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Texas Hero
CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR
MERLINE LOVELACE
“Merline Lovelace is the brightest new star in the romance genre. Each new book is an adventure.”
—New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber
“Ms. Lovelace delivers sizzling romantic adventure in the finest tradition and leaves us begging for more.”
—Romantic Times, on Night of the Jaguar, from the original CODE NAME: DANGER miniseries
“You won’t want to wait for the next book in this four-part series!”
—The Paperback Forum, on the original CODE NAME: DANGER miniseries
“…One of the best dramatic and heart-throbbing miniseries to hit the bookshelves in ages.”
—Affaire de Coeur, on the original CODE NAME: DANGER miniseries
“Full of spine-tingling adventure à la James Bond, but Ms. Lovelace doesn’t let that overshadow the tension-filled romance.”
—Genie Romance Exchange, on Perfect Double, from the original CODE NAME: DANGER miniseries
Texas Hero
Merline Lovelace
MERLINE LOVELACE
spent twenty-three years as an Air Force officer, serving tours at the Pentagon and at bases all over the world before she began a new career as a novelist. When she’s not tied to her keyboard, this RITA® Award-winning author and her husband of thirty years, Al, enjoy traveling, golf and long lively dinners with friends and family. Be sure to watch for Once a Hero, the next in the CODE NAME: DANGER miniseries, in Intimate Moments.
Merline enjoys hearing from readers and can be reached through Harlequin’s Web site at www.eHarlequin.com.
This book is dedicated to my own handsome hero, who I first met in the shadow of the Alamo.
Many thanks for all those wonderful San Antonio memories, my darling.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
Prologue
“Thank God for air-conditioning!”
Swiping a forearm across his dirt-streaked forehead, the tall, flame-haired grad student followed his team leader into the welcoming coolness of San Antonio’s Menger Hotel.
“If I’d had any idea how muggy it gets down here in July,” he grumbled, “I wouldn’t have let you talk me into assisting you on this project.”
“Funny,” the woman beside him responded with a smile, “I seem to recall a certain Ph.D. candidate begging me to let him in on the dig.”
“Yeah, well, that was before I realized I’d be branded as a defiler of history and practically run out of Texas on a rail.”
Elena Maria Alazar’s smile faded. Frowning, she shifted the strap of her heavy field case from one aching shoulder to the other and stabbed at the elevator buttons. Eric’s complaints weren’t all that exaggerated. He and everyone else working the project had come under increasingly vitriolic fire in recent days.
Dammit, she shouldn’t have allowed the media to poke around the archeological site, much less elicit a hypothesis as to the identity of the remains found in the creek bed. She was an expert in her field, a respected member of the American Society of Forensic Historians, for pity’s sake! She headed a highly skilled team of anthropologists and archeologists. She knew better than to let her people discuss their initial findings with reporters. Particularly when those findings held such potentially explosive local significance.
She couldn’t blame anyone but herself for the howls of outrage that rose when the San Antonio Express-News reported that Dr. Elena Alazar, niece of Mexico’s President Alazar and professor of history at the University of Mexico, was rewriting Texas history. According to the story, Ellie had found proof that legendary William Barrett Travis, commander of the Texans at the Alamo, hadn’t died heroically with his men as always believed. Instead, he’d run away from the battle, was hunted down by Santa Anna’s troops and was shot in back like a yellow, craven coward.
Ellie and her team were a long way yet from proving anything, but try telling that to the media! The Express-News wasn’t any more interested in running a disclaimer than a correction to identify her as a professor of history at the University of New Mexico. Never mind that Ellie had been born and raised in the States. To the reporter’s mind—and to the minds of his readers—she was an outsider attempting to mess with Texas history.
Thoroughly disgruntled, she made another stab at the brass-caged elevator. It was an antique, like everything else in the hundred-year-old hotel located just steps from the Alamo. Until the story broke, Ellie had thoroughly enjoyed her stay at the luxuriously appointed establishment. Now, she felt the weight of disapproval from every employee at the hotel, from desk clerks to the maid who cleaned her room.
