Black Ops Bodyguard

Donna Young

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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About the Author

DONNA YOUNG, an incurable romantic, lives with her family in beautiful Northern California.

To all of my family and my friends.

Thank you for the love and support you’ve given me

over the past year and more. I am blessed to have

so many who care so much.

Chapter One

Amazonia, Venezuela Many years ago

The jungle was one hell of a place to die.

Calvin West dropped to his knees in the muck and rotted vines. The storm did little to relieve the humidity, turning the air into liquid oxygen, making it difficult to breathe and his head thick and fuzzy.

A flash of lightning lit the shadows, adding a jolt of electricity to the fetid, moist surroundings.

The crack of thunder came at a snail’s pace, telling Cal the worst of the storm lingered in the mountains miles away.

The bullet wound in his side throbbed. The small hole oozed blood under the muddy cocoon of clothes that stuck

to his body.

He’d lost his pistol while crossing the river. The same place he’d picked up the wound.

Gunfire burst behind him. Less than a hundred meters back. Cristo’s men were closing in.

“Find him!”

The order shot through the trees, making the birds flutter from their perches, their wings battling the downpour in fear of the hunters.

Cal nearly smiled over the frustration in his enemy’s command. It was Solaris. Cristo’s enforcer. The mercenary was good and would make sure no one ever found Cal’s body.

But, Cal was damn good himself and wouldn’t give Solaris the satisfaction.

He staggered to his feet and veered back into the canal, sinking calf-deep into the rancid mire and slime beneath. Cursing the ache in his side, he trudged through the muck. Rain pelted the stagnant water, making it jump and spit in front of him, while his eyes scanned the churning current for the sleek, rolling movement of a snake or crocodile.

Bloody hell. He should have known the deal had been too easy, the lure too tempting. He should have realized his cover had been blown.

But after four years, he’d been eager to hit Delgado. Bring the drug lord to his knees.

Still, he refused to pay for his mistake with his life.

A shadow slithered along the curve of the bank. Cal swore as a boa constrictor slipped from the undergrowth and into the canal.

He stumbled from the water, fighting the riverbed’s suction, his breath heavy with the exertion, his head swimming from dehydration and loss of blood.

Dizziness tilted the ground beneath his feet, while sweat and rain stung his eyes. He held no illusions. He had another hour, maybe less, before he lost consciousness. If he didn’t find a path, a hollow, anything, he was a dead man.

He broke through the trees, stopped short on top of an overhang of saturated jungle rot. Quickly, he scanned the shadows.

Branches broke somewhere behind him—a brief warning before another burst of gunfire. The slap of the bullet hit his thigh, the white-hot stab of pain shot through his hip.

His leg gave out from under him, bringing him to his knees. Suddenly, the slope collapsed beneath him. Grasping at air, he hit the side of the precipice. His body tumbled over thorns and rocks and broken trees. His ribs slammed together, knocking the wind from his chest, setting his wounds on fire.

Without warning, he hit flat ground, barely missing the canal edge and the water beyond.

He struggled to rise against the swirl and pitch of his head. Acid clung to the back of his throat. Suddenly, a foot slammed into his chest, knocking him back into the mud.

“Going somewhere, West?” A laugh, thick with pleasure, rumbled above his head.

Unconsciousness slithered through him, blurring stark lines into murky shadows.

“Or are you just waiting for me to send you to hell?” The man ground his heel into Cal’s wound. Pain screamed through Cal’s gut.

“Haven’t you heard, Solaris?” Cal struggled to get the words out before blackness engulfed him. “Hell’s my playground.”

Chapter Two

Washington, D.C., Midnight Present

Winter encased Capitol Hill in a slow, deep freeze. The wind howled through the cement and steel of the parking structure, each gust strengthened by the moonless sky, the threat of snow in the air.

Calvin West slid out of his pearl-black sports coupe and scanned the rows of parked cars. Fluorescent lamps spotted the ceiling, casting the garage in an artificial glow of light and shadows. Jetlag had settled into his muscles, making his shoulder ache, his knees stiff.

Almost forty, he was getting too damn old to be chasing bad guys across seven continents.

Not that he would get any rest soon. Not with a plane to catch at Dulles in less than four hours.

With a shift of his shoulders, he fought off the fatigue, promising himself a nap during the trip to Caracas.

The shadows drew his eyes and a cold whisper of warning settled at the base of his neck. His gaze shifted over the dark corners.

Nothing.

But he didn’t shrug off the unease. After thirty sleepless hours, anyone might be paranoid. But paranoia kept you alive.

He reached into his jacket and pulled his .45 automatic pistol from its shoulder holster. Slowly, he lowered the gun to his side, confident the weapon remained out of sight from the casual observer.

Heels tapped against the cement from behind him. Swearing, his finger tightened on the trigger.

“Cal.”

A woman stepped from the shadows into the stark lighting. She wore a navy blue wool suit. Its jacket tailored and trimmed to hug each dip and curve of her slender form, while the skirt, cut pencil-straight to midthigh, exposed long, shapely legs. The kind that male eyes admired and female’s envied.

Thick, mahogany hair was swept back and tamed into an elegant swirl that lay at the nape of her neck. The style accented the delicate, triangular shape of her face, the high classic cheekbones and the stubborn, but distinctly feminine slant to her jaw.

Professional. Sophisticated.

And sexy as hell.

The hum of awareness shifted points of contact, hitting him just south of his waist.

He reminded himself that in his line of business, sexy was a commodity, not a comfort.

“Julia.” Cal thumbed the safety, then slipped the gun back into his shoulder holster. After buttoning his suit jacket, he turned fully and faced her. While her appearance was not unexpected, Cal’s irritation poked at him. “The President’s private secretary should know better than to sneak around in the dark.”

“Sneak? Not likely,” Julia Cutting responded with just enough disdain to tighten her prim little mouth. “I’m here on business.”

“At midnight?” He leaned a hip against the side of his car. The chill of the metal matched the chill in his voice. “Isn’t it a bit late to be running President Mercer’s errands?”

“No. Mercer never worries about working outside civilized hours. You know that as well as I do.”

Cal raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Waiting sometimes worked better than words.

It had been a year since he’d last seen her. Her eyes vivid with rage, her skin flushed from her temper when she’d slapped his face and stormed out his door.

“This would be a hell of a lot easier if it was official business,” she commented dryly. “But it’s not. I need your help, Cal. On a personal matter.”

Julia wasn’t exactly the type to need anyone, so the admission, he was sure, came at a high price.

“My help.” He understood what was coming and the dangerous game he was about to play. Half truths, full deception. Take no prisoners. For the good of king and bloody country. To hell with integrity and compassion.

To hell with love.

The muscles constricted between his shoulder blades, forcing Cal to shift them under his suit jacket. “And why would you need a British attaché in the middle of the night?”

“We both know you’re more than a British attaché.” Julia crossed her arms. For warmth, defensiveness or plain frustration—he wasn’t sure.

But the need to find out nudged him.

“I’m sure you’ve heard by now that Jason has disappeared.” Her voice was low, her words smoothed into rounded syllables with a clipped, no-nonsense rhythm—the kind that only old money and blue-blooded, east coast schools cultivated.

But there were times, in the past, when he had stroked her soft skin and her voice hitched and sighed into a sexy, offbeat tempo that had hummed through Cal’s blood—arched and bumped against his libido.

“Not unusual, considering his choice of career.” Fighting back his train of thought, Cal straightened from the car and shoved his hands into his pants’ pockets.

Jason Marsh had been classified as missing in action for a week. Cal found out the day before and caught the first available plane out of London.

“They told me he died in the line of duty.”

“Who are they?” he asked with just enough disdain to indicate vague politeness. Not serious interest.

“Jon Mercer and Ernest Becenti.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your loss, Julia. But if the President of the United States and the Drug Enforcement Agency’s Chief Administrator told me someone was dead, I would tend to believe them,” Cal commented, adding just enough harshness to discourage argument. “Now if that’s all, I’ve had a long day.”

