Praise for Kate Donovan

“Kate Donovan’s Parallel Lies is so full of action it will keep readers on the edge of their seats from start to finish. Her characters are well-developed and her dialogue and description are great.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

“Identity Crisis is a terrific CIA suspense thriller that never slows down until the final confrontation between the Feds and the bad guys occurs.”

—Harriet Klausner

A rough voice reminded her of the danger to an agent on an unsanctioned op in a foreign land. “Freeze!”

Miranda spun toward the voice, and as she did so, the test tube of HeetSeek slipped from her grasp, crashing to the floor at her feet.

She jumped back, certain that the lab would be rocked by an explosion. When nothing happened, she almost laughed with relief. Then she raised her hands above her head, looked directly into the angry eyes of the armed men in the doorway and said with a cheerful smile, “I guess I’m busted. And so is my loot.”

Dear Reader,

Every once in a while when I’m writing a story, I fall in love with the wrong guy—a guy the heroine would never choose because he’s so flawed. She rides off into the sunset with her chosen love, and I’m left with two choices—rehabilitate my guy so that he’s hero material, or just keep him for myself.

At least, that’s the way it used to be.

Enter Silhouette Bombshell, which gives me a third choice: find a heroine who loves my flawed guy, warts and all. Because in Bombshell, he really doesn’t have to be a “hero” in the sense that he saves the day—the heroine takes care of that! He just has to be the right guy for her. And he has to be sexy.

Which brings us to fiery, tortured Ray Ortega. If you read Identity Crisis, you know how badly he screwed up. If you didn’t read it, even better! This story tells you all you need to know about Ortega’s shortcomings—and his impressive strengths.

But most of all, you’ll be impressed by Miranda Cutler. She really does save the day—in ways you could never expect. I hope you agree they’re an incendiary pair!

Best wishes,

Kate

Exit Strategy
Kate Donovan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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KATE DONOVAN

is the author of more than a dozen novels and novellas, ranging from time travel and paranormal to historical romance, suspense and romantic comedy. An attorney, she draws on her criminal law background to create challenges worthy of her heroines, who crack safes, battle bad guys and always get their man. As for Kate, she definitely got her man and is living happily ever after with him and their two children in Elk Grove, California.

To Paul—writing this story was a breeze

because I had you to inspire it.

Love, Kate.

Contents

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 1

“T his is such an honor, Ms. Smith. Working with you and your team. You guys are legendary at Langley. Especially you.” Twenty-six-year-old Miranda Cutler took a deep breath to stop herself from gushing. Then she adopted a more businesslike tone. “May I ask why I was chosen for this assignment?”

“You have all the necessary qualifications,” Jane Smith explained, reaching across the kitchen table to finger a lock of Miranda’s hair. “You live in a building with security cameras, and you have red hair. Or at least, almost red. If there was more time I’d make you lighten it, but this will have to do.”

Miranda stared for a moment, certain that the older agent was joking. Then without pulling away she murmured, “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t be misled. It’s a compliment that we’re trusting a rookie with something as sensitive as this. Of course, we had no choice. But still, you’re lucky. I would have killed for this kind of opportunity when I was starting out.”

The bitchiness underlying Smith’s attitude stung Miranda, but the younger CIA operative reminded herself that this woman was the best of the best. The mere whisper of her name in the espionage world evoked stories of daring exploits and black ops phenomena. And for reasons that were about to be revealed, this superspy was seated at Miranda’s kitchen table.

With that reminder in place, she used a respectful tone as she asked her guest, “What kind of opportunity is it, exactly? I mean, red hair and security cameras? There must be more to it than that.”

Smith nodded. “Less than five hours ago, a high-ranking government official was framed for murder. If the story reaches the public, that man’s reputation will be ruined for life, as will the reputation of the president. We’re going to prevent that from happening.”

Miranda leaned forward, impressed with the plan, and finally understanding the interest in the security cameras. “We’re going to provide him with an alibi? Make it look like he was here with me when the murder occurred?”

Smith glanced over her shoulder at the pair of male operatives who had been quietly pacing Miranda’s living room floor. “She’s quick, just like I predicted.”

“And built,” the blonder of the two men added. “Ortega’s gonna love her.”

“Ortega?” Miranda shook her head, certain that she had misunderstood. “You don’t mean Ray Ortega, do you? I mean, I know you and he used to work together—”

“And now he’s the director of the Strategic Profiling and Identification Network,” Smith confirmed. “More importantly, he’s the president’s choice for the next director of the FBI—a position with much more influence. Ortega’s going to kick ass in that job, and there are those who want to keep that from ever taking place.”

