I’m telling you is to handle it,” Colleen interrupted. “That’s what I pay you for, Dex.”

“Why don’t you just sell the damn place to someone who’ll appreciate it?”

“I appreciate it. That doesn’t mean I want to be in on every minor decision of its day-to-day operation.”

“What I’m asking you about isn’t minor, Colleen. And you damn well know it.”

“I also know you’ll make the right decision, with or without my advice. I’m not real sure why you’re so all-fired set on having it.”

Michael had already heard enough to identify the man his sister was arguing with as her foreman. And anger was apparent in each muscular inch of the man’s body. It was also apparent that those muscles were not the kind built in a gym, but through the hard, backbreaking work a ranch demanded.

Besides, he had the look of a cowboy, both in his tall, rangy build and sun-darkened skin. It was obvious that, boss-lady or not, Colleen did not intimidate him.

“You don’t deserve what you’ve got,” the foreman said, his voice no longer raised. It was quiet and somehow far more effective at expressing his disgust. He ran a hand through black hair that had a liberal sprinkling of gray. “Maybe because you had this place handed to you on a silver platter, you think it don’t require any work on your part to keep it.”

Colleen took a breath, her lips tight, visibly controlling her own temper. Although it had been a decade or more since he’d seen her, Michael had had no trouble recognizing his sister. She had the Wellesley coloring, of course. Dark brown hair and those strange blue-green eyes that a few women in his past had unfortunately referred to as turquoise.

Whatever color they were, it looked a whole hell of a lot better on Colleen. She was still a good-looking woman, despite the fact that she must be…

When he’d done the math, he realized with a sense of shock that his sister was forty-five. Nine years older than he, she had been only twenty-nine when he’d joined the military.

A lifetime ago. A lifetime he knew almost nothing about.

“I work,” she said, her tone as intense as that of the man who’d made the accusation. “And damned hard, too. What I do makes it possible for this operation to survive no matter how the markets fluctuate. Just because I don’t want to be consulted about every little detail doesn’t give you the right to suggest I don’t appreciate the Flush.”