The slight intake of breath, the darker flush of pink in her cheeks told him he scored a hit. Still, her feet stayed planted firmly in front of him.

“Too bad, Cal.”

Stubborn woman. Silently, he swore. “Go home, Julia.” Because he was tired, and understood the dangers of her involvement, his tone turned from harsh to ugly in the space of a heartbeat. “Let the government do what it does best. They’ll make sure your husband’s body gets a proper burial.”

“Ex-husband,” she corrected, her chin set, her eyes narrowed. “You’re still having a problem differentiating between the two.”

“Maybe,” he agreed, the word silky, its edge razor sharp. “Yet, you’re out here in the cold on Jason’s behalf.”

“I’m the only family he has,” she defended. “Just because the President has given up on Jason, it doesn’t mean I will.”

Both President Jonathon Mercer and First Lady Shantelle Mercer considered Julia Cutting more like a surrogate daughter than as Jon’s private secretary.

It was rare for a president to choose someone barely in their thirties for such a high post. Some rumors suggested a more intimate relationship existed between Mercer and the young woman, but Cal didn’t believe it. He’d spent enough time mucking around with human slime to recognize integrity when he saw it. Julia Cutting wore hers like a shiny suit of armor.

While his own had tarnished many years before.

“Jason is alive, Cal.”

“You sound very sure. Do you have any evidence to back up your suspicions?” He hit the button on his keys and popped open the trunk of his car. His hand hesitated over the large pink teddy bear stuffed beside his suitcase. Its white bow tie and the girly black eyes, framed with long, sewn lashes, stared back at him.

With a muttered curse, he grabbed both the bear and the suitcase.

Her eyebrow rose in a delicate sweep when she spotted the teddy bear. “Yours?”

“A present for Jordan Beck and his wife, Regina. She’s pregnant. I just found out the baby is a girl,” he explained, not quite understanding his sudden need to. “I’ve been out of the country.”

Jordan Beck was one of Cal’s closest friends, and at one time, an operative with Labyrinth—a black ops division of the CIA.

Jordan had recently been elected to the British Parliament, and possibly, was on the fast track to being Prime Minister of England.

If the political rumors were correct.

“You must have been out of the country for quite a while then.” When Cal glanced up at her, she shrugged, then took the bear from him. “They found out the sex a long time back. Regina’s due in a month.”

Car tires screeched, vibrating the steel beams and concrete of the upper parking levels.

Cal frowned; their position in the garage left them too exposed. “We’ll finish this conversation in private.” He grabbed his suitcase and shut the trunk. “Where’s your car?”

“I took a cab here, then came up through the back stairs.” When he took her elbow, she fell into step beside him. Just three inches short of six feet, her long legs kept stride easily with his. “I still have the stair key you gave me.”

“Why didn’t you wait for me in the apartment then? I gave you that key also.”

“Actually, it’s sitting at the bottom of the Potomac. Where I threw it.”

Cal glanced up, but let the comment pass. “Any reason why you’re using the back door?”

“Seemed to fit with the cloak-and-dagger theme you’ve managed to surround yourself with lately,” Julia commented. “Besides, it wouldn’t do for me to be seen going or coming from your apartment.”

“I remember a time when it didn’t bother you.”

“There was a time it didn’t,” she responded quietly. “But things change.”

“Julia,” he said slowly, not liking how easily the name rolled off his tongue. Too intimate. Too many memories.

Ones that set his blood on fire and his protective mode into overdrive.

“What makes you so sure Jason isn’t dead?”

“Someone left his file on my coffee table,” she responded. “Inside were documented letters from President Mercer and Ernest Becenti disavowing any knowledge of Jason.”

Cal stopped midstep. His hand tightened and turned her back into him. “How in the hell did they get into your apartment?”

“You don’t have to yell, I’m standing here in front of you.”

“Answer the question,” Cal ordered, but his voice lowered a few decibels.

“How should I know? My security system was intact.” Her eyes flashed with temper. Just enough to warn him of the anger, simmering beneath the surface. “I’m not the enemy here, Cal.” She tugged against his hold. “And you’re hurting me.”

Cal loosened his grip, but didn’t release her. Not yet. Not before she was safe in his apartment. “What did the police say?”

“I didn’t call them.”

“Bloody hell.” Cal swung open the stairway door, checked the hallway for any movement, then pulled her through after him.

“I didn’t have proof. And I wasn’t about to share Jason’s dossier with the police.”

Fear twisted his guts into a rigid knot. He’d walked away from her for this very reason.

Cain MacAlister, the current director of Labyrinth, had promised to keep Julia under surveillance. What the hell happened? “And you’re sure the letters are legitimate?”

“Yes. I’m sure.” This time she didn’t mask her impatience. “I also understand the reason for it, but I don’t have to accept their decision.”

“As a government operative, Jason understood the risks that go with the job. He accepted them every time he took an assignment,” Cal stated.

“Don’t talk about him in the past tense, Cal. He’s not dead.”

They reached the lobby’s elevator and she hit the call button. “The intruder left a picture with the file. He’s holding an American newspaper. Yesterday’s newspaper with the current headlines and the date.”

“That doesn’t prove anything.” The elevator slid open and both of them stepped in.

“Drug cartels are not forgiving, Julia, when they find a government agent among them,” Cal remarked. He jabbed the button for his floor. “A child can digitally change the face of a newspaper with the right computer program.”

At least that wasn’t a lie. And if his intel was correct, they were dealing with one of the most powerful drug cartel lords: Cristo Delgado.

Delgado took pleasure in what he called “public relations.” Many who died by his hand, did so slowly and on camera. Later, Delgado arranged for the footage to be circulated over the internet to discourage anyone else from trying to infiltrate his business.

Cain MacAlister’s people could not find any footage on Jason.

The elevator doors slid open, and they stepped out into the private entry of Cal’s loft.

Julia hugged the teddy bear to her chest. Something sharp—a yearning—jabbed at her gut.

Grimly, Cal reached for his keys. “Hold on.” He opened the door and stepped inside for a moment.

Julia stood in the doorway, familiar with the procedure as he turned on lights and punched in the security code on a wall keypad.

A scant minute later, he returned from checking the rooms.

“Expecting company?”

“You showed up, didn’t you?” Cal quipped, then took the bear and set it down with his bag. “Just making sure no one else felt the need to find me tonight.”

The light gave Julia a chance to study Cal. Just over six feet, she had to tilt her head back to get a good look at his face. He had light brown hair, worn a tad longer than what was expected on the Hill. The small brown locks curled over the collar of his white dress shirt.

He was lean, but not lanky. More solid, sculpted. Almost as if he was modeled from the Greek statues at the Smithsonian.

Muscles flexed, then shifted beneath the charcoal suit coat, hinting at the controlled movement beneath.

Longing twisted deep in her belly. Refusing to be distracted, she locked her spine straight and brought her eyes back to his features.

His hazel eyes, unflinching, seared hers.

Julia broke contact first. She glanced around the apartment.

The first time Cal had brought her here, she’d expected sleek, streamlined decor and was mildly surprised at the cozy tapestry pillows, the tapered walnut coffee table and oversize chairs that flanked a sand-colored leather couch. Overstuffed and fairly new.

English country.

A touch of home, she’d thought at the time, surprised at the sentimentality from such a cynical man.

“Did you bring the file?”

“Yes.” Julia reached into her suit pocket and withdrew the folded pieces of paper. “But it only explains the mission. Not what went wrong.”

His eyes settled on the papers for a moment, before shifting back to her. “I need to make some tea. Would you like some?”

“Yes,” she said, surprised. She’d expected him to want something sharper, like a brandy or even some wine.

“What is it?”

Annoyed, she realized if she were to pull off her plan, she needed to do a better job keeping her expression unreadable.

She lifted a casual shoulder. “British or not, I’ve never known you to drink tea.”

“A habit I picked up recently. My jetlag demands something traditional.”

