From the day she joined OMEGA, Maggie had never considered going back to sleepy little Yarnell College. What woman could be content teaching languages after leading a strike team into the jungles of Central America to take down a drug lord? Or after being trapped in a Soviet nuclear-missile silo with a brilliant, if incredibly clumsy, scientist? Or dangling hundreds of feet above the dark, crashing Mediterranean to extract a wounded agent from the subterranean lair of a megalomaniacal film star? Not this woman, at any rate.
Although…
If pressed, Maggie would have admitted that the life of a secret agent had its drawbacks. Like the fact that most of the men she associated with in her line of work were either drug dealers or thieves or general all-around sleazebags.
Oh, there were a few interesting prospects. A certain drop-dead-gorgeous Latin American colonel still called her whenever he was in D.C. And one or two operatives from other agencies she’d worked with had thrown out hints about wanting to know the woman behind the code name Chameleon. But none of these men possessed quite the right combination of qualities Maggie was looking for in a potential mate. Like a keen, incisive mind. A sense of adventure. A hint of danger in his smile. A great bod wasn’t one of her absolute requirements, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt.
So far Maggie had only met one man who came close to measuring up in all categories, and he was standing a few feet away from her right now. The problem was, whenever they came face-to-face, it was generally just before he sent her off to some far corner of the world.
As he was about to do now, apparently.
“So what’s up, Adam?” she asked. “Why are we here?”
“I’m here because I got a call from the president an hour ago,” he said slowly, his eyes on her face.
“And?” Maggie prompted.
The tingling tension that always gripped her at the start of a mission added to the fluttering in her veins that Adam’s presence generated. Anticipation coursed through her, and her fingers gripped the smooth wood as she focused her full attention on his next words.
“And you’re here because you’re going to impersonate the vice president for the next two weeks.”
Maggie’s jaw dropped. “The vice president? Of the United States?”
“Of the United States.”
“Taylor Grant?”
“Taylor Grant.”
Maggie’s astonishment exploded into shimmering, leaping excitement. In her varied career with OMEGA, she’d passed herself off as everything from a nun to a call girl. But this would be the first time she’d gone undercover in the topmost echelons of the executive branch.
“Now this is my kind of assignment! The vice president of the United States!” She shoved a hand through the thick sweep of her brown hair. “What’s the story, Adam?”
“For the last three months, the vice president has been working secretly on an international accord in response to terrorism. According to the president, the parties involved are close, very close, to hammering out the final details of an agreement. One that will send shock waves through the terrorist community. When this treaty is approved, all signatories will respond as one to any hostile act.”
“It’s about time!”
In the past few years, Maggie had seen firsthand the results of differing government approaches to terrorism. Depending on the personality of the people in high office, the response could be swift or maddeningly slow, strong or fatally indecisive.
“The key players involved in crafting the treaty are gathering at Camp David to hammer out the final details,” Adam continued. “No one—I repeat, no one—outside of the president, the VP herself and a few trusted advisors know about this meeting.”
Maggie eyed him shrewdly. “So I’m to deflect the world’s attention while this secret meeting takes place?”
“Exactly.”
She chewed on her lower lip for a moment. “Why me?”
“Why not?” he countered, watching her face.
“Mrs. Grant has at least half a dozen women assigned to her Secret Service detail,” Maggie said bluntly. “They know her personal habits and routine intimately. They wouldn’t need the coaching I will to double for her.”
“True, but none of them matches her height and general physical characteristics as well as you do.”
Maggie composed a swift mental image of the attractive young widow. Tall. Auburn-haired. Slightly more slender than Maggie herself. A full mouth that quirked in a distinctive way when she was amused, which was often. Stunning violet eyes that sparkled with a lively intelligence.
Far more important than any physical characteristics, however, were the vice president’s personality traits. Taylor Grant was totally self-assured. Gracious, yet tenacious as a pit bull when it came to the political issues she championed. And she carried herself with an easy confidence that Maggie knew she projected, as well. With a flash of insight, she sensed that was the key to this assignment.
She’d earned her code name, Chameleon, because of her ability to dramatically alter her physical appearance when going undercover. But she’d survived in the field because she knew that a successful impersonation came from within, not from without. The trick was to believe you were the person you pretended to be—if you did, you could convince others. This mission would take intense concentration and all of Maggie’s skills, but she could do it. She would do it.
“Imagine,” she murmured, her brown eyes gleaming. “I’ll be presiding over joint sessions of Congress. Just think of the bills I can push through in the next couple of weeks. The bloated bureaucratic budgets I can slash.”
“I’m afraid you won’t have much opportunity to exercise your political clout,” Adam said dryly. “To cover her absence, the vice president has announced that she’s taking a long-overdue two-week vacation to her home in the California Sierras.”
With real regret, Maggie abandoned her plans to ruthlessly streamline the entire federal government.
“Okay, what’s the catch?”
One of Adam’s dark brows rose.
“A two-week vacation in the High Sierras is too easy. I’ve got this tingly little feeling there’s more to this role than what you’ve told me so far.”
