by Cassie Miles
“It’s the truth.”
A fake marriage to a partner? An unconsummated marriage? Not bothering with a divorce? If she hadn’t gone through the past days with Cole and seen how many twists and turns his life involved, she would have dismissed his story. But she knew his life was complicated. Crazy. Wild. “I believe you.”
“I love you, Rachel.”
Her arms closed around him. She wanted to be strong and brave, didn’t want to cry. But tears spilled down her cheeks. “I love you, too.”
This might be the last time they embraced. She’d found love only to lose it.
“When we get out of this,” he said, “I’ll get a divorce and marry you.”
“That’s a hell of a way to propose.” She scrubbed the moisture from her face. “What if I say no?”
“That’s not an option.”
The shooting stopped abruptly. She heard voices from the other room.
Cole turned off the overhead light in the closet and stepped in front of her. “Stay back,” he said. “No matter what happens, stay in here.”
The voices came closer. One was a woman. Jenna?
The closet door whipped open. Cole reacted. He swung hard with the dowel, striking the gun of the man who opened the door. He dropped his weapon. Cole dove, trying to reach the gun.
He was out of her line of sight. She heard shots being fired.
Then silence.
Panic roared through her. Without thinking, she charged through the open door with her dowel raised to strike.
The scene before her was a tableaux. Cole stood between Prescott and a mousy woman in a button-down shirt, striped vest and gray slacks. They both had their weapons aimed at him.
On the floor in front of Cole, another man lay bleeding.
“Drop your weapons,” Prescott ordered. “Both of you.”
Cole glanced at her and gave a nod as he dropped his dowel on the floor. “It’s okay, Rachel.”
“No.” She refused to give up. “It’s not okay.”
“We can negotiate,” Prescott said. “Nobody else has to die.”
Rachel pointed her dowel at the woman. “I want to hear from her. Jenna Cambridge.”
Jenna looked down her long nose. “Don’t be stupid. I might decide to let you go after you’ve served your purpose as a hostage. I don’t particularly want to kill you.”
“Not like Penny?”
Jenna’s dull brown eyes flicked nervously from left to right, but her gun hand remained steady. “That shouldn’t have happened.”
“Convenient for you that it did,” Rachel said. “With Penny out of the way, your former fiancé can come back to you.”
“I told you once not to be a fool,” Jenna said in a teacherlike voice. “I won’t tell you again.”
“You won’t get away with this.”
“I’m a good planner.” She glanced toward Prescott. “We’re going away together. We’ll have a new life with enough money that we won’t ever have to work again. I’ve worked hard and I deserve that much, don’t I, darling?”
Prescott crossed the room and stood before her. “You deserve something.”
“There’s only one thing I’ve ever wanted,” she said with a simpering grin. “Your love.”
“Sorry, Jenna. I already gave my heart.”
He shoved his gun against her rib cage and pulled the trigger. She gasped. And fell.
She was dead before she hit the floor.
He tried to turn the gun on himself, but Cole was too fast. He wrenched the weapon from Prescott’s hand. With surprising gentleness, he guided the wounded agent to the bed.
Prescott sat with his head drooped forward. “She would have killed you. Couldn’t let that happen.”
Cole patted his shoulder. “You came through when I needed you. I won’t forget that.”
“My life is over.”
“Not yet,” Cole said. “You have a baby.”
“Goldie.” He lifted his head. “Penny’s baby.”
“You need to see her and hold her. But first, you’ve got to get us out of this mess. The cops still think Rachel and I are fugitives.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Prescott rose. He wavered for a moment before he straightened and walked toward the front of the house. “The police should be here any minute. As soon as I got out of the bathroom, I put in a call.”
Eager to leave the carnage in the bedroom, Rachel followed him. She didn’t get far. In the hallway, Cole caught hold of her hand and spun her around to face him. His hands rested at her waist.
He smiled down at her. “When you came charging out of the closet, you scared me.”
“I think you have that backward. I was scared.” She remembered how he’d told her that eventually the trauma would fade. “I guess our road trip to California is off.”
“Hell, no. I’m not letting you out of my sight.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead. “The world is a dangerous place. I need to protect my bride-to-be.”
There were a million details to work out, but nothing seemed important. They were together. They were safe, and she wanted to keep it that way forever.
Epilogue
Nine months later, Rachel draped her wedding gown over her swollen belly. Turning sideways, she admired her profile in the full-length mirror in her bedroom. Pregnancy suited her well.
After a quick tap on the door, Cole slipped inside. She was too big for a normal embrace, but he managed to wrap his arms around her. “How’s my bride?”
“Good.” She’d felt a bit of cramping earlier. It might be a good idea to hurry. “And my groom?”
“Never better.”
Given the fact that he was an uncompromising man, he’d been incredibly cooperative about making changes in his life. After the betrayal by his handler in California, Cole didn’t want to return to the Los Angeles office of the FBI. He still loved the sun and the beach, but he decided that being a mountain man wasn’t so bad.