She followed him to the kitchen, which was more modern in style. Black granite counters, steel appliances stood in contrast to the warmth of the living room. Fit the man more in her mind, but so did the contrast themselves.

The stuffed bear drew her gaze. Another contradiction.

Ignoring the small ache in her chest, she picked up the bear and squeezed. A soft lullaby through the thick fur of its belly.

“Cute,” she murmured and turned it over, noting the Velcro seam. “I’d make sure they have extra batteries. I’ve got a feeling it’s going to get used quite a bit.”

“I’m glad you approve.”

“It really is perfect, Cal,” she told him sincerely. “Regina is going to love it.”

“Jordan mentioned that you and she had become close over the last year.”

Cal grabbed a streamlined, silver tea kettle from the stove and filled it with water.

“We did. Actually, it was your doing. The few times we joined them for dinner, Regina and I really enjoyed each other’s company. After you and I split …” Julia shrugged and propped the bear up on the corner bar stool next to her. “We still manage to call each other once a week or so now that they are in London.”

She settled herself on another stool at the counter. “Are you up for a trip to South America, Cal?”

“Why?” He grabbed two mugs from the cupboard and placed them by the stove.

“Jason is in South America. Alive.”

“Whether he is or not, I’m the wrong person to help you.”

“You’re exactly the right person, actually.” Julia struggled to keep her tone even. “I’m calling in Jason’s favor.”

Cal’s eyes flickered over her. “What favor?”

“Don’t play politics with me.” She gave him a long, cool look. One that sent many aides scurrying from the Oval Office. “Before Jason left D.C., he told me to contact you if anything happened to him. He said you owed him a favor and that you were the only one I should trust.”

“Trust to do what?” Cal questioned, swearing silently. “What are you planning, Julia?”

“To rescue him.”

“Even if I owed him, I’m a diplomat from England and there is little—”

“I read your file,” Julia said, taking a little pleasure in cutting him off. “You’re ex-MI6. And now work for Labyrinth. Although, why you changed sides isn’t stated. And neither are your Labyrinth missions.”

“How in the hell did you get a hold of my file?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Julia nearly smiled at that. He sounded so indignant. Good. It didn’t hurt him to realize she had a few tricks of her own. “You’re the one who keeps reminding me who I work for.”

“My association with Labyrinth has nothing to do with Jason,” Cal pointed out. “And it doesn’t change the facts.”

“This might.” She pulled a recorder out of her pocket and placed it on the counter. “Listen.” She hit the play button.

“Ms. Cutting, I’m going to get right to the point. I have your husband, Jason Marsh.” The words were brisk, businesslike, the tone deep with a gritty, Latin accent. “He is not dead, but he will be if you do not meet our demands. Arrange for ten million American dollars to be deposited in an offshore account of our choosing. You will be given the details once you secure the money. You will have three days to meet with me personally. Do not test us on this. If you notify your government of this request, we will kill him. A hotel reservation has been made in—”

Julia pushed the stop button. “Sounds like bad guys don’t differentiate between ex-husband and husbands, either.”

“He could be lying,” Cal suggested. “The odds are that Jason is already dead.”

“I’m willing to go against the odds.” Her chin shot up, defiant. “Are you going to help me?”

“Possibly.” When he reached for the recorder, she snatched it away.

He sighed. “Even if you did meet them, there is no way to call their bluff. No one has access to ten million in such a short time. Not these days.”

Julia shoved the recorder in her pocket. “I do.”

Chapter Three

“If you have ten million dollars, you didn’t come by it legally.” Fury set Cal’s shoulders into harsh, unyielding lines.

“It belongs to the government,” Julia acknowledged. And Cal knew the admission cost her. “I’ve already transferred the money into a dormant government account. Right before I took an extended vacation.”

“Tell me how you going to prison for embezzlement helps Jason?”

“No one’s going to prison. I don’t intend on giving Jason’s kidnappers the money. The transfer can easily be considered a mistake later on. An accounting error. I’ll get no more than a slap on the wrist.”

“That’s your plan?” Cal raged. Of course, she’d jeopardize her career for Jason. Whether she loved him or not, Jason had an inexplicable hold on Julia.

Jealousy snapped at his heels, making his next words terse. “You’re traveling into Venezuela without letting anyone know your whereabouts. You plan on dealing with Cristo Delgado and his men by promising money that you aren’t delivering and hope he’ll just hand over your husband?”

“Ex-husband. I haven’t used my married name in years—” Julia stopped, her eyes narrowing. “I never told you Jason was in Venezuela or that he was taken by Cristo Delgado’s men. You haven’t even looked at the file yet.” She glanced back into the living room. “Or have you?”

“Who else would he be dealing with if Ernest Becenti was involved? Becenti is the DEA’s administrator,” Cal argued, cursing himself, not liking the fact that anger and fatigue got the best of him.

“Try again, Cal,” Julia snapped. “You already knew about Jason’s disappearance, didn’t you?”

The teapot whistled. Forcing himself to calm down, he took the pot off the burner and poured the hot water into the cups and added tea bags. “Cain MacAlister called me. He requested that I check into the situation.”

Even though Cain was technically Cal’s boss, the two men shared a history that put their friendship far ahead of the working relationship.

“So Cain thinks Jason is alive.”

“No,” Cal replied, then settled for a half-truth. “I’m to confirm his death. Big difference.”

“Yet, you flew back here from God knows where.” Her brows slanted in confusion. “Why? Jason isn’t here.”

“I needed to get some … equipment before I take off for Caracas,” Cal admitted. He placed one of the mugs in front of her. “I have no sugar.”

“Doesn’t matter.” She dunked the tea bag into her mug. “I have excellent timing then. Delgado wants me to meet with him in Caracas.”

“Where in Caracas?”

“You’ll find out once we get there.”

“No, Julia,” Cal said grimly. “I want you to leave me the file and recorder. Then first thing in the morning, you’re going to put the government money back where it belongs. I’ll take care of everything else.”

“I really wish I could leave this to you. I’m intelligent enough to realize that I’m way out of my league with this espionage business. But you heard them. They’ll kill Jason if I don’t show in Caracas.”

“You’re not going,” Cal repeated, his voice hard, his features set.

“Yes, I am,” she insisted, trying not to let him hear the fear in her voice. Whether she liked it or not, she had to go. “Please don’t force me to hire someone else.”

Cal reached across the counter and grabbed her arm. “You have no idea what Delgado is capable of.”

“No, but you do.” She glanced down at her arm, but didn’t tug free this time. “And I have firsthand experience of what you are capable of.”

Julia heard Cal’s sharp intake of breath. But she hardened her heart, and finished her argument.

“I pulled Delgado’s file, Cal. I’m hoping you’ll fill in the gaps.”

Cal dropped his hand from her arm and grabbed his cup, ignoring the handle. He took a long sip. “Okay, so what do you know?”

“Cristo Enrique de la Delgado. Age fifty-five. Cofounder of the Trifecta Cartel. The largest drug cartel in South America.”

“That’s public knowledge—”

“At one time, Delgado was one of three partners,” she continued, as if she hadn’t heard him. “The others being his best friends, Esteban Alvarez and Felipe Ramos. All three men were born aristocratic but relatively poor. According to Colombian social standards, at least. Rumor has it that while in their early twenties, the three men decided to break into the drug-dealing business during a horse race in which all three lost their shirts. Hence, the nickname Trifecta Cartel. With their contacts in the upper echelon of society, success was inevitable.”

“Because you know his background, doesn’t mean you understand the man,” Cal retorted, not realizing until too late that he’d said something similar when he betrayed her months before.

“I’m learning to,” she commented, her tone stiff, telling him she remembered also.

“Ramos is now deceased,” she continued. “Murdered four years ago. His yacht blown apart from plastic explosives, killing everyone onboard including his three children, his wife, top lieutenants … and his mistress. A few months later, Alvarez was shot by an unknown assailant. Godfather style, in a restaurant. Somehow, he managed to escape with a bullet in his neck. The injury caused permanent vocal damage.