She didn’t realize just how much she’d earned the locals’ displeasure, however, until she unlocked the door to her suite. Startled, she stopped dead. Behind her, Eric let out a long, low whistle.
“Folks around here sure let you know when they’re not happy. I haven’t seen a room trashed this bad since pledge week at the frat house. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen a room trashed this bad.”
The two-room suite hadn’t been just trashed, Ellie soon discovered. It had been ransacked. Her laptop computer was gone, as was the external drive that stored the data and thousands of digital images her team had collected to date.
The loss of her equipment was bad enough, but the message scrawled across the mirror above the dresser made her skin crawl.
Mexican bitch.
I’ve got you in my crosshairs.
Get the hell out of Texas!
Chapter 1
Washington, D.C., steamed in the late afternoon July heat. On a quiet side street just off Massachusetts Avenue, in the heart of the embassy district, the chestnut trees drooped like tired old women and tar bubbled in the cracks of the sidewalk. The broad-shouldered man who emerged from a Yellow Cab took care not to step in the sticky blackness as he crossed the sidewalk and mounted the front steps of an elegant, Federal-style town house located midway down the block.
He paused for a moment, his gaze thoughtful as he studied the discreet bronze plaque beside the front door. The inscription on the plaque identified the three-story town house as home to the offices of the President’s special envoy. Most Washingtonians considered the special envoy’s position a meaningless one, created years ago for a billionaire campaign contributor with a yen for a fancy title and an office in the nation’s capital. Only a handful of insiders knew the special envoy also served as the head of a covert agency whose initials comprised the last letter of the Greek alphabet, OMEGA. An agency that, as its name implied, was activated only as a last resort in instances when other, more established organizations like the CIA or the Department of Defense couldn’t respond for legal or practical reasons.
This was one of those instances.
Squaring his shoulders, the visitor entered the foyer and approached the receptionist seated behind a graceful Queen Ann desk.
“I am Colonel Luis Esteban. I’m here to see the special envoy.”
“Oh, my! So you are.”
Elizabeth Wells might have qualified for Medicare a number of years ago, but her hormones still sat up and took notice of a handsome man. And Colonel Luis Esteban, as OMEGA agent Maggie Sinclair had reported after a mission deep in the jungles of Central America, was gorgeous—drop-your-jaw, boggle-your-eyes gorgeous.
Elizabeth managed to keep her jaw from sagging, but the colonel’s dark, melting eyes, pencil-thin black mustache and old-world charm did a serious number on her heart rate.
“I believe the special envoy is expecting me.”
“What? Oh! Yes, of course. Mr. Jensen’s in his office. With Chameleon, as you requested.”
“Ah, yes.” A small, private smile played about the colonel’s mouth. “Chameleon.”
Elizabeth’s pulse tripped again, but not with pleasure this time. Having served as personal assistant to both Maggie and her husband, Adam Ridgeway, during their separate tenures as director of OMEGA, Elizabeth wouldn’t hesitate to empty the Sig Sauer 9 mm tucked in her desk drawer into anyone who tried to come between them. With something very close to a sniff, she lifted the phone on her desk and buzzed her boss. Her gaze had cooled several degrees when she relayed his reply.
“Go right in, Colonel.”
“Thank you.”
Luis walked down a short hall, opened a door shielded from attack by a lining of Kevlar, took one step inside and plunged into chaos. There was an ear-shattering woof. A flash of blue and orange. A chorus of shouts.
“Dammit, he’s doing it again.”
“Radizwell! No!”
“Shut the door, man!”
A hissing, bug-eyed lizard the size of a small hound darted between Luis’s legs. A second later, a huge sheepdog tried to follow. Knocked sideways, Luis grabbed the door handle while the furiously barking hound raced after the iguana. Doubling back, the lizard leaped for the safety of a polished mahogany conference table. Once there, it whipped out a foot-long tongue and spit at the jumping, madly woofing hound.
“Nick!” Half-laughing and wholly exasperated, Maggie Sinclair shouted an appeal to OMEGA’s current director. “Get Radizwell out of here.”