Prescott’s arrest had left an opening in the Denver office, and Cole stepped in to fill it. He still did undercover assignments, but much of his workload fell under the category of investigation. He was considered a rising star because he had not only put the Baron theft ring out of business but had also recovered the stolen cash.
She had also made concessions. Granby was too far from his work, so she moved closer to Denver and opened a new branch for the Rocky Mountain Women’s Clinic. When they bought their house in Idaho Springs, Cole had one stipulation. Twice a year, they would vacation on a beach.
Everything seemed to be working out neatly. Except for the wedding. She’d wanted a small ceremony, but things had gotten out of hand. All of her huge family was there as well as Cole’s brother’s family, his mother and his silver-haired gambler father, who was one of the most charming men she’d ever met. Cole’s dad was making quite an impression on Pearl, who had full custody of Goldie the Miracle Baby.
As they made plans, the guest list multiplied. They couldn’t leave out the people she’d worked with and the parents of the babies she’d delivered. Nor could they ignore Cole’s coworkers. And then there were friends, including Xavier, who had gotten off with little more than a slap on the wrist for his involvement with Baron. She didn’t resent the casino owner. How could she? He and his men had provided the gunfire and distraction that had saved their lives.
She kissed Cole on the cheek. In his black suit and white shirt, he was so handsome. Was she really getting married to this gorgeous man?
“How’s the crowd?” she asked.
“Restless,” he said. “Most of them have already left for the church. I should be going, too. But I wanted to see you one more time before we say our vows.”
“Having second thoughts?”
“Hell, no. I just wanted to tell you how much you mean to me. I never imagined I could be so happy. And that’s the truth.”
“I love you, Cole.”
When she reached up to stroke his cheek, the ache in her abdomen became more
intense, more prolonged. Rachel knew the signs; she was going into labor.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“Everything is right.” She looked up at her husband-to-be and smiled. “It’s time.”
For the first time since the moment they met, she saw sheer panic in his eyes. He gaped. He gasped. He ran to the door. Then back to her. “Are you sure?”
She nodded. “This is what I do.”
He placed one hand on her belly, leaned down and kissed her. “It’s going to be all right.”
And it was.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from READY, AIM...I DO! by Debra Webb.
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Chapter One
Caesar’s Palace,
Thursday, November 20th, 9:48 p.m.
You’re next.
Jason Grant couldn’t stop thinking about the note he’d received last month. So far he’d come up empty trying to determine the source. He wanted to write it off as a prank, but it wasn’t the kind of humor any of his friends or associates indulged in. Although he knew he was considered the next in line for the deputy director post at Mission Recovery, it wasn’t how his bosses would announce a promotion.
If this current assignment was any indication, the reality appeared to be that he was next up to either get fired or die of boredom. The sport coat he wore suddenly felt too warm; the tie he’d already loosened still felt too confining.
He looked around the hotel bar. Too early for a big crowd, but there were plenty of people coming and going and gambling. His deep well of training-induced patience was running dry. Not a smart thing in his line of work as a Specialist, but true all the same. Although impatience wasn’t the ideal, he knew the value of being aware of his strengths and weaknesses throughout a fluctuating operation.
He signaled the bartender for another beer and thought about what he might have done to deserve such a low-level assignment.
Specialists were sent in to recover the impossible situations—not to sit back and watch for potential signs of trouble. Last month he’d been told to observe, and he had done so. Right up until the point when Director Casey needed hands-on assistance. This time it felt much the same, except he had no idea who might be in trouble. In fact, he had no idea what the hell was going on here.
All he’d been told was that the operative in place might need backup. He was supposed to hang out in and around Caesar’s Palace, observe and make himself available to get her out if necessary. They didn’t even tell him which her he was looking for.
It didn’t feel right. A lot of things in Mission Recovery weren’t feeling right these days.
Still, gut feelings aside, this was the job and here he was in Sin City. He’d found a cover story with a nearby convention on security systems and emerging technologies and booked an upgraded room in the Caesar tower, though he didn’t expect to see it much.
He tipped back the dark bottle of beer but didn’t risk drinking any more than the half bottle he’d already sipped away. Instead, his eyes scanned the constantly shifting crowd for any female who looked like a covert operative. Evening hours—really any hour in Vegas from what he’d seen so far—meant women were decked out like there was a Bond girl audition nearby. It made for colorful and entertaining scenery, but Jason was ready for action.
This gig of sitting around watching was getting staler than the beer he pretended to drink.
He pulled out his phone and, per his habit, checked the police scanner app for any crime news. For the past two days, aside from a seven-car pileup on Interstate 15 the state troopers suspected had been started by a blown-out front tire of a limousine, it had been mostly routine stuff. Muggings, prostitution, disputes over money or lovers. Nothing that pointed to a spy in trouble. Certainly no high-speed shoot-outs involving high-end automobiles.