“At one time, Alvarez believed Ramos’s death was carried out by Delgado’s enforcer, Solaris, but was never able to prove his suspicions.”

Cal’s eyes narrowed on the name for a brief moment. Julia would’ve missed the movement if she hadn’t been watching him so close.

“Do you know Solaris?” she asked, going with her instincts.

“No.” The word was clipped, but the jade in his eyes sharpened into glass slivers.

She didn’t believe him. With a slight lift of her shoulder, she let it go. For the moment. “Since then, Alvarez and Delgado have split the business, absorbing their late partner’s share and went their separate ways.”

“Jon Mercer’s people have been keeping them under surveillance,” Cal commented. He took another swallow, this time his eyes rested on his tea, masking his thoughts. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Delgado has been married twice. His first wife, Camilla, died in a car accident just after their daughter, Alejandra, turned four.”

“Yes, and some believe that Cristo killed Camilla because a doctor told him she could no longer have children,” Cal inserted.

“Alejandra is now twenty-five, graduated from Harvard Law School and just passed her New York State Bar examination.” Julia paused. “She actually seems quite normal.”

“Define normal.”

She ignored him. “No indication or evidence that she is involved with her father or the family business.”

“That’s smart, not normal.”

“His second wife, Rosario, is still alive,” she said. “They’ve been married fifteen years this past November. A society girl who likes to entertain.”

“And sample her husband’s merchandise,” Cal added dryly.

“If you follow the South American society papers,” Julia agreed. “Cristo seemed to have mellowed in his second marriage. It took five years for Rosario to give birth to his son, Argus.”

“She almost didn’t make it. Rumors were already starting that Cristo was getting ready to replace Rosario for a younger, more fertile model when she confirmed her pregnancy.”

“No information on the boy, other than he’s ten,” Julia explained, keeping her voice neutral.

“Cristo keeps his son under wraps. Cut off from the outside world.”

“Argus means everything to his father.” Fear chilled her. Julia gripped her mug with both hands but its heat did little to warm them. “Shall I go on?”

“Do you know Delgado’s shipping itinerary? Who his suppliers are? Where his compounds are located? Why he takes pleasure in watching people die?”

“Do you?” she shot back.

“Your ex-husband did. And now he’s dealing with the consequences.”

“He’s dealing with.” She pointed a finger at him. “You’re using the present tense. You don’t believe Jason is dead, either, do you?”

“I told you, I’m supposed to verify his death,” Cal said, then sighed. “Even with Delgado’s nasty habit of uploading his executions for public consumption, Cain hasn’t been able to find any clips of Jason.”

“Which only supports my theory that Jason isn’t dead.”

“If Jason is still alive—and that’s a big if—Delgado isn’t advertising it yet because he wants something more important. And apparently, he wants it from you.”

“The ten million dollars.”

Cal snorted. “To Delgado, ten million is pocket change. Besides, he could get the money from you without bringing you to Venezuela just by transferring the funds.”

“I’m sure he’ll show his hand, once I meet with him,” Julia insisted.

“The hell you will. You have no experience in the field.”

“I might not have experience, but I’ve had training.”

“Basic defense training in case of a terrorist attack is not jungle warfare.”

“That’s why I’m asking you to be my bodyguard.”

Cal’s head shot up, his eyes found hers.

“That’s all, Cal. You know Delgado and you owe Jason. That makes you the logical choice.”

“I owe Jason, not you.”

She had a debt to pay herself. “Jason told me to call in the favor if I needed to.”

“It would be suicide to take you with me.”

“If I die, I won’t hold you responsible.” Anger flushed her face, made her eyes sharp, her jaw stubborn. “You’re not the only one who owes Jason, Cal.”

Frustration settled in Cal’s gut, a ball of fire that fed on his jealousy. He didn’t want to know why she owed Jason. Didn’t want to acknowledge Jason knew Julia on a more intimate level.

“So? Are we doing this together?” She stood, bracing her hands on the counter and leaned in. “Or do I go with someone else?”

His body tightened, aware. Her scent pulsed between them. A seductive balance of lavender and the moist winter air, warmed now by the heat of her body.

Tempting fate, he breathed her in until the scent took on a power of its own. It sizzled and snapped, hunting until it found a conduit in the thick of his blood. Setting it pulsating.

Cal shifted, bucking for control. Allowing some of the frustration to break through. “All right. Just for the sake of argument, we consider the possibility of you joining me.

“If we’re going to work together, we’re going to have to come to an agreement.” His eyes skimmed her face, rested briefly on her mouth, before trailing back to her eyes.

“What agreement?” she asked, her eyes narrowed, suspicious.

Cal let himself react, let his voice drop to a husky murmur, and let the desire burn through the twist of knots in his gut. Deftly, he stepped around the corner of the counter. Satisfied when he saw her big brown eyes widen in surprise.

“What are you doing?” She backed up until she hit the stool behind her.

It was a risk. He was moving fast.

His hand went to her hair, brushed the wisps of silk away from her cheek. Her skin warmed beneath his knuckles. Need blurred into necessity.

“I’ve missed you, Julia.” His fingers stroked a thick lock against her neck. He felt her shudder slide over him, her silent groan slip through him.

Julia twisted her head away. “If you’re trying to intimidate me—”

“A day hasn’t gone by that I haven’t thought about you.” That, at least, was true.

“Don’t you dare try to con me, West,” she snapped back. But her breath caught, made her words just this side of breathless. She tried to move past him, only to have his arm block her way. “That line worked … once. A long time ago. It won’t again.”

“This is no line. It’s a preview.” He shifted forward, leaving mere inches between them. “Of what working together might mean.”

He could take her mouth with his. Lord knows he’d wanted to, many times, since they’d slept together the year before. He’d spent hours during the longer, drawn-out meetings in the Oval Office, remembering, fantasizing. “We’re going to be in tighter spaces than this if we hike through the jungle.”

“What do you mean, tighter spaces?”

His hands cupped each hip, then exerted enough pressure to close the distance between them until her body fit his. “Much tighter than this.”

“You can’t scare me, Cal,” she whispered, but her gaze dropped to his mouth. Her heart beat wildly against his chest.

“Don’t bet on it. Most times I scare myself.”

He heard her slight intake, saw the flutter of her lashes. Something moved in him. Something dormant that he’d thought long dead. Had wanted long dead.

He jerked away. Unable to take the last step. “Go home, Julia.”

She grabbed the counter, to steady herself. Or stop yourself from stepping toward him, her heart mocked. “I told you—”

Her gaze dropped to his hand, saw the recorder clenched in his fist. Rage boiled, and with it the humiliation of what almost happened, what she’d almost allowed.

She clamped her emotions down between tight jaws and ignored the tears that pricked at the back of her eyes. “Of all the low, despicable—”

“It was either that or beat it out of you.” He waved the recorder in her face.

“You have no right—”

“This isn’t about rights. It’s about survival, damn it.” Cal rewound the tape for a few seconds, then hit play. “A hotel room will be waiting for you in …”

When the recorder went silent, Cal’s eyes snapped to hers. “What happened to the rest of the message?”

“I erased it.” The satisfaction was there, taking the edge off the humiliation. But not the anger.

“Of all the stupid things to do,” he bit out. “How in the hell am I supposed to help you if you aren’t straight with me?”

“Do we have an agreement?”

“You have no idea what you are asking.”

“I’m asking you to do the decent thing,” she shot back. “For once.”

He let out a hiss between his teeth.

“Someone broke into my apartment. Do you think I’m safe here? Next time they might be waiting for me,” she continued, making her play.

“All I have to do is tell Cain MacAlister about the ten million. He’ll lock you up.”

“Go ahead.” She brushed the threat aside, buried the fear deep. More than her pride was at risk. So much depended on this. “Whoever gave me Jason’s file is high up in the government. Only personnel with top clearance have access to that file.”

“You had access to mine.”

