Ready for Anything, Anywhere!

by Beverly Barton

  “I’ll wear a disguise if necessary, but I want to see Kent’s face when you tell him about the video tapes.”

  “Mallory.”

  “I’m with Ms. Dawes.” The support came from Mackenzie Blair-Jensen. “She’s earned the right to be in at the kill. Plus she’ll add to the shock value when Kent sees her.”

  Lightning drummed his fingers on the conference table and deferred to his field agent. “It’s your call, Slash.”

  “No,” Mallory countered swiftly, “it isn’t. I didn’t ask to be part of this operation, but now that I am, I want to see it through to the end. Correction, I intend to see it through to the end.”

  The men exchanged glances. Even Mackenzie looked surprised. Mallory suspected few people stood up to Lightning, but she refused to cave. Jaw set, she folded her arms and matched Cutter glower for glower.

  “Okay,” he conceded. “You’re in. On one condition. We still don’t know how that disk got in your suitcase. We’re guessing Kent used an agent. We’re also guessing that was his chief of staff, Dillon Porter. We don’t think either of them will try to resist or turn violent when confronted, but we can’t rule out the possibility. You take your cues from me. If the situation looks like it might deteriorate, you do what I say, when I say. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  A look of amusement crept into Jensen’s eyes as they shifted to his wife. “She sounds a lot like someone else I know.”

  “I can’t imagine who.” With a flip of her hair, Mackenzie shoved away from the table. “Come with me, Ms. Dawes. I’ll take you upstairs while the boys work out the final details. Give our wizards in Field Dress fifteen minutes and your own mother won’t recognize you.”

  The vivacious brunette whisked Mallory out of the office. The door had barely shut behind them, however, before she pounced.

  “Okay, the shoes are fantastic, but I want the real story on that ring.”

  “So do I.” Abandoning her desk, the dark-haired executive assistant joined Mackenzie to ogle the diamonds and white gold.

  “We saw the news conference,” she confided. “We couldn’t wait to meet the woman who brought Slash to his knees.”

  “Cutter was just performing for the cameras.”

  Mackenzie gave a snort. Gillian sniggered.

  “Do you know how Slash got those scars?” the older woman asked.

  “He said it was an explosion.”

  “Did he say who ignited it?”

  “No.”

  “Make him tell you sometime. Until then, take my word for it. Cutter Smith wouldn’t put a ring on any woman’s finger unless he meant for it to stay there.”

  After that startling disclosure, the confrontation in Ashton Kent’s office proved something of an anticlimax.

  Mallory’s auburn wig and subtly altered features got her past the palace guard without so much as a flicker of recognition. Even Dillon Porter gaped when Nick Jensen identified her along with the two detectives and U.S. district attorney. Congressman Kent blustered, protesting her presence, until Jensen cut him off at the knees.

  After that, matters moved at warp speed. Mike Callahan and one of the detectives led a protesting Porter into another room. The second detective advised Congressman Kent of his rights. Each thinking the other had ratted on him, Kent and Porter soon admitted to a conspiracy to cover up the congressman’s illicit affairs and use Mallory as a mule to deliver the blackmail payoff. Less than an hour after entering her old office, Mallory watched as her former boss was handcuffed and led out.

  Someone had alerted the media. They’d assembled in droves and forced Kent to run a brutal gauntlet. Still in disguise, Mallory stood off to the side. She experienced none of the euphoria she’d expected at seeing the once-mighty legislator brought low.

  “You okay?”

  Sighing, she turned to Cutter. “I thought this would make up for some of the humiliation and hurt.”

  “Didn’t it?”

  “No. It just made me feel … sad.”

  They stood side by side until the circus trailed down the steps of the Capitol.

  “I was thinking … ”

  Cutter hesitated, sounding unsure of himself for the first time that Mallory could remember.

  “You were thinking … ?” she prompted.

  “I got back from Central America and hopped on a plane right for France. Barely had time to shave between flights.”