The ghost of a smile curved Adam’s lips. “Your tingles are on target.”
“They usually are,” she said with a trace of smugness.
His smile faded as he studied her face. “Early this morning, Taylor Grant received a death threat. Your mission while you’re undercover will be to discover the source of this threat.”
The fact that Mrs. Grant had received a death threat didn’t particularly surprise Maggie. A Secret Service contact she’d once worked with had mentioned that the White House switchboard screened upward of fifty thousand calls a day. A battery of skilled operators separated disgruntled voters from dangerous malcontents and forwarded the “sinisters” for investigation. Maggie had been amazed at both the number and the content of the wacko calls that came over the switchboard. One, she’d been told, had ended with a long-drawn-out shriek and the sound of the caller blowing out his brains.
But in addition to outright kooks and psychotics who might target Taylor Grant, Maggie could name at least half dozen ultraright-wing groups the vice president had outraged. An intelligent, outspoken woman with strong liberal leanings, she’d been chosen as the president’s running mate to balance his more conservative platform and to guarantee California’s huge block of electoral votes. No, Maggie wasn’t surprised Mrs. Grant had received a death threat.
Still, the Secret Service was charged with investigating such threats. Once again, Maggie puzzled over the reason for her involvement in this mission. She knew Adam too well to suppose that he’d called her in just because she resembled Taylor Grant in general size and shape.
“So what was different about this threat, that it activated an OMEGA response?” she asked.
“The call came in over the VP’s personal line. Whoever made it knew how to bypass the filters that
protect her from such calls, and how to electronically synthesize his voice.”
“His voice? If it was electronically disguised, how do we know the caller was a he?”
Adam regarded her steadily across the half acre of polished mahogany that constituted his desk. “Because the nature of the call suggests it was made by someone who knows Mrs. Grant well. Very well. Well enough to mention her husky little gasp at moments of extreme passion.”
“Extreme passion?” Maggie’s jaw sagged once more. “Good grief, are you saying the vice president of the United States is being threatened by…by a former lover?”
“So it appears.”
While Maggie struggled to absorb this astounding information, Adam rose, a sheet of notepaper in his hand.
“This is a list the VP supplied of the men she’s known intimately.”
Eyes wide, Maggie glanced down at the list he handed her. To her surprise, she saw that it was very short. Amazingly short, for a charismatic, dynamic woman who’d been a widow for over ten years. A woman who kept the press and the public titillated with a string of very handsome and very eligible escorts.
There were only four names on the list:
Harold Grant, the vice president’s husband. The California sculptor had died from a rare form of bone cancer more than a decade ago.
Peter Donovan. Maggie couldn’t place him, but the notation beside the name indicated that he had managed the VP’s first campaign for governor.
Stoney Armstrong. That name she recognized immediately! The handsome, square-jawed movie star had escorted then-Governor Grant one whole, tempestuous spring. Their pictures had been splashed across every tabloid and every glossy magazine on several continents.
And…
Maggie’s eyes widened. “James Elliot?” she gasped. “The secretary of the treasury?”
Adam nodded. “Elliot met Mrs. Grant after the president named him to head Treasury. Their liaison was reportedly short, but passionate.”
“So that’s why OMEGA’s running this show instead of the Secret Service!” Maggie exclaimed.
In addition to his responsibilities for the fiscal policies of the United States, the secretary of the treasury also directed the Secret Service. The idea that the supervisor of the very agency charged with protecting the vice president was one of three men suspected of threatening to kill her boggled Maggie’s mind.
“Elliot himself suggested OMEGA take the lead in this case,” Adam said slowly. “He recognized that his liaison with Mrs. Grant, as brief as it was, compromised him in this case.”
“No kidding!”
Her forehead wrinkling, Maggie studied the short list once again. Four names, three suspects—one of whom was a close personal friend of the president, and a member of his cabinet. Whew!
“There’s another name that should be included on the list,” Adam added in a neutral tone.
“Really?” she murmured, still absorbing the implications of James Elliot’s involvement. “Whose?”
“Mine.”
With infinite care, Maggie raised her eyes from the paper in her hand. As she searched Adam’s face, a wave of conflicting emotions crashed through her.
Instinctive denial.
Instant awareness of the staggering impact this had on her mission.
And jealousy. Sheer, unadulterated jealousy. The old-fashioned green-eyed kind that was embarrassing to own up to but impossible to deny.
Taylor Grant was just the kind of woman who would attract Adam, Maggie admitted with painful honesty.
Polished. Sophisticated. At ease with politicians and princes. She moved in the same circles Adam did. Circles that Maggie, content with herself and her world, had never aspired to…until recently.
Summoning every ounce of professionalism she possessed, she sent him a cool look. “Well, that certainly puts a new twist on this mission. Suppose you tell me why the vice president didn’t include your name on her list.”
A glimmer of emotion flickered through his eyes at her tart rejoinder. It might have been amusement or irritation, but it disappeared so quickly, Maggie couldn’t tell. With Adam, she rarely could.
“Because I’m her future, not her past, lover,” he replied evenly.