She ignored him. “That same person could be driving this deal. They’ll find out if you have me arrested. And I’ll give you good odds I’ll be dead within a few days. Cell or not.”

The tightening of his jaw told her she’d won. Still, she pushed a little more. “I have to be in Venezuela in less than forty-eight hours. We’re wasting time bickering over this, when you have no choice but to come with me.”

“This is turning out to be one hell of a payback.” Cal yanked a hand through his hair. “The promise I made to Jason didn’t include getting you killed.”

“Then don’t get me killed,” Julia reasoned, crossing her arms to mask her shaking limbs.

“Bloody hell.”

CAL SETTLED BACK INTO HIS SEAT, shifting slightly to accommodate the limited space of the airplane’s coach section.

He insisted that he and Julia board separately, both under aliases. He’d chosen a seat toward the back. One that gave him a full view of the passengers, but far enough away from the engines so his hearing wouldn’t be impaired.

The fact that he owned a Learjet—a benefit from solid family investments—didn’t improve his mood. But flying privately posed more problems then he was willing to deal with.

The passenger beside him—a solid man in his fifties with a beard and smelling of garlic—snored through an open mouth, making Cal rethink what he could deal with.

His gaze scanned the section. Many families, a few couples, even one or two single mothers traveling with babies. The rest seemed to be a spattering of solo men and women. Most of the men dressed in cotton slacks and sport shirts, the women in trousers and simple tops. Business casual.

He’d worn an oxford-white shirt tucked into tailored black slacks. And because of his fake identification, an Air Marshal-approved pistol tucked into its holster at his ankle.

Business ready, he thought coldly.

Julia sat a few rows ahead. An empty seat divided her and an older woman with a fluff of white cotton for hair.

Her head rested against the window of the plane, still. Most likely asleep.

The sunlight spilled through the small, square porthole, setting dark strands of hair into a golden fire.

It had been like that the first time he’d seen her in Jon Mercer’s office. Cool. Efficient. The lights catching her just right, dazzling him. Then she smiled. A full-on mischievous smile that revealed a sexy little dimple at the side of her mouth.

He rubbed his chest, trying to ease the tightness. It had been the first time in his life Cal had been sucker punched.

Uncomfortable with the memory, he shifted the gun to his pocket and unfolded himself from his seat. Within moments, a female flight attendant approached.

“Can I get you something, Marshal?” She was an attractive woman in her late twenties, with a short bob of blond curly hair, and an invitation in her baby blues.

“The lavatory?”

She gestured to the back of the plane, used the opportunity to take a lingering look. “If you need anything else, let me know.”

“I will,” he promised easily.

Cal reached the bathroom, closed the door, then turned the lock. He pulled out his satellite cell phone.

Quickly, he punched in the number.

“MacAlister.”

“It’s West.”

“It’s about damn time. What the hell is going on, West?” Cain nearly shouted the words. “You had specific orders. Bringing Julia Cutting on this operation wasn’t part of them.”

So Cain had been keeping Julia under surveillance, then. It was the only way the Labyrinth director would have known about their pairing up. “I have the situation under control. We’re still a go on locating your missing equipment.”

“You were supposed to notify me if Julia made contact. Why didn’t you?”

“She didn’t find me to work out a deal. She needed a bodyguard for her trip to Caracas.”

“Don’t trust her, Cal.”

“Julia isn’t a traitor, damn it. She’s a pawn and you know it. She’d never roll over on Jon Mercer, Cain.”

“All I know is that I’m missing a state-of-the-art technical component.”

The DEA’s new Drug Enforcement Retriever. Nickname: MONGREL.

The United States government had developed a drug detector that could find a smuggled shipment of narcotics by simply analyzing compound structure found in the air or in the residue from fingerprints and most other surfaces. The prototype could read a millionth of a gram. A particle so small that up until now could only be seen under a microscope.

It was a breakthrough in high technology that could disrupt drug shipping for months, even years until the drug cartels could counter its effectiveness.

Unless they had the prototype.

“Julia Cutting is my primary suspect,” Cain insisted. “I’ve seen women betray their husbands, their own children for power. The President of the United States is nothing.”

“She admitted to taking ten million out of the government coffers. Not to heisting the MONGREL.”

“What ten million dollars?” Cain let go with a string of obscenities. “How did she do that?”

A small smile twitched across Cal’s lips. Cain didn’t like being outmaneuvered. Simply because that meant he wasn’t an expert strategist.

“Check the government account books and find out,” Cal advised. “It’s ransom money, Cain. I heard the tape Delgado sent her.”

“Delgado doesn’t need ten million dollars.”

“I agree.” Cal rubbed the back of his neck. “I haven’t figured out what he really wants yet. He might suspect she has the MONGREL, but my fear is he hasn’t laid the past to rest. If that’s the case, she’s walking into a death trap.”

“You both are, so be careful,” Cain warned.

“I left the recorder in the top drawer of my nightstand. Get it and have Kate analyze it. Julia erased most of the instructions. See if Kate’s people can retrieve them for me. I want to know exactly what Delgado wants.”

“He wants the MONGREL. And Jason Marsh supplied the means if he gave it to Julia. Roman is fit to be tied that Jason walked out of his security lab with the prototype.”

Roman D’Amato was Cain’s brother-in-law, and an ex-Labyrinth agent. After marrying Cain’s sister, Kate, Roman created a worldwide security corporation that specialized in state-of-the-art technology.

“Roman can have him, after I’m finished with him.”

“You mean if there’s anything left,” Cain commented wryly. “Once Delgado gets the prototype, it will circumvent any hope we have to contain his activities and bring him down.”

“Whatever Delgado is after, it’s not to use Julia as a hostage,” Cal continued, not willing to argue Cain’s point quite yet. “He obviously needs Julia to arrive in Caracas on her own, otherwise he would have had her snatched from her apartment.”

“Not with the surveillance I had on her.”

“Your surveillance didn’t keep Delgado’s men from leaving the tape recorder, Cain.”

“I’ll find out why,” Cain promised. “Delgado must suspect Julia has the MONGREL.”

“How?” Cal asked.

“Good instincts. Jason. Or tip-off from our ranks,” Cain growled. “I’d bet Kate’s fortune on the last.”

“Not yours?” Cal smiled. Kate and Cain were siblings. Both with raven-black hair, slate-gray eyes and a hell of a Scottish temperament. And both, along with their brother, Ian, were heirs to the MacAlister Whiskey fortune.

“Hell, no,” Cain grunted. “Look, I’ll deal with things here. Your attention needs to be there. Once Julia Cutting finds out I’ve sent you over there to kill her husband, she becomes a major liability for you.”

“Ex-husband,” Cal corrected with a hard edge. “Leave Jason and Julia to me, Cain. That’s what you pay me for.”

“You’re sounding like she’s got you wound up again, Cal,” Cain remarked, then paused for a moment. “Julia Cutting’s sudden involvement doesn’t change our original operation. Don’t make me regret putting you on this. Do your thinking out of bed and get the job done. Find our mole. Find Jason. But most of all, find the MONGREL.”

“I will.”

“You’d better,” Cain ordered, his tone unbending. “Or I’ll find someone who can.”

Chapter Four

“Taxi, Miss?”

“Sí. Gracias,” Julia answered the airport skycap, her smile now more tired than triumphant.

They’d flown through the early hours of the morning, arriving midafternoon in Caracas. Lack of sleep made her eyes gritty, her head ache. Ignoring both, she adjusted her bag strap farther onto her shoulder and stepped to the curbside.

Cars honked, prodding the pedestrians into motion who ignored the green glare of the traffic lights.

“Is this your first time in Venezuela?” The skycap was an elderly man with a shock of silver hair on a round face. His black eyes seemed softer than most. Kind.

“You are alone?” The man spoke in English, rolling his R’s in a lyrical manner. He glanced around her for a traveling companion.

“Yes.”