The man who answered her plea sported a lean, well-muscled body under his elegantly tailored suit, but it took all his strength to drag the vociferously protesting hound out of the office. Deep, mournful howls followed him when he returned. Closing the door to muffle the yowls, he smoothed his blond hair with a manicured hand and shot Luis a wry smile.
“Nick Jensen, Colonel. I’d apologize for the noisy reception, but…” He glanced at the still hissing giant iguana. “I understand you were the diabolical fiend who gave Maggie her pet in the first place.”
“Yes, he was.” A smile lighting her eyes, Maggie Sinclair came across the spacious office and held out both hands. “Hello, Luis. How are you?”
Esteban’s gaze took in her glowing face, dropped to her gently rounded stomach. Regret punched through him. He’d had his chance with this woman a number of years ago. She slipped away from him then, as changeable and lightning quick as her code name implied.
Luis had come to Washington on urgent business at the request of the president of Mexico. Only he knew that he also brought with him the half-formed idea of reigniting the sparks that had once flared between Maggie and him. He’d heard she’d left OMEGA to finish writing a book and raise her two small daughters. He’d thought perhaps she might be bored and ready for a touch of excitement. He could see at a glance that wasn’t the case, however. Maggie Sinclair wore the look of a woman well and truly loved.
Swallowing a small sigh, he lifted her hands and dropped a light kiss on the back of each. “I’m well, Chameleon. And you… You are as lively and beautiful as ever.”
“I don’t know about the beautiful part, but my family certainly keeps things lively.” Rueful laughter filled her honey brown eyes. “I thought you might want to see how your gift has grown over the years. Unfortunately, Terence won’t go anywhere these days without his buddy, the sheepdog you just met. They’re best of pals until Radizwell, er, well…”
“Gets the hots for the damned thing,” the third person in the room said. He strolled forward, his blue eyes keen in his aristocratic face. “Adam Ridgeway, colonel.”
“Ah, yes,” Luis drawled, returning both the strong grip and rapierlike scrutiny. “Maggie’s husband.”
“Maggie’s husband,” he affirmed with a smile that sent an instant and unmistakable message. “Hope you don’t mind if I sit in on your meeting. I’m told it involves one of the agents I recruited for OMEGA.”
Instantly all business, Luis Esteban nodded. “Yes, it does. Jack Carstairs. I understand he’s on his way to San Antonio.”
“He left a few hours ago,” Nick Jensen replied, gesturing the other three to seats well away from the conference table occupied by the wary, unblinking iguana. “What we don’t understand, however, is how Renegade’s mission concerns you.”
“Allow me to explain. When I first met Chameleon, I was chief of security for my country. I’ve since retired and established my own firm. I do very private, very discreet work for a number of international clients. The President of Mexico is one of them. He asked me to run a background check on Jack Carstairs.”
Nick’s brows lifted. “Did he?”
“Yes. You know, of course, that Carstairs once had an affair with President Alazar’s niece.”
“We know. Which made us wonder why he requested Carstairs for this mission in the first place.”
“He didn’t, actually. The request came from his niece.”
Flicking his shirt cuff over his gold Rolex, Luis picked his way through a potentially explosive international minefield.
“As you’re aware, Elena’s father—President Alazar’s youngest brother—emigrated to the States as a young man. He and Ellie’s mother met in Santa Fe and married after a whirlwind courtship. Unfortunately, Carlos Alazar died before his daughter was born, but his wife made sure Ellie spent summers with her father’s family in Mexico. During one of those visits, Ellie met a Marine pulling guard duty at the U.S. Embassy. Their affair was brief and, I’m told, rather indiscreet.”
“Indiscreet enough to get Gunnery Sergeant Carstairs sent home in disgrace and subsequently booted out of the Marines,” Nick acknowledged.
“Evidently Ellie feels a lingering responsibility for ruining the man’s military career. When her uncle decided she needed a bodyguard, she insisted it be Carstairs. Which is why President Alazar hired me to check him out.”
“How did you get past Renegade’s cover and make the link to OMEGA?” Nick asked, not liking the idea that one of his agents had been compromised.