  He scraped a hand over his jaw, as if feeling for the whiskers he’d grown in the jungle.

  “The thing is, I’ve racked up more vacation time than I know what to do with. I thought maybe you might want to go back to France, finish that trip you planned in such meticulous detail.”

  “When?” she asked, her heart starting to pound.

  “I’m ready whenever you are.”

  They’d crawled off a plane less than four hours ago. Mallory hadn’t slept in longer than she could recall. She knew darn well her skin sagged like an old sponge under the makeup OMEGA’s Field Dress Unit had so skillfully applied. Yet joy sang through her as she framed Cutter’s bristly cheeks between her palms. “Let’s go now. Right this minute.”

  Epilogue

  Mallory stood at the window of the small pension. Moonlight washed over her. A cold, damp breeze blew in through the open panes. Hugging her arms for warmth, she filled her lungs with the sharp sea air.

  Instead of following the itinerary Mallory had planned originally in such meticulous detail, she and Cutter had holed up in this tiny hotel carved out of the ancient walls. The pension wasn’t as grand as Yvette d’Marchand’s château or anywhere near as modern. Cutter had lugged their hastily packed bags up three flights of stairs, grumbling with every step over the lack of modern conveniences like elevators and man-sized showers. His good-natured complaints had died when he’d taken in the view from their balcony window, however.

  Mallory drank it in now, her spirits soaring. Floodlights illuminated the tall spire topped by the gilded statue of St. Michael slaying his dragon. Below and beyond, the moon-washed waters of the Gulf of St. Malo stretched as far as she could see.

  “The tide’s in,” Cutter commented.

  “So it is.”

  Padding across the bedroom on bare feet, he slid his arms around her waist. Her head drifted back against his shoulder.

  They and the other inhabitants of St. Michel were completely cut off from the rest of the world. Just the way they wanted it.

  “Wonder if any cars or buses washed away?” she mused.

  “Probably.” A chuckle rumbled up from his chest. “With any luck, ours was one of them.”

  Then he bent to nuzzle her neck and Mallory forgot the tide, forgot the view, forgot everything but the sizzle he ignited just under her skin. Alternating kisses with stinging little nips, he fanned the sparks to a five-alarm blaze.

  “Have I mentioned that I love you?” he muttered between bites.

  “Not in the last hour or so.”

  “I do, you know.”

  “I know. Same goes.” Twisting around in his arms, she kissed the underside of his chin. The tough, puckered skin tugged at her heart. “Mackenzie said I should ask you who ignited the explosion that caused these. I got the impression it was a woman.”

  “It was.” His palms cupped her face. “She’s history, sweetheart, and not worth wasting this moonlight on.”

  He was right. The present was too full, and the future held no room for shadows from the past. Taking his hand in hers, Mallory led him back to bed.

  * * *

  AWAKEN TO DANGER

  CATHERINE MANN

  About the Author

  CATHERINE MANN writes contemporary military romances, a natural fit, since she’s married her very own USAF research source. Prior to publication, Catherine graduated with a BA in fine arts: theatre from the College of Charleston, and received her master’s degree in theatre from UNC Greensboro. Now a RITA® Award winner, Catherine finds following her aviator husband around the wo
rld with four children, a beagle and a tabby in tow offers her endless inspiration for new plots. Learn more about her work, as well as her adventures in military life, by visiting her website: catherinemann.com. Or contact her at PO Box 41433, Dayton, OH 45441, USA.

  With deep admiration, I humbly dedicate this book to a real life “Scorch”, who won his personal battle through an incredible strength of will and spirit. (You know who you are.) Many thanks for discussing your own recovery journey with me as I wrote this book.

  “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can and wisdom to know the difference.

  (Serenity Prayer, made well-known through Alcoholics Anonymous by Reinhold Niebuhr who attributes the inspirational saying to Friedrich Oetinger.)

  Chapter 1

  Where was she, and where the hell were her clothes?

