Expecting Trouble

Expecting Trouble

Delores Fossen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

About the author

Dedication

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

Copyright

Imagine a family tree that includes Texas cowboys, Choctaw and Cherokee Indians, a Louisiana pirate and a Scottish rebel who battled side by side with William Wallace. With ancestors like that, it’s easy to understand why Texas author and former air force captain Delores Fossen feels as if she were genetically predisposed to writing romances. Along the way to fulfilling her DNA destiny, Delores married an air force top gun who just happens to be of Viking descent. With all those romantic bases covered, she doesn’t have to look too far for inspiration.

To Tom, thanks for all the support.

Prologue

A deafening blast shook the rickety hotel and stopped Jenna cold.

With her heart in her throat, Jenna raced to the window and looked down at the street below. Or rather what was left of the street, a gaping hole. Someone had set shops on fire. Black coils of smoke rose, smearing the late afternoon sky.

“Ohmygod,” Jenna mumbled.

There was no chance a taxi could get to her now to take her to the airport. And worse were rebel soldiers, at least a dozen of them dressed in dark green uniforms. She’d heard about them on the news and knew they had caused havoc in Monte de Leon. That’s why by now she’d hoped to be out of the hotel, and the small South American country. She hadn’t succeeded because she’d been waiting on a taxi for eight hours.

One of the soldiers looked up at her and took aim with his scoped rifle. Choking back a scream, Jenna dropped to the floor just as the bullet slammed through the window.

She scurried across the threadbare rug and into the bathroom. It smelled of mold, rust and other odors she didn’t want to identify, and Jenna wasn’t surprised to see roaches race across the cracked tile. It was a far cry from the nearby Tolivar estate where she’d spent the past two days. Of course, there’d been insects of a different kind there.

Paul Tolivar.

Staying close to the wall, Jenna pulled off one of her red heels so she could use it as a weapon and climbed into the bathtub to wait for whatever was about to happen.

She didn’t have to wait long.

There was a scraping noise just outside the window. She pulled in her breath and waited. Praying. She hadn’t even made it to the please-get-me-out-of-this part when she heard a crash of glass and the thud of someone landing on the floor.

“I’m Special Agent Cal Rico,” a man called out. “U.S. International Security Agency. I’m here to rescue you.”

A rescue? Or maybe this was a trick by one of the rebels to draw her out. Jenna heard him take a step closer, and that single step caused her pulse to pound in her ears.

“I know you’re here,” he continued, his voice calm. “I pinpointed you with thermal equipment.”

The first thing she saw was her visitor’s handgun. It was lethal-looking. As was his face. Lean, strong. He had an equally strong jaw. Olive skin that hinted at either Hispanic or Italian DNA. Mahogany-brown hair and sizzling steel-blue eyes that were narrowed and focused.

He was over six feet tall and wore all black, with various weapons and equipment strapped onto his chest, waist and thighs. He looked like the answer to her unfinished prayer.

Or a P.S. to her nightmare.

“We need to move now,” he insisted.

Jenna didn’t question that, but she still wasn’t sure what she intended to do. Yes, she was afraid, but she wasn’t stupid. “Can I trust you?”

Amusement leapt through his eyes. His reaction was brief, lasting barely a second before he nodded. And that was apparently all the reassurance he intended to give her. He latched on to her arm and hauled her from the tub. He allowed her just enough time to put back on her shoe before he maneuvered her out of the bathroom and toward the door to her hotel room.

“Extraction in progress, Hollywood,” he whispered into a black thumb-size communicator on the collar of his shirt. “ETA for rendezvous is six minutes.”

Six minutes. Not long at all. Jenna latched on to that info like a lifeline. If this lethal-looking James Bond could deliver what he promised, she’d be safe soon. Of course, with all those rebel soldiers outside, that was a big if.

Cal Rico paused at the door, listening, and eased it open. After a split-second glance down the hall, he got them out of the room and down a flight of stairs that took them to the back entrance on the bottom floor. Again, he looked out, but he must not have liked what he saw. He put his finger to his lips, telling her to stay quiet.

Outside, Jenna could still hear the battery of gunfire and the footsteps of the rebels. They seemed to be moving right past the hotel. She was in the middle of a battle zone.

How much her life had changed in two days. This should have been a weekend trip to Paul’s Monte de Leon estate. A prelude to taking their relationship from friendship to something more. Instead, it’d become a terrifying ordeal she might not survive.

Jenna tried not to let fear take hold of her, but adrenaline was screaming for her to run. To do something. Anything. It was a powerful, overwhelming sensation. Fight or flight. Even if either of those options could get her killed.

Cal Rico touched his fingers to her lips. “Your teeth are chattering,” he mouthed.

No surprise there. She didn’t have a lot of coping mechanisms for dealing with this level of stress. Who did? Well, other than the guy next to her.