Luis merely smiled. “I think Chameleon will attest that I, too, possess certain skills. Suffice to say I uncovered his connection to OMEGA and advised President Alazar, who subsequently made the call to your President, requesting Carstairs’s services.”
“And now President Alazar’s having second thoughts about the request?”
“Let’s just say he’s worried that Carstairs’s past involvement with his niece might get in the way of his ability to maintain the detachment required for this job.”
Nick Jensen, code name Lightning, didn’t for a second doubt Jack Carstairs’s ability to do his job. During Nick’s days as an operative, he’d gone into the field with Renegade more than once and had gained a profound respect for his skills. Nick also, however, possessed a Gallic understanding of the power of passion.
Once a skinny, perpetually hungry pickpocket who called the back streets of Cannes home, Henri Nicolas Everard had been adopted by Paige and Doc Jensen, moved to the States and had grown to manhood in a house filled with love. He’d parlayed the near starvation of his childhood into a string of high-priced restaurants scattered around the globe.
Nick was now a millionaire many times over. His cover as a jet-setter gave him access to the world of movie princes and oil sheikhs. It had also led to a number of discreet affairs with some of the world’s most beautiful women. A true connoisseur, he could understand why Jack Carstairs had sacrificed his military career for a fling with Elena Maria Alazar. The background dossier compiled by OMEGA’s chief of communications had painted a portrait of an astonishingly vibrant, incredibly intelligent woman.
Not unlike OMEGA’s chief of communications herself, Nick thought. A mental image of Mackenzie Blair replaced that of Ellie Alazar and produced a sudden tightening just below his Italian leather belt. Both amused and perturbed by the sensation, Nick offered his assurances to Colonel Esteban.
“OMEGA wouldn’t have sent Renegade into the field if we weren’t absolutely confident in his ability to protect Dr. Alazar. If it will ease President Alazar’s mind, however, I’ll pass on his concerns.”
“Perhaps you might also keep me apprised of the situation in San Antonio,” Esteban suggested politely.
Everyone in the room recognized that they were treading tricky diplomatic ground here. Relations between the United States and Mexico had reached new, if somewhat shaky, levels with the recent North American Free Trade Association Treaty. The last thing either president wanted right now was an ugly international incident souring an economic agreement that had taken decades to hammer out.
“Not a problem,” Nick said smoothly. “Once we ascertain that’s what President Alazar wishes, of course.”
“Of course.” Rising, the colonel dug into his suit pocket and produced a business card. “You can contact me day or night at this number.”
His gaze drifted to Maggie, who rose and gave him a warm smile.
“Don’t worry, Luis. Renegade’s one of the best field operatives in the business. He wouldn’t be working for OMEGA otherwise.”
With that blithe assurance, she strolled across the office and clipped a leash on the unblinking iguana. Identical expressions of repulsion crossed the faces of Nick and the colonel as the creature’s long tongue flicked her cheek in a quick, adoring kiss. Adam merely looked resigned.
“We’ll walk you out,” he said to Esteban. “Lightning has some calls to make.”
OMEGA’s acting director made the calls from the control center located on the third floor.
Mackenzie Blair ruled OMEGA’s CC, just as she used to rule the command, control and communication centers aboard the Navy ships she’d served on. She loved this world of high-tech electronics, felt right at home in the soft green glow from the wall-size computer screens—far more at home than she’d ever felt in the two-bedroom condo she and her ex had once shared.
One of the problems was that she and David had never stayed in port together long enough to establish joint residency. He’d adjusted to the separations better than Mackenzie had, though. She discovered that when she returned two days early from a Caribbean cruise and found the jerk in bed with a neighbor’s wife.
She’d sworn off men on the spot. Correction, she’d planted a very hard, very satisfying knee in David’s groin when he’d grabbed her arm and tried to explain, then sworn off men.
Lately, though, she’d been reconsidering forever. Her itchy restlessness had nothing to do with her boss. Nothing at all. Just a woman’s natural needs and the grudging realization that even the most sophisticated high-tech gadgets couldn’t quite substitute for a man.
Which was why goose bumps raised all over her skin when Lightning strolled over to her command console with the casual grace that characterized him.
“Patch me through to the White House.”