He turned his attention to the hockey game televised on the set above the bar. The odds were running like a stock exchange ticker across the bottom of the picture. If something didn’t break soon, he might have to resort to the preferred entertainment and place a bet on something.
“Pardon me,” the bartender said. “Is your name Grant?”
He nodded. The bartender slid him a shot of tequila with a salt shaker and lime. “Courtesy of the blonde across the way.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to the other end of the bar.
Grant took a long look and smiled when the woman raised her own shot in salute. The hair was different, probably a wig, and from this distance in the subdued light he couldn’t be sure about the eyes. But the dress. He recognized the vibrant emerald dress that skimmed her sensual curves. A certain bold redhead had worn it when she’d crashed a wedding reception in Colorado last month.
At the time he’d considered her the prime suspect behind the cryptic You’re next note he’d received. But the brief investigation and limited evidence disproved that theory. No one remembered a redhead or even a woman anywhere near the note. In the weeks since, he’d been looking over his shoulder and jumping at shadows, though he’d never admit any such thing. As much as he hated the wide-open, let-it-ride atmosphere in the gambling capital, the constant motion of Vegas was at least curing him of the jumpiness.
What the hell, he thought, and tossed back the shot. If Olin was the agent in need, the alcohol might dull the edginess he felt whenever he thought about the stunning redhead. Of course, tequila was better known for boosting the potential for trouble than preventing it.
Either way, this being Vegas, he might as well enjoy the ride.
* * *
GINGER OLIN SLID a fifty-dollar chip onto number twenty-five and considered herself lucky even before the croupier set the roulette wheel spinning.
Why couldn’t all her targets have the good taste to conduct business in Las Vegas? The themes were over the top, but that was the beauty of it. Vegas catered to the bold and overwhelmed the inhibitions of the shy. It made for a delightfully level playing field.
As she strolled through the gaming rooms of Caesar’s Palace amid the glamorous theme and thorough details, she noticed the atmosphere exuded luxury with an undercurrent of excited energy. One couldn’t help joining in the fun. That energy drew like a magnet, made her feel alive in a way that only this kind of decadence could.
The ball dropped in, and she listened to it zip around the wheel as she scanned the nearby tables for any sign of the man carrying the deadly virus she’d been tracking all over the globe. Hearing the bounce and clatter as the ball landed, she timed her squeal of glee perfectly as the dealer called out the winning number.
“Twenty-five!”
Smiling, she accepted the congratulations and admiring glances along with the slightly taller stack of chips and stepped back from the table. Her target, a slick crime boss out of Europe, was on the move, but who was he here to meet? That was the million-dollar question, and she sought the answer.
She strolled along, just one woman among thousands dressed to the nines and looking for the next place to burn through her money. Waitresses cruised through knots of gamblers and hangers-on in an intricate ballet, trays held high, smiles wide and full of temptation. She supposed some people might find the glitter and glam overdone, but Gin enjoyed it. Here a spy could find the right background to blend with, no matter the circu
mstances. The perfect playing board for dangerous games.
She spotted her target, an older man with thick gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses, moving toward the craps tables and Gin shadowed him, wondering if he was enjoying the setting as much as she was. The virus wasn’t with him, though. Her tracking tag showed it was stationary, probably in his room. Joining the growing crowd cheering on a lucky run at a craps table, she used the raucous, shifting party as cover while she tried to spot the buyer.
Her pulse stuttered when she met the hard, icy gaze of Bernard Isely. He was looking too closely, and not at her well-displayed cleavage. He preferred his women cheap, his vodka expensive, and those who betrayed him dead. He didn’t know it yet, but she would soon fall squarely into the last category.
She felt an unprecedented surge of insecurity. Would her wig and contacts be enough to protect her? Her intent was not to dress the same way twice during her stay here. Her well-calculated costuming would, she hoped, be enough to keep her alive throughout and after this assignment.
She dragged her thoughts away from the edge of panic and focused instead on her extensive training and reliable intel. A few weeks ago while she was following a different lead, she’d been told this low life had entered the States, but he should never have been here. Not in person. He usually sent someone else to do the face-to-face work.
But there was nothing usual about this particular business. His appearance shouldn’t have been a shock. She told herself it wasn’t a shock. Everyone who should know believed his father had commissioned the deadly virus up for sale this weekend. It might not fit his profile, but then this particular exchange wasn’t standard fare for the Isely crime family. The son might want to watch his father’s greatest coup go out into the criminal world at last. Maybe that was reason enough to take such a high risk.
Regardless, she understood it was his abrupt appearance right across from her that could rattle her. Rattled spies didn’t last long. Experience kept her reactions in tune with the excited crowd and her gaze averted from her enemy. Her heart might be in her throat, but there wouldn’t be any outward sign of her distress. She had too much practice to give him that advantage.