“Please. You will want to take this taxi.” The man waved to a small white car on the other side of the street, ignoring the row of taxis behind him. The driver next in line honked in protest, but the skycap merely turned his back on him and nodded toward the taxi making a U-turn in front of them.

“Renalto is a friend of mine and honest. He knows the city well. He will take you wherever you need to go.”

Julia regarded the older man for a moment, her smile no longer tired, but grateful. “Gracias,” she repeated and handed the skycap several pesos. “Much appreciated.”

Renalto parked in front of her and jumped eagerly from the car. He smiled, revealing a gold tooth that flashed in the sunlight.

“Buenos días.” He came around to her side and opened the back passenger door on the sedan.

“Buenos días.”

“You take care of the lady, Renalto. She is here for business, not your shenanigans.”

“I am always the gentleman, old man,” Renalto replied, his grin wider. “Unless the ladies prefer otherwise.”

“This one does not,” Julia remarked, unable to curb the laughter that filtered through her words.

“I am still at your service, señorita.” Renalto bowed at the waist. “You see, Leopold, I can be a gentleman.”

The older man shook his head even as Renalto reached for her carry-on case.

Julia stopped his hand. “I’ll keep it, if that’s all right.”

“Of course.” Instead, he waved his hand toward the passenger seat. “Welcome to Venezuela.”

“Ms. Cutting?” A man approached, his black hair slicked back on his scalp, his black suit—too dark for the heat of the day—tailored to emphasize the steroid-enhanced muscles beneath, matched the dark sunglasses that covered his eyes but didn’t quite cover the pock-mark scarred cheeks.

Without warning, he pulled a pistol from beneath his suit coat and clubbed Renalto on the back of his head. The driver fell into the side of the taxi then hit the pavement.

The man pointed the weapon at Julia. “Come with me.”

When Leopold stepped forward, Julia instinctively blocked him with her arm. “Don’t,” she warned Leopold, her eyes not leaving the gunman. “And if I refuse to come with you?”

The man in the suit waved his pistol toward Renalto. “Leave him or join him. Your choice.”

“We’ll pass, Jorgie.” Cal stepped behind the man, grabbed the gun. Before the man could react, Cal jerked the man’s wrist sideways. The bone snapped, the man grunted with pain and dropped the gun. Cal rammed his elbow in the man’s face, felt the cartilage give way, the blood spurt. “The lady doesn’t like violence.”

Cal kept the pistol and shoved the man aside. “Let’s go.”

“The driver,” Julia warned. She knelt in front of Renalto. “He needs our help.”

“I’m okay, señorita,” Renalto whispered, wincing. Then he reached for his head. “Go with your friend.”

“I will take care of him,” Leopold interjected, already reaching for Renalto’s arm to help him up.

Cal opened the taxi’s passenger door and shoved Julia in, then tossed his bag in after her.

“Put your seat belt on,” he ordered.

After slamming her door shut, he reached into his pocket and flicked a business card on Jorgie. “Tell your boss I’ll be in touch.”

Without waiting for a reply, Cal slid behind the steering wheel.

“Are you all right?” Cal glanced at the rearview mirror, threw the car into gear, then pressed his foot against the gas.

“Yes,” Julia answered, ignoring the tremor in her fingers and snapped the seat belt in place. “What did you give him?”

“A warning.” They shot forward into traffic. Cal swore and swerved past an oncoming car. “Hold on.”

“You called him Jorgie,” Julia said observingly. “Is he one of Delgado’s men?”

“Yes,” Cal replied, then jerked the wheel to avoid a man on a bicycle. “Jorgie Perez. Although I doubt it is his real name.”

“How do you know him?”

“Cain MacAlister gave me a rundown on most of Delgado’s men. I recognized Jorgie from a photograph.”

“When were you going to share Cain’s information?” She asked the question in a quiet voice, but Cal wasn’t fooled.

“You’ve done your research, remember?” he responded wryly. When she didn’t answer, he continued, “Jorgie knew you were on that flight. He made contact too quickly otherwise.”

“Our aliases came from Labyrinth, right?”

“Yes.”

“So whoever had access to Jason’s files also has access to Labyrinth’s,” Julia concluded. “That means we can’t trust the good guys.”

“Exactly,” Cal admitted, impressed with her reasoning.

“Including Cain?” she asked quietly.

“I’m not sure yet.”

“So what now?”

“We switch identities one more time. But the next one we use is from one of my private sources,” Cal replied. “And we keep to ourselves for a while.”

“You mean no more contact with Labyrinth.”

A development that worked well with Cal for the moment. His phone call with Cain had hit too close to home.

“You’ve already told me my job is to keep you out of danger and to find Jason. Whatever it takes,” Cal reminded her. “It would help if you told me why Delgado wants you here. It’s not because of the money.”

“I told you, I don’t know,” Julia said, uncertain. “The obvious reason would be that I work for the President and have access to top clearance files.”

“If that were the case, he’d want you back in Washington where you’d be more use to him.”

Cal took a hard right and headed down another main street.

Suddenly, car tires squealed behind them.

“We’ve got a tail.”

Julia caught the dark sedan in her side mirror. “Delgado’s men?”

“Probably.” Cal swerved into the far right lane to avoid a motor scooter. “Hold on.” He crossed two lanes of traffic and skidded into another left turn.

A screech of tires followed a blare of a car horn. Within moments, the sedan appeared and sped down the street after them. “Which hotel were you going to stay at, Julia?”

“The Gran Paraíso.”

He glanced at his rearview mirror and ran through the red light. Julia grabbed the dashboard, held on as Cal swerved to miss oncoming traffic. Suddenly, he hit the brake and fish-tailed into a nearby alley.

A minute later, the black sedan rushed past.

“Delgado owns the Gran Paraíso and several others in the area,” Cal remarked, his gaze on the rearview mirror.

“I know that. I’d counted on my alias.” She leaned back and took a deep breath, trying to calm her heart before it burst from her chest. “You sound like you know Delgado personally.”

“I’ve had my run-in with his people in the past,” Cal said noncommittally. His gaze swept over her sleeveless cream-colored blouse and burgundy skirt. “What else did you bring to wear?”

“Not much. A pair of slacks. Some shorts. A few cotton shirts.”

Julia looked up, saw Cal’s eyes on her, felt her blood heat, her skin turn pink. “Why?”

“You’re a beautiful woman, Julia.” Cal drove the car down the alley and turned onto the next main street, heading in the opposite direction of the black sedan.

“Somehow I don’t think you’re complimenting me,” she said wryly.

“I’m not. Men notice beautiful women, and then remember them. You can bet Delgado’s men have pictures of you. I’ve been thinking about it since the plane trip.” Mainly because every male that Julia passed took a lingering second glance, annoying Cal. “You’re going to need a new image.”

He parked the car on a nearby street. Cal grabbed their bags. “We’re going to need to alter your appearance a bit. Something more suitable for the drug-smuggling business. We’ll make a stop at a few local shops. Then I need to make some phone calls.”

“Delgado must not have trusted me to follow instructions.” The lie slipped over her tongue, but left a bitter taste behind.

“He’s Colombian Cartel,” Cal reminded her, then waved another taxi down. “He doesn’t trust anyone. Not even his wife.”

ROSARIO CONCHITA DE LA Delgado y Martínez shifted away from the body next to hers and closer to the wine glass on the nightstand.

She tipped the glass upside down, let the few drops fall to the carpet. Annoyed, she reached for the bottle nearby and poured the remaining burgundy into her glass. The buzz from her recent high had all but disappeared, forcing her to make do with alcohol.

“Isn’t ten in the morning a little early for drinking, even for you?”

“Nothing is too early for me.” Rosario took a long sip from the glass, not so much enjoying the bite, but needing the burn of it on her throat and in her stomach. Take the edge off the cravings until she scored more cocaine from Cristo’s guest supply. “What do you care, darling?” She scooted back against the headboard and pulled a silk sheet up over her ample breasts. “It won’t interfere with our little rendezvous.”