  Flat on her back in a strange bed, Nikki Price stared up at the ceiling fan moving slower than the spinning ceiling. Click, click, click. Blades cycled overhead in the dim light, swaying the chain with a tiny wood pull dangling from the end.

  “Ohmigod, ohmigod. Oh. My. God.” What had she done last night?

  She tried to look around but her eyeballs seemed stuck, all swollen and gritty in their sockets, her head too heavy to lift off the fabric-softener-fresh pillow, sheets equally as soft against her bare skin. All over bare. Goose bumps prickled over her completely naked body.

  “Not right,” she whispered to herself, her quiet voice bouncing around the quieter room sporting a hotel-generic decor. “Not right, not right.”

  Her bedroom fan pull sported a miniature soccer ball with tiny flowers painted on the white patches, a gift from her brother last Christmas. “Okay, I’m not totally losing it if I’m noticing silly details like overhead fixtures, right?”

  No one answered. Thank God.

  Still, nothing was familiar in the dim bedroom, only a hint of early sunrise streaking through the blinds. Voices swelled outside the walls. Her stomach clenched.

  Okay, almost definitely a hotel.

  She inched her fingers under the covers across the mattress, farther, farther again. Empty. She searched her mind for clues before she would have to turn her head and confront whoever might be in the room with her.

  Panic stilled her more than even the nauseating ache stabbing through her skull. She hadn’t drunk much the night before. Had she? She scrolled through the evening, getting ready to go to Beachcombers Bar and Grill for the live music—and a neutral place to break things off with Gary. But she couldn’t recall much of anything after asking for a second amaretto sour. She wasn’t an angel, but she’d never expected to wake up in a strange bed.

  Of course she hadn’t expected to do a lot of the reckless things she’d done over the past seven months since Carson Hunt tromped her heart. Truly tromped. Not the sort of temporary hurt that came from having a crush go south or getting dumped by a guy she’d just met. No. He’d deep down damaged her soul so much that even thinking about him still made it difficult to breathe. The ache of betrayal by her first real love might never go away.

  Although these days she was more mad than hurt.

  Could she have been mad enough last night to do something beyond reckless? Something totally stupid. Apparently she had since here she was. She’d thought she was ready to break up with the latest loser she’d been dating in hopes of filling that empty spot left by Carson. Finally she would move on with her life.

  Okay, so she dated Air Force pilots—like Carson. From the base where Carson was stationed. And most of them happened to be tall and blond like, well, Carson. It had only taken her seven months to make the connection—hello?—but once she had, she’d resolved to set her life right again and end things with her latest Carson substitute, Gary Owens.

  No wonder she’d frozen up when any of those dates so much as kissed her. She wasn’t interested in them. Which made her feel even worse. No guy—even a loser—deserved to be used as a replacement for another man.

  Her stomach rebelled. So why was she naked in a hotel room? Apparently she’d gotten over her kissing aversion.

  She swallowed down fear along with a prayer that whoever she’d been with had used a condom. From here on out, she would stop being such a loser. She risked a deeper breath, inhaling the scent of laundry detergent. Masculine cologne—ohmigod.

  Breathe in.

  Breathe out.

  Breathe in … cologne and an air of something else, an unfamiliar smell she couldn’t quite identify, but her body shivered in disgust all the same. Somebody was in the room with her. Still asleep? Or in the bathroom?

  Please, please, please at least let it be Gary, even if they’d never slept together before. He hadn’t been at the bar last night for those few minutes and couple of drinks she could remember, but he’d been the one to set up the meeting by sending her an e-mail asking her for a date.

  Bracing herself for the worst anyway, she arched her aching body, her head pounding as she rolled onto her side under the cotton sheets. Fresh pain pounded as her cheek met the pillow, but she stifled the urge to moan. The room appeared as empty as the bed. She gulped in gasping breaths, her heart now hammering harder than her head, relief making her darn near dizzy. At least if he was in the bathroom, she would have a second to collect herself.