“Try doing some math,” he whispered. “Or recite the Gettysburg Address. It’ll help keep you calm.”

Jenna didn’t quite buy that. Still, she tried.

He moved back slightly. But not before she caught his scent. Sweat mixed with deodorant soap and the faint smell of the leather from his combat boots. It was far more pleasant than it should have been.

Stunned and annoyed with her reaction, Jenna cursed herself. Here she was, close to dying, only hours out of a really bad relationship, and her body was already reminding her that Agent Cal Rico smelled pleasant. Heaven help her. She was obviously a candidate for therapy.

“I’ll do everything within my power to get you out of here,” he whispered. “That’s a promise.”

Jenna stared at him, trying to figure out if he was lying. No sign of that. Just pure undiluted confidence. And much to her surprise, she believed him. It was probably a reaction to the testosterone fantasy he was weaving around her. But she latched on to his promise.

“All clear,” he said before they started to move again. They hurried out the door and into the alley that divided the hotel from another building. Cal never even paused. He broke into a run and made sure she kept up with him. He made a beeline for a deserted cantina. They ducked inside, and he pulled her to the floor.

“We’re at the rendezvous point,” he said into his communicator. “How soon before you can pick up Ms. Laniere?” A few seconds passed before he relayed to her, “A half hour.”

That was an eternity with the battle raging only yards away. “We’ll be safe here?” Jenna tried not to make it sound like a question.

“Safe enough, considering.”

“How did you even know I was in that hotel?”

Cal shifted his position so he could keep watch out the window. “Intel report.”

“There was an intelligence report about me?” But she didn’t wait for him to answer. “Who are you? Not your name. I got that. But why are you here?”

He shrugged as if the answer were obvious. “I’m a special agent with International Security Agency—the ISA. I’ve been monitoring you since you arrived in Monte de Leon.”

Still not understanding, she shook her head. “Why?”

“Because of your boyfriend, Paul Tolivar. He is bad news. A criminal under investigation.”

Judas Priest. This was about Paul. Who else?

“My ex-boyfriend,” she corrected. “And I wish I’d known he was bad news before I flew down here.”

Maybe it was because she was staring craters into him, but Agent Rico finally looked at her. Their gazes met. And held.

“I don’t suppose someone could have told me he was under investigation?” she demanded.

He was about to shrug again, but she held tight to his shoulder. “We couldn’t risk telling you because you might have told Paul.”

Special Agent Rico might have added more, if there hadn’t been an earsplitting explosion just up the street. It sent an angry spray of dirt and glass right at them. He reacted fast. He shoved her to the floor, and covered her body with his. Protecting her.

They waited. He was on top of her, with his rock-solid abs right against her stomach and one of his legs wedged between hers. Other parts of them were aligned as well.

His chest against her breasts. Squishing them.

The man was solid everywhere. Probably not an ounce of body fat. She’d never really considered that an asset, but she did now. Maybe all that strength would get them out of this alive.

Since they might be there for a while, and since Jenna wanted to get her mind off the gunfire, she forced herself to concentrate on something else.

“I believe Paul might be doing something illegal. He uses cash, never credit cards, and he always steps away from me whenever someone calls him on his cell. I know that’s not really proof of any wrongdoing.”

In fact, the only proof she had was that Paul was a jerk. When she refused to marry him, he’d slapped her and stormed out. Jenna hadn’t waited around to see if he’d return with an apology. She hadn’t even waited when Paul’s driver had refused to take her into town. She’d walked the two miles, leaving everything but her purse behind.

Agent Rico smirked. “Tolivar was under investigation for at least a dozen felonies. The Justice Department thought you could be a witness for their case against him.”

“Me?” She’d said that far louder than she intended. Then she whispered, “But I don’t know anything.” Oh, mercy. She hadn’t thought things would be that bad. “What did Paul want with me? Not a green card. He’s already a U.S. citizen.”

Cal nodded. “The Justice Department believes he wanted your accounting firm so he could use it to launder money.”

“Wait, he can’t have my accounting firm. According to the terms of my father’s will, I’m not allowed to sell or donate even a portion of the firm to anyone that isn’t family.”

He had no quick response, and his hesitation had her head racing with all sorts of bad ideas.

“We believe Paul Tolivar planned to marry you one way or another this evening,” Cal said. “He had a phony marriage license created, in case you turned down his proposal. Intel indicates that after the marriage, he planned to keep you under lock and key so he could control your business and your money.”

A sickening feeling of betrayal came first. Then anger. Not just at Paul, but at herself for believing him and not questioning his motives. Still, something didn’t add up. “If Paul planned to keep me captive, then why didn’t he come after me when I left his estate?”

“He had someone follow you. I doubt he intended to let you leave the country. He contacted the only taxi service in town and told them to stall you.”