“So they framed him for murder? My God.” Miranda sat back in her chair, trying to absorb the information while marveling at her good luck in landing this high-level assignment. First, Jane Smith ringing her doorbell in the middle of the night. Now Ray Ortega—another legend. This one, an out-and-out hero. And if half of what she’d heard about him was true, a genius at reading people. Not to mention at killing them.

“Earlier this evening, Ortega arrived at a Southern California beach house for a meeting with one of the president’s advisors. He found the advisor dead on the floor under circumstances that were clearly arranged to incriminate Ortega himself. His first impulse was to call the police, but he knew it would create a scandal. He could clear his name eventually, of course. But it would ruin his chances of becoming the Bureau’s director. He wants that job—not for the glory, but because he wants to clean up this country. The scum that framed him fear him for that very reason. So…” Smith took a deep breath, then explained, “Ortega did the smart thing. The right thing. He called me.”

“For an alibi.”

“A temporary one. Until he can prove he was framed. Luckily I was in L.A. with most of my team, so we immediately started cleaning up the crime scene. Restaging it so that it looks like a simple break-in gone wrong. Once it was under control, I headed back here.

“Meanwhile, Ortega was smuggled out of town to a private landing strip where we had a plane waiting for him. He flew to Dallas and changed planes, using a fake identity to take a commercial flight home. It took precious extra time, but was necessary. Flight records will have to be doctored, of course. There are a million details,” Smith added, as though speaking to herself rather than Miranda.

Then she patted the younger agent’s hand. “When Ortega’s plane touches down, you’ll be there. You’ll ride back here with him and enter the building, pretending to be returning home from three dates. The cameras will record every move, then my team will splice the footage into existing tapes.”

“Three dates?”

Smith grinned. “One would seem too convenient. So you and Ortega are going to reenact a series of them. It’s all in the script we’ll provide for you. You’ll study it on your way to the airport. Be convincing. A great man’s reputation is riding on it.”

Ray Ortega. He was a great man. And a noble one, if half the stories were true. The thought of someone ruining him, negating all the sacrifices he had made for his country, not to mention all the great deeds he was still destined to accomplish, angered Miranda, and she insisted quietly, “I won’t let you down.”

Smith surprised her with an actual smile. “Your file is impressive for a rookie. I’ll use you again soon if I’m satisfied with your performance.”

“You mean, if Ortega’s satisfied,” the blond man interrupted with a lascivious chuckle.

When Miranda shot him a disgusted glare, Smith chided her. “If you’re going to succeed in this business, you’ll need to develop a thicker skin. And a sense of humor.”

Not waiting for a response, the older agent stood up and walked into the bedroom. Miranda trailed after her, watching as she began pulling clothes out of the closet. “First date, this. With jeans. Sexy, but not overwhelming.” She shoved a white eyelet shirt that was styled like a bustier into Miranda’s hands. “Second date…let’s see.” She rejected a series of items, settling finally on a medium-length black skirt and a black leather jacket. “With boots. And some sort of camisole or tube top.”

Miranda nodded.

“And for the big night, this is perfect.” She pulled out a short, sassy dress made of shimmering dark green fabric. “Green eyes, green dress, right? With sandals. No stockings. No bra. A signal dress.”

“Signal? Oh…” Miranda struggled not to flush. “Gotcha.”

“Remember, you’re doing it for your country,” the fair-haired man said from the doorway.

“Shut up,” Miranda advised him, adding to Smith, “I guess you’re right. I’ve got no sense of humor where this pig is concerned.”

Smith nodded, then turned toward the blond man. “Enough with the needling, Mark. Do something useful. Check to see if Ortega’s plane is on time.”

“I just called. It’s ten minutes ahead of schedule.”

Smith nodded again, then told Miranda, “Get dressed. Mark will drive you to the airport. You’ll study the script on the way there. You and Ortega can spend the ride back getting acquainted. And by getting acquainted,” she added dryly, “I mean, having sex in the limo.”

“What?” Miranda grimaced. “Is that another joke?”

Ignoring Mark’s laughter, Smith explained. “I want the camera to record two people who have been dating for a week and are just about ready to explode from repressed lust. Professional agents will be watching this tape to verify Ortega’s alibi, and I want them to either be too embarrassed to study it intently, or so caught up in the erotic elements, they won’t notice tiny imperfections in our work. Which means you and Ortega have to put on a convincing show.”