Solaris glanced at the woman in the bed. Over a dozen years younger than her husband, she’d been bargained for and bought at the age of eighteen. It had taken her several years, and quite a few miscarriages before she produced the treasured male child for Cristo.

No longer able to have children, she served little purpose in her household. And held little more value than the fine china or Persian rugs.

“What are you thinking about?”

“How beautiful you are,” Solaris replied smoothly. “And how much other women must envy you.”

A delicate brow rose in spite of his sincerity. “And you’ve known many women.” Still, her fingers loosened, allowing the sheet to slide a few inches toward her waist.

Despite her drug habit, her body reminded him of a nineteen fifties starlet’s. The long, ebony hair that draped and curled over golden skin and satin curves. The plump, pouty lips made simply to drive men mad.

Solaris grew hard in anticipation.

Rosario’s gaze drifted down to his lap. “Twice isn’t good enough for you?” She let out a small, female purr. But the breathlessness was there, too, inciting both of them.

Slowly, Solaris tugged on the sheet, the whisper of it seductive as the material slid over her skin until she lay completely exposed.

“I have to be back shortly after eleven. Any later, we risk discovery.”

Fear edged her words, but arrogance made her chin tilt upward. They both knew if found out, they’d die. Or worse.

He dipped his index finger into her glass, then traced one pink nipple with the red liquid.

A soft sigh slipped from her lips. Her hand slid behind his neck, her nails scratching just enough to get his attention before tangling themselves in the hair at his nape. She leaned back against the headboard and closed her eyes.

“I think …” Smiling, he lowered his head, enjoying the feel of her fingers flexing against his scalp. “… some things in life are worth the risk.”

Chapter Five

Most times I scare myself.

Cal’s earlier words drifted through Julia’s mind, leaving her wondering what he’d meant. Even at their worst moment together, he’d never sparked fear in her, only anger. She stifled a small shiver. That was then, this was now.

After they abandoned the car, Cal flagged down a taxi and took her shopping most of the afternoon. She’d tried on nothing, drew no attention to herself, not that it mattered.

From the moment they walked into a store, he’d taken charge. He ignored her suggestions and made his own choices.

Bold, jeweled colors, thin materials, admittedly feminine styles. But all at prices that would put her bank account in arrears for a whole year.

“Still pouting?”

“I don’t pout.” She never had, but if she could, today would’ve been the day. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and looked down her nose. A tactic that served her well in the Oval Office.

Cal laughed. “Could have fooled me.”

He set their shopping bags on the floor and opened the door to a high-rise apartment.

“Stay here.” He grabbed his gun from its holster and disappeared past the doorway.

“Jerk,” she muttered.

“I bloody well heard you,” Cal admonished from somewhere in the apartment.

After sounding the all clear, he appeared at the door. “If you’re going to call me names, at least do it to my face.”

“Why, when I take so much pleasure in doing it behind your back?” Julia snagged the shopping bags, then slipped past him through the doorway.

“What next?” The blast of air-conditioning felt good against her skin. She set the packages on a nearby couch, lifted the hair from the nape of her neck and closed her eyes.

She wore her hair shorter now, styled into a sleek cap of sable that was parted at the side and cut into a blunt slant. It brushed against the smooth line of her jaw, drawing the eye down the delicate line of her neck.

“That depends on you.” The underlying edge had her eyes open, but whatever she thought she heard was gone. He shoved the pistol into its holster behind his back, then slipped off his jacket.

“Are you going to start sharing information with me?” He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt, leaving the strong column of his neck and a bit of his chest visible.

“For instance?” Julia glanced away, ignoring the skip in her pulse, the desire that tickled the back of her throat.

“We can start with the bank accounts that you placed the money in.”

“No.” Her hand fell away, the hair settled once again on her nape. “And before you rip into me, I’m not keeping it from you out of spite, Cal. It’s my insurance. I need to be part of this mission.”

“Since when has this become a mission?” Cal asked wryly. “I consider it a wild goose chase.”

Julia sank onto a matching love seat, then resisted the urge to slip off her leather sandals and fling one at Cal’s head.

Instead, she settled for a small toss under a nearby coffee table and studied her new home.

The apartment reflected the romantic elegance of a century-old Spanish villa. Rustic reds and muted greens threaded the room, enhanced the oversize adobe fireplace and exposed-beam ceiling. Linen drapes of a pale, buttery-yellow billowed gently against the open windows and balcony doors. The scent of the warm Caribbean breeze tugged at the senses, tempting those inside to wander out, she was sure, to the sun-warmed balcony and the ocean view beyond.

“Why didn’t you tell me Jason was your friend?” she asked. “We were together for nearly six months and you never mentioned it.”

“Because Jason and I weren’t friends,” Cal answered. “We weren’t anything.”

“And yet, you owe him.”

“I owe a lot of people many different things, Julia. And some owe me. It’s the nature of my job. You’ve worked in politics, you’ve seen Jon Mercer operate. The man borders on being one of the best con artists of our time.”

He crossed over to a small glass bar beside the balcony doors. “Want something?”

“No, thanks.” She loved Jon like a father, so it was hard for her to be at odds with him now. Even harder to believe the worst of him.

Stubborn Irish, his wife Shantelle called him in private. With his charming ways and wicked words.

Approaching his midsixties, President Mercer defined the term “larger than life” with a set of strong, broad shoulders, an even gait to his walk and, on most occasions, an even temperament. He was quick to laughter, quicker when the joke was on him, but swift and scathing when it came to dispensing his more difficult duties.

Jon Mercer saw only the black and white when it came down to the laws. Of humanity or the land. He compromised out of necessity—for the people who entrusted him with their lives and the well-being of their children. But on a deeper, personal level, there existed no gray areas.

And Julia admitted silently, that was what she feared the most.

Restless, she stood and walked to the window. The sun sank toward the ocean, painting the beach in tangerine hues, shaping the waves until they tossed and turned with the incoming tide.

“You’re like him, you know.” She turned to Cal. Frustration scraped at her nerves, even while its cause evaded her. “I never really understood that until now.”

“Like who?” Cal opened a cabinet underneath the bar and pulled out a bottle of whiskey.

“Jon Mercer.”

Cal’s lips twitched with amusement. “You’d bloody well better be joking, sweetheart. I haven’t aged that much since you’ve last seen me.”

“I’m not talking in physical likeness.”

But in retrospect, she saw that, too. A younger Jon Mercer, an older Calvin West.

His shoulders flexed beneath the white dress shirt just a bit when he poured three fingers of the whiskey into a highball glass. Her eyes followed the lines, the tailored fit of the cotton from the shoulders to his chest to the flat of his stomach.

It hadn’t been that long since she’d touched the warm contours beneath.

“Do you want me to step from behind the bar so you can finish the job?” Cal said softly.

Startled, Julia looked up, her breath hitched in her chest.

He stilled at the sound, letting his gaze catch hers. Something in his eyes sharpened, then turned almost predatory.

She forced herself to breathe.

“How do I remind you of Jon Mercer, Julia?”

Each of his words drifted over her, low and velvet-smooth against her skin. Small electric shocks pricked at the base of her spine even as the warning bells went off in her head.

“For king and country,” she said, cursing the fact her voice broke just a little. “No middle ground. No matter what it takes. Or who it destroys,” she repeated, just managing to keep the hurt from filtering through.

“It sounds a bit heroic, doesn’t it?”

“If it did, that wasn’t my intent,” she retorted. “I was aiming more for calculated and …”

Dangerous.

He stepped from behind the bar, and her gaze dipped to the narrow hips, the lean thighs barely hidden by the tailored lines of his trousers.

And sexy as hell.

Her muscles went lax, her body trembled. Just with words and a few heated glances.

Damn him.

“And?” he challenged her, and took a swallow from his glass before he set it on the counter. The request was direct, a double-edged sword.

Images of them, naked, their limbs tangled, his body hot and hard against hers.

Julia closed her eyes against the memories.

“You’re not going to get fainthearted on me, are you?” He spoke the words low, against her ear.