So she’d been waiting for a taxi that would never have shown up. And it was probably just a matter of time before Paul came after her.

“I slept with him,” Jenna mumbled. Groaned. She pushed her fists against the sides of her head. “You must think I’m the most gullible woman in the world.”

“No. I think you’re an heiress who was conned.”

Yes. Paul had given her the full-court press after she’d met him at a fund-raiser. Phone calls. Roses. Yellow roses, her favorite. And more. “He told me he was dying of a brain tumor.”

Rico shook his head. “No brain tumor.”

It took Jenna a moment to get her teeth unclenched. “The SOB. I want him arrested. I want—”

“He’s dead.”

She had to fight through her fit of rage to understand what he’d said. “Paul’s dead?”

Cal Rico nodded. “He was murdered about an hour ago. That’s why I’m here—to stop the same thing from happening to you.”

Her heart fell to her knees. “Wh-what?”

“We have reason to believe that Paul left instructions. In the event of his death, he wanted others dead, too. You included. Those rebel soldiers out there are after you. And they have orders to kill you on sight.”

Chapter One

International Security Agency Regional Headquarters

San Antonio, Texas

One year later

Special Agent Cal Rico checked his watch—again. Only three minutes had passed since the last time he’d looked. It felt longer.

A lot longer.

Of course, waiting outside his director’s door had a way of making each second feel like an eternity.

“Uh-oh,” he heard someone say. Cal saw a team member making his way up the hall toward him. Mark Lynch was nicknamed Hollywood because of his movie-star looks. He was a Justice Department liaison assigned to the regional headquarters. “What’d you screw up, Chief?” Lynch asked.

Chief. Cal had been given his moniker because of his aspirations to become chief director of the International Security Agency. Except they weren’t just aspirations. One day he would be chief. Since that was his one and only goal, it made things simple.

And in his mind, inevitable.

“Who said I screwed up anything?” Cal commented. But he was asking himself the same thing.

Lynch arched his left eyebrow and flashed a Tom Cruise smile. “You’re outside Kowalski’s office, aren’t you?”

Cal had been assigned to the Bravo team of the ISA for well over a year, and this was the first time he’d ever been ordered to see his director. Since he’d just returned from a monthlong assignment in the Middle East and wouldn’t receive new orders within seven duty days, he was bracing himself for bad news.

He’d already called his folks and both of his brothers to make sure all was well on the home front. That meant this had to do with the job. And that made it more personal than anything else could have been.

“If you have a butt left when Kowalski quits chewing it,” Hollywood continued, “then show up at the racquetball court at 1730 hours. I believe you promised me a rematch.”

Cal mumbled something noncommittal. He hated racquetball, but after this meeting he might need a way to work out some frustrations. Pounding Hollywood might just do it.

The door to the director’s office opened, and Cal’s lanky boss motioned for him to enter.

“Have a seat,” Director Scott Kowalski ordered. There was no mistake about it. His tone and demeanor confirmed that it was an order. “Talk to me about Jenna Laniere.”

Cal had geared up to discuss a lot of things with his boss, but she wasn’t anywhere on that list. Though he’d certainly thought, and dreamed, about the leggy blond heiress. “What about her?”

“Tell me what happened when you rescued her in Monte de Leon last year.”

That was a truly ominous-sounding request. Still, Cal tried not to let it unnerve him. “As best as I can recall, I entered the hotel where she’d checked in, found her hiding in the bathroom. I moved her from that location and got her to the rendezvous point. About a half hour later or so, the transport took her away, and I rejoined the Bravo team so we could extract some American hostages that the rebels had taken.”

Kowalski put his elbows on his desk and leaned closer. “It’s that half hour of unaccounted-for time that I’m really interested in.”

Hell.

That couldn’t be good. Had Jenna Laniere filed some kind of complaint all these months later? If so, Cal had her pegged all wrong. She had seemed too happy about being rescued to be concerned that he’d used profanity around her.

“Wait a minute,” Cal mumbled, considering a different scenario. One that involved Paul Tolivar, or rather what was left of Tolivar’s regime. “Is Jenna Laniere safe?”

Translation: had Tolivar’s cronies or former business partners killed her?

The FBI had followed Jenna for weeks after her return to the States. When no one had attempted to eliminate her, they’d backed off from their surveillance.

As for Tolivar’s regime, there hadn’t been enough hard evidence for the Monte de Leon or U.S. authorities to arrest Tolivar’s partners or anyone else for his murder. In fact, there hadn’t been any evidence at all except for Justice Department surveillance tapes that couldn’t be used in court since they would give away the identities of several deep-cover operatives. A move that would almost certainly cause the operatives to be executed. The Justice Department wasn’t about to lose key men to further investigate a criminal’s murder. Especially one that’d happened in a foreign country.