She cocked a brow. She wasn’t in the Navy now.
“Please,” Lightning added with an amused smile.
All too conscious of his proximity, Mackenzie transmitted the necessary code words and verifications, then listened with unabashed interest to the brief conversation between Lightning and the Prez. When it was over, she leaned back in her chair and angled OMEGA’s director a curious look.
“Sounds like Renegade’s got the weight of the free world riding on his shoulders on this one.”
“The weight of North America, anyway.”
His gaze lingered on her upturned face. Mackenzie had almost forgotten how to breathe by the time he murmured a request that she get Renegade on the line.
His eyes, narrowed and rattlesnake-mean behind his mirrored sunglasses, Jack Carstairs snapped shut the phone Mackenzie Blair had issued him mere hours ago. The damned thing was half the size of a cigarette pack and bounced signals off a secure telecommunications satellite some thirty-six thousand kilometers above the earth. Lightning’s message had come through loud and clear.
Renegade was to keep his hands off Elena Maria Alazar.
As if he needed the warning! He’d learned his lesson the first time. No way was he going to get shot down in flames again.
Hefting his beat-up leather carryall, he walked out of the airport into a flood of heat and honeysuckle-scented air. A short tram ride took him to the rental agency, where he checked out a sturdy Jeep Cherokee.
The drive from the airport to downtown San Antonio took only about fifteen minutes, long enough for Jack to work through his irritation at the call. Not long enough, however, to completely suppress the prickly sensation that crawled along his nerves at the thought of seeing Ellie Alazar again.
His jaw set, he negotiated the traffic in the city’s center and pulled up at the Menger. Constructed in 1859, the hotel was situated on Alamo Plaza, right next to the famous mission. The little blurb Jack had read in one of the airline’s magazines during the flight down indicated the Menger had played host to a roster of distinguished notables. Reportedly, Robert E. Lee rode his horse, Traveller, right into the lobby. Teddy Roosevelt tipped a few in the bar while organizing and training his Rough Riders. Sarah Bernhardt, Lillie Langtry and Mae West had all brought their own brand of luster to the hotel.
Now Elena Maria Alazar was adding another touch of notoriety to the venerable institution. One Jack suspected wasn’t particularly appreciated by the management.
He killed the engine, then climbed out of the Cherokee. A valet took the car keys. Another offered to take his bag.
“I’ve got it.”
Anyone else entering the hotel’s three-story lobby for the first time might have let their gaze roam the cream marble columns, magnificent wrought-iron balcony railings and priceless antiques and paintings. Six years of embassy guard duty and another eight working for OMEGA had conditioned Jack to automatically note the lobby’s physical layout, security camera placement and emergency egress routes. His boot heels echoing on the marble floors, he crossed to the desk. There he was handed a message. Ellie was waiting for him in the taproom.
After the blazing sun outside and dazzling white marble of the lobby, the bar wrapped Jack in the welcoming gloom of an English pub. A dark cherry-wood ceiling loomed above glass-fronted cabinets, beveled mirrors and high-backed booths. A stuffed moose head with a huge rack of antlers surveyed the scene with majestic indifference, wreathed in the mingled scents of wood polish and aged Scotch.
Instinctively, Jack peeled off his sunglasses and recorded the bar’s layout, but the details sifted right through his conscious mind to be stored away for future reference. His main focus, his only focus, was the woman who swiveled at the sound of his footsteps.
His first thought was that she hadn’t changed. Her mink brown hair still tumbled in a loose ponytail down her back. Her cinnamon eyes still looked out at the world through a screen of thick, black lashes. In her short-sleeved red top and trim-fitting tan shorts, she looked more like a teenager on vacation than a respected historian with a long string of initials after her name.
Not until he stepped closer did he notice the differences. The Ellie he’d known nine years ago had glowed with youth and laughter and a vibrant joy of life. This woman showed fine lines of stress at the corners of her mouth. Shadows darkened her eyes, and he saw in their brown depths a wariness that echoed his.
She didn’t smile. Didn’t ease her stiff-backed pose. Silence stretched between them. She broke it, finally, with a cool greeting.