Her eyes flew open. He’d moved silently, quickly until he stood mere inches from her. She’d forgotten how quietly he moved. “Let’s not bring my heart into this.”

“Into what?” he murmured.

They were no longer talking about Jon Mercer. His finger touched her ear, traced its delicate curve.

Julia shivered. He gathered her close. His fingers drifted down her spine, making small, lazy circles over her back. She curled into him.

Before she could answer, his mouth covered hers, coaxing, caressing.

“Just one. The one I wanted at the apartment. The one I’ve been craving since …” He captured her groan in a long, deep kiss. Desire rolled through her, over her, in an unleashed tidal wave of heat.

Drowning, she broke away. “Stop, Cal.”

Hadn’t she hitched that ride? A whirlpool of molten lava that tugged at her until her senses spiraled into a thick vortex of desire and anger. Fast and furious, she’d loved every minute of it.

Loved him.

Until he’d played her. Used her to get information for MI6, England’s answer to the CIA.

Top secret information.

Seduce the President’s secretary, steal files from her computer and win the game.

She pulled back, broke contact and forced herself to look at him again. Past the dark, set, sexy features to the cold, calculating depths underneath.

“I think I’d like a drink now.” She stepped away, praying her legs wouldn’t buckle beneath her as she made her way to the love seat.

For support, she settled deep into the cushions. For spite, she crossed her legs, deliberately letting the material slide up mid-thigh.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

His gaze wandered up from her bare feet, over her knees to the tip of the hem. Only then did he shift back to her face. His fingers flexed for a brief second at his side.

“No.” The word was clipped, its sting sharp enough to make her flinch.

Almost.

SOLARIS LEANED ON THE RAIL OF THE freighter, The Hyperion, and took a long drag on his cigarette. The smoke caught in his chest and held. For a moment he enjoyed the sting of the nicotine, then slowly exhaled.

The ship rolled beneath his feet. The rhythm set by a nearby crane as it settled orange and brown cargo containers onto The Hyperion’s deck.

He was a fisherman’s son. Spent his youth hauling nets, trawling traps, setting hooks and sails. The work roped the muscles of his six-foot frame, added bulk to the wide shoulders and barreled chest, set steel in his spine.

Over the years, he’d lost his father and two brothers in the storms, while his cousins lost limbs and with them, the taste for the sea.

But Solaris continued, taking pride in what his father had passed to him. The skills, his family’s name. Until the commercial fishing companies muscled in and stole their livelihood—leaving his mother and sisters to starve.

The water lapped up against the side of the ship, its spray caught in the tug of the wind leaving a sheen of salt water sparkling in the air, the taste of the ocean at the back of his throat.

At eighteen, Solaris had killed his first man. A lawyer who came to repossess their family home and business. There was no remorse, no pity. Nothing but utter satisfaction when the man took his last breath with Solaris’s knife in his chest, his hand still on the hilt.

It was then he realized his other talent. And killing had become his new line of work.

For the first fifteen years, he drifted from country to country, hiring his skills out to those who could pay for them, learning his trade, building his fortune.

Then he met Cristo Delgado.

In the years he worked for Cristo, Solaris’s bank account had quadrupled. He even managed a few deals on the side.

Though he had never returned home, he continued sending money to his mother and sisters through untraceable means.

A limousine pulled up near the gangway. Solaris pitched his cigarette into the water and stepped from the railing.

Cristo’s lieutenant, Jorgie, got out of the front passenger seat and stood next to the limo. A bandage crossed his nose and connected two swollen black eyes. Another wrapped around his right hand and wrist.

A moment later, four additional homegrown thugs emerged from a nearby black sedan and flanked the limousine.

Once his men appeared in place, Cristo emerged from the limo, said something to Jorgie while he buttoned his Armani suit coat, and slipped on a pair of mirrored sunglasses.

Despite his age, Cristo managed to stay trim and fit. Driven by vanity, he worked out regularly in the villa’s indoor pool. But besides a mistress or two, Solaris’s boss had no other vices.

Cristo glanced up and smiled, revealing a row of white teeth that flashed against the tanned face and well-groomed silver hair.

Even from a distance, it was evident that Cristo’s smile didn’t quite mask the tight features, nor the stiff, determined gait.

Solaris assumed something had gone amiss with the Cutting woman.

It was time for him to get to work.

“Your boss seems happy enough, eh?”

Captain Damien Stravos appeared beside Solaris. The man stroked his overgrown beard with his knuckles and squinted into the sun.

He was short for a Greek, his head not quite meeting Solaris’s shoulder, with a rotund stomach that hung over bowed legs.

“And why not?” Solaris agreed without qualm. Deliberately, he studied the horizon where the blue sky merged with the deeper blue of the ocean. “It is a beautiful day today.”

“Somehow, I do not think it is the weather that has put Cristo in a good mood,” Stravos commented, wheezing, but from his excitement or his girth, Solaris wasn’t sure. “We have made a good deal.”

Solaris did not correct the captain. It was a good deal. The transportation of thirty tons of cocaine to the United States—a street value of millions—with the promise of more if all went well.

The risks were high, but that was the nature of their business. Solaris didn’t agree with Delgado’s plans for freighting the merchandise over the Caribbean Sea when smaller boats, while less profitable, were easier to keep under the DEA’s radar.

But Solaris kept his opinion to himself. He had no stake in that side of Cristo’s business, so the risk was not his.

Captain Stravos met Cristo at the top of the gangway. The latter ordered his men to stand guard by the rail several feet away.

“Good day, Damien.”

“Yes, yes. A good day.” The captain glanced at Solaris. “Were we not just talking about that?”

After Solaris shrugged, the men shook hands. “You are ready to finalize our plans?” Cristo asked.

“Yes, yes,” Stravos responded once again, his voice more eager.

Something Solaris had thought impossible.

“How is your lovely wife, Cristo?”

“She is doing well. In fact, she insists on your dining with us the day after tomorrow.”

“Fine, fine,” he said, barely masking his joy.

Cristo Delgado bit back the irritation and widened his smile. It was no secret that Stravos lusted after his wife. But Cristo chose to ignore the fact. For now.

Stravos was annoying certainly, but he was an excellent captain. And he asked very few questions. Besides, it wasn’t Stravos that sparked Cristo’s impatience, it was the Cutting woman. And now, Calvin West.

“Allow me a moment with my man, here.” Cristo nodded toward Solaris. “Then I will join you, Damien. For some brandy, maybe?”

“Of course.” Stravos tipped his hat briefly, and then made his way to the bridge of the ship. “I will have someone return and escort you to my quarters.”

Cristo waited a moment, his gaze settled on the sky just beyond Solaris’s left shoulder. “You have the opportunity to take care of some unfinished business for me.”

“What business?”

Cristo handed him the business card. “Calvin West has returned.”

“West?” Solaris glanced at the card, surprised. His mind processed the implications. “Here?”

“He accompanied the Cutting woman.”

“So your inside source was right.” Solaris nodded, satisfied. “She came. Did she bring the MONGREL prototype?”

“We’ll see soon enough.”

“West was MI6 until last year. Now, I believe, he is some sort of diplomatic liaison between London and Washington, D.C. Why is he involved?”

“It does not matter. He is an unexpected opportunity,” Cristo answered. “You’ve been given another chance at West. Don’t screw it up again. Understand?”

“I will take care of it,” Solaris replied, pleased. “What about Jason Marsh?”

“Marsh is not your concern,” Delgado retorted. “Find West. When you’re done, bring the woman to me. If she’s

decided to visit her ex-husband, I will find out why, and how

I can use her presence to my advantage. Then I’ll dispose of her. You can do what you please to West. Just make sure of the impact. On both of them.”

“I will.” Solaris pocketed the card. “But if West let you know he was here, there’s a good chance he has already set a plan in motion.”

“You act as if I should care,” Cristo said arrogantly, then walked away with a wave of his hand. “Just do your job this time, Solaris. I won’t tolerate another failure.”

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