“Ms. Laniere’s fine,” Kowalski assured him.

The relief Cal felt was a little stronger than he’d expected. And it was short-lived. Because something had obviously happened. Something that involved her. If Jenna had indeed filed a complaint, there’d be an investigation. It could hurt his career.

The one thing he valued more than anything else.

He would not fail at this. He couldn’t. Bottom line—being an operative wasn’t his job, it was who he was. Without it, he was just the middle son of a highly decorated air force general. The middle son sandwiched between two brothers who’d already proven themselves a dozen times over. Cal had never excelled at anything. In his youth, he’d been average at best and at worst been a screwup—something his father often reminded him of.

His career in the ISA was the one way he could prove to his father, and more importantly to himself, that he was worth something.

“After you rescued Ms. Laniere, the Justice Department questioned her for hours. Days,” Kowalski corrected. “She didn’t tell them anything they could use to build their case against Tolivar’s business partners. In fact, she claims she never heard Tolivar or his partners speak of the rebel group that they’d organized and funded in Monte de Leon. The group he ordered to kill her. She further claimed that she never heard him discuss his illegal activities.”

“And the Justice Department believes she was telling the truth?”

Kowalski made a sound that could have meant anything. “Have you seen or spoken with her in the past year?”

“No.” Cal immediately shook his head, correcting that. “I mean, I tried to call her about a month ago, but she wasn’t at her office in Houston. I left a message on her voice mail, and then her assistant phoned back to let me know that she was on an extended leave of absence and couldn’t be reached.”

The director steepled his fingers and stared at Cal. “Why’d you try to call her?”

Cal leaned slightly forward as well. “This is beginning to sound a little like an interrogation.”

“Because it is. Now back to the question—why did you make that call?”

Oh, man. That unnerving feeling that Cal had been trying to stave off hit him squarely between the eyes. This was not something he wanted to admit to his director. But he wouldn’t lie about it, either.

No matter how uncomfortable it was.

“I was worried about her. Because I read the investigation into Tolivar’s business partners had been reopened. I just wanted to see how things were with her.”

Judging from the way Director Kowalski’s smokegray eyes narrowed, that honest answer didn’t please him. He muttered a four-letter word.

“Mind telling me what this is about?” Cal asked. “Because last I heard it isn’t a crime for a man to call a woman and check on her.”

But in this case, his director might consider it a serious error in judgment.

Since Jenna had a direct association with an international criminal like Paul Tolivar, no one working in the ISA should have considered her a candidate for a friendship. Or anything else.

Kowalski aimed an accusing index finger at Cal. “You know it violates regulations to have intimate or sexual contact with someone in your protective custody. And for those thirty minutes in Monte de Leon, Jenna Laniere was definitely in your protective custody.”

That brought Cal to his feet. “Sexual contact?” Ah, hell. “Is that what she said happened?”

“Are you saying it didn’t?”

“You bet I am. I didn’t touch her.” It took Cal a few moments to get control of his voice so he could speak. “Did she file a complaint or something against me?”

Kowalski motioned for him to take his seat again. “Trust me, Agent Rico, you’ll want to sit down for this part.”

Cal bit back his anger and sank onto the chair. Not easily, but he did it. And he forced himself to remain calm. Well, on the outside, anyway. Inside, there was a storm going on, and he could blame that storm on Jenna.

“As you know, I’m head of the task force assigned to clean up the problems in Monte de Leon,” Kowalski explained. “The kidnapped American civilians. The destruction of American-owned businesses and interests.”

Impatient with what had obviously turned into a briefing, Cal spoke up. “Is any of this connected to Ms. Laniere?”

“Yes. Apparently, she’s still involved with Paul Tolivar’s business partners. That’s why we started keeping an eye on her again.”

That took the edge off some of Cal’s anger and grabbed his interest. “Involved—how?”

Kowalski pushed his hands through the sides of his graying brown hair. “She’s been staying in a small Texas town, Willow Ridge, for the past couple of months. But prior to that while she was still in Houston, one of Tolivar’s partners, Holden Carr, phoned her no less than twenty times. They argued. We’re hoping that during one of their future conversations, Holden might divulge some information. That’s why the Justice Department has been monitoring Ms. Laniere’s calls and e-mails.”

In other words, phone and computer taps. Not exactly standard procedure for someone who wasn’t a suspected criminal. Of course, Hollywood would almost certainly have been aware of that surveillance and monitoring, and it made Cal wonder why the man hadn’t at least mentioned it. Or maybe Hollywood hadn’t remembered that Cal had rescued Jenna.

“What does all of this have to do with alleged sexual misconduct?” Cal insisted.

Kowalski hesitated a moment. Then two. Just enough time to force Cal’s anxiety level sky-high. “It’s come to our attention that Jenna Laniere has a three-month-old daughter.”