For the space of several heartbeats, silence blanketed the spacious office. Maggie fabricated and rejected a dozen possible interpretations of his statement. Only one of them made any sense, and she wouldn’t let herself believe that one.
“Come again?” she asked.
Navy cashmere contoured Adam’s well-defined shoulders as he crossed his arms. “Until this point, I’ve enjoyed only a casual friendship with Taylor Grant.”
Maggie fought down a ridiculous rush of relief.
“That friendship is about to deepen.”
“It is?”
“It is.”
She cleared her throat. “Just how deep do you intend to take it?”
“As deep as necessary.”
She refused to acknowledge the slow curl of heat his words generated. “I think you’d better give me something more specific.”
“For the duration of the time you’re undercover, I’ll be your sole contact. We’ll be together night and day for the next two weeks. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, we’re in love. Or at least in lust.”
Right. As far as the rest of the world was concerned. Maggie bit down on the inside of her lower lip and forced herself to concentrate as Adam continued.
“We’ll debut this new relationship at the VP’s last official Washington function before she leaves for California.”
“Which is?”
“A special benefit performance at the Kennedy Center tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night?”
Maggie jumped off the corner of the conference table, her mind racing. She had less than twenty-four hours to transform herself into the person of the vice president of the United States. And into Adam Ridgeway’s latest companion/lover.
At that moment, she wasn’t sure which role daunted her—or thrilled her—more.
Chapter 2
The next hours were the most intense Maggie had ever spent preparing for a mission.
A quick call to her father glossed over the reason for extended absence. Although she’d never told Red Sinclair about her work for OMEGA, he knew his daughter too well to believe that her civilian cover as an adjunct professor at D.C.’s Georgetown University occupied all her time.
Grumbling something about making clear to a certain reptile who was in charge during Maggie’s absence, Red hung up and went back to the Superbowl.
After that, the OMEGA team moved at the speed of light.
Jake MacKenzie, code name Jaguar, arrived to act as headquarters controller for this operation. Since his marriage last year to a woman he’d rescued from a band of Central American rebels, Jake hadn’t spent much time in the field, but he was one of OMEGA’s most experienced agents. There wasn’t anyone Maggie trusted more to orchestrate the behind-the-scenes support for this mission than the steely-eyed Jaguar.
With Jake beside her, she listened to the chilling tape of the early-morning phone call.
“You were so good,” the eerie, electronic voice whispered, “so beautiful. I can still hear your soft, sweet moan, that little sound you make when…”
Disgust twisted Maggie’s mouth. That someone could speak of love in one breath, and death the next, sickened her.
“I must kill you. I don’t want to, but I must. Try to understand….”
The call ended with a click, and Taylor Grant’s swift, indrawn gasp.
“All right,” Jake said, his mouth grim. “Let’s go over these dossiers on the three suspects one more time. Intel is champing at the bit to start your political indoctrination.”
The dossiers didn’t give her any more insight into which of the three prominent men might want to assassinate the vice president, but Maggie studied their backgrounds in minute detail. Then she spent hours in briefings on the political pe
rsonalities and issues the vice president dealt with daily.
Finally she closeted herself in a small room to study videotapes of Taylor Grant’s speech patterns and gestures. Given her background in linguistics, Maggie soon had the vice president’s voice down pat. Copying her gestures and facial expressions took a bit more work, but after hours in front of the mirror and a video camera, Maggie passed even Jake’s and Adam’s critical review.
At that point, the wizards of the wardrobe, as she termed OMEGA’s field dress unit, whipped into action. A gel-like adhesive “bone” shaped her chin and nose to match Mrs. Grant’s profile. A quick dye job and an expert cut resulted in the well-known stylish auburn shag. Tinted contacts duplicated the vice president’s distinctive violet eyes.
Reducing Maggie’s more generous figure to the vice president’s exact proportions, however, required a bit more ingenuity. After taking some rather intimate measurements and stewing over the matter for a while, the pudgy, frizzy-haired genius who headed Field Dress produced a nineties version of a corset that also, he proclaimed proudly, doubled as protective body armor. The thin Kevlar wraparound vest flattened Maggie’s bust and trimmed several inches off her waist. The vice president’s well-known preference for pleated pants and long tunic-style jackets would disguise her slightly fuller hips.
“Suck it in, Chameleon,” the chief wizard ordered sternly, yanking on the adjustable straps at the waist of the bodysuit-corset.
Maggie clutched at the edge of a table. “Hey! Go easy there,” she said over one shoulder. “I’ve got to be able to breathe for the next few weeks, you know.”
“Don’t panic,” he replied, grunting a little with effort. “This baby should fit more easily in a day or so.”
“It should?” she gasped. “Why?”
He backed away, surveying his handiwork. “A couple of days on the VP’s diet will shave a few pounds off you.”
Maggie straightened and took a few shallow, experimental breaths. “The vice president is on a diet?”
“Uh-oh. You didn’t know?”
“Intelligence is going to cover her personal habits as soon as we’re through here. What kind of a diet?”
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