  Palms flattened to the mattress, she angled up, cool morning air prickling along her skin. Winters in South Carolina were all the chillier for the humidity. Cold and damp, like the ancient tombs her junior high students were currently studying in honors history class—and ohmigod, she was going to be late for work.

  “Hello?” Her voice crackled up her parched throat. “Uhm, I would really appreciate it if you wrapped a towel around yourself before coming out.”

  She didn’t risk guessing a name.

  Nikki waited, but still no sounds from the shower or anywhere else. She squinted to look through the dim morning light across the room. The tiny bathroom seemed abandoned. Relief rode a shuddering exhale racking through her.

  She would worry later about the rest when she swiped the fog from her head. She wasn’t off scot-free thanks to those unaccounted for hours, but she didn’t have to confront the awful awkwardness—and horror—of facing some guy she couldn’t even remember picking up.

  New leaf turnover time.

  Hell, she would turn over a whole flipping tree. She was done feeling sorry for herself just because Carson “Ultimate Loser” Hunt had drop-kicked her heart in one unforgettable night. She would take control of her life and her emotions.

  Pressing the heel of her hand to her melon-heavy head, she swung her feet to the floor. Thud. Her toes struck something solid rather than carpet. She toppled forward, her heart double-timing to marathon pace.

  Arms flailing she grabbed for the end table, slammed to her knees, her teeth jarring together. Pain sliced through her head. She squinted in the faint light ….

  And stared straight into the unblinking eyes of the dead man on the floor.

  Major Carson “Scorch” Hunt was dead tired and he hadn’t even eaten breakfast yet.

  Of course he hadn’t fallen into bed until two in the morning due to an emergency on the flight line and he was back at his desk by dawn, hoping for a more peaceful day. No such luck.

  Now thanks to a phone call from the security police, peace was on hold for far longer than the sausage-and-egg croissant he’d picked up at a fast-food joint. On his way out the office door again, he jammed his arms back into his leather flight jacket that had never made it onto the brass anchor peg before his phone rang.

  A lieutenant from his squadron was dead.

  Damn it. His fisted hand snagged inside the sleeve. He punched it through.

  He’d braced himself for the possibility of losing someone in battle, but not at home. Worse yet, the young pilot was Carson’s responsibility as second in charge, since the commander was deployed to the Middle East with the other half of the squadron.

 
Shrugging the jacket over his shoulders, he bolted down the hall, through the glass door and out into the parking lot. Early-morning traffic clogged the base streets, adhering to the so-damn-slow speed limits. Screw it. The VOQ—visiting officer’s quarters—was only about a mile away. On foot would be faster, taking him there in under five minutes. He sprinted through the web of parked cars, tucked through the creeping traffic, ignored the honks.

  The phone call from base security police hadn’t said more than Lieutenant Gary Owens was found dead in the VOQ with a woman.

  Owens had an apartment downtown, but sometimes guys checked into one of the rooms for the night if they were partying nearby and too drunk to drive home—or if they lucked into unexpected plans for the night. With a woman.

  Boots pounding pavement, Carson tried to block thoughts of exactly which woman Owens had been dating for the past month. Of course stemming thoughts of Nikki Price had been damn near impossible for a long time. For over two years, actually, since a pool party at a squadron member’s apartment when he’d realized his crew member’s daughter had grown up. Really grown up. Smart, sexy, twelve years his junior and the daughter of a man he respected and admired. Not to mention Carson wasn’t in a place to offer any woman a secure, stable happily-ever-after.

  And still he had weakened and betrayed his friend by sleeping with Nikki. Once. A mistake he couldn’t repeat even though his pulse rate jackhammered through him at the mere possibility Nikki could be in trouble.

  Carson left the road for a shortcut across the lawn, past pine trees and bare-limbed oaks. He had no claim to Nikki, and yet here he was, running like hell for her as much as the dead lieutenant. Her boyfriend.