Miranda’s thoughts flashed back to her father, who had reacted with disdain when she had first announced her plans to join the CIA. “You’re too pretty,” he had informed her bluntly. “They’ll use you like a whore.”

Stung, she had reminded him about the awards that covered the walls of her childhood bedroom. Marksmanship and archery—the girl with the perfect aim. But he had just shaken his head, muttering, “You’ll see,” and she had vowed never to discuss it with him again, a vow she kept until the day he died, six months later.

“Is this a problem?” Jane Smith asked her now, her tone every bit as disdainful as Roger Cutler’s had been. “Do I need to find someone else?”

“No, it’s fine.” Miranda took a deep breath, knowing it was useless—and unwise—to argue with Smith. Better to wait until she met Ortega. Surely he’d understand that they could be convincing for the camera without such extreme tactics. And if he agreed with Smith, well…

“I’ll do whatever it takes to help Director Ortega,” she announced finally.

The older agent flashed a triumphant smile. “Smart girl. This could make your career, you know. So get dressed. We’ll clear out of here.

“And remember. When you walk through your front door and into the hall, the show starts. Don’t look up at the camera, but be aware of it. You’re a single girl—one who hasn’t gotten laid in a while. You’re headed for O’Leary’s hoping to find the guy of your dreams. Keep the act up until you clear the front walkway. Then go around to the Baker Street side. Mark will be waiting for you with the file. Study it on the ride. Once you hook up with Ortega, follow his lead. He’s a pro.”

“So am I,” Miranda assured her quietly. “Don’t worry about Ortega. He’ll be in good hands.”

During the half-hour ride to the airport, Miranda ignored the suggestive jokes and lame double entendres of her escort, concentrating instead on the script and discovering that this was really a fairly simple assignment. All she had to do was act naturally while keeping in mind the location of the four video cameras—one on the front steps of the apartment building, one in the lobby, the elevator camera, and the one positioned over the exterior of the elevator doors at the end of the hall leading to her apartment.

For the first “date,” she and Ortega were apparently just going to talk, and while the security system wouldn’t actually record their words, the script reminded them to get into their roles and stay in them. The date would end in the hallway, with Ortega kissing her respectfully.

The second date was also fairly mild. More talking for the cameras, but in an intimate fashion, with occasional nuzzling. A lingering kiss at the door, an invitation into the apartment, from which Ortega would be taped leaving after only a few minutes with a look of frustration on his face, as though he had been sure he was about to score.

Clever, she had to admit. Sounds like a real second date.

The third date was scripted as an inferno, complete with make-out sessions in the lobby, elevator and hall. Ortega would again be invited in, and this time he’d stay until early morning, when the cameras would catch him leaving, a satisfied expression on his face.

Most of the footage would be spliced into existing tapes, but this last bit—Ortega’s final exit—would be caught in real time, which meant he would actually spend the rest of the night with her.

It was already close to 4:00 a.m., and it would take at least an hour to get back to her place and film the three dates. They had to be finished long before 7:00 a.m., when the residents of her apartment building were first expected to venture into the hallways. Had it been a weekday morning, the timetable would have been almost impossible to plan, but this was Friday night—or more accurately, Saturday morning—and so they had a little more leeway.

“Time for your hot date,” Mark announced, slowing his black SUV to a stop on a dark stretch of road near the airport. “Ortega’s limo should be showing up any minute.”

She nodded. “I’m just going to leave this script with you if that’s okay.”

“Sure.” His gray eyes twinkled. “Enjoy yourself. I know Ortega will.”

“Did I mention you’re a pig?” she grumbled.

“I’ll call you when this is all over. We’ll have a drink and laugh about it. No hard feelings.”

“I’d love to get together when we’re both off duty,” she said with a purr. “It’ll give me a chance to beat the crap out of you.” Jumping from the vehicle, she slammed the door, then rested her thumb and little finger against her cheek in imitation of a phone, mouthing the words “Call me.”

Her driver scowled, revved the engine and sped away, just as a limousine rolled into view. It pulled up until the right rear passenger door was within inches of where she stood. Then the door opened, and she had to remind herself to take a deep breath before peeking inside. “Director Ortega?”

“Agent Cutler?” A handsome, dark-haired man gave her a reassuring smile. “Get in. We’ve got a lot to do, and not much time to do it.”

She slid in next to him, still forcing herself to breathe normally, but it wasn’t easy. For one thing, he was better looking than she had imagined he’d be. High cheekbones; wavy blue-black hair; an infectious smile. And his eyes were amazing—dark brown with flecks of bronze. She was sure he was well-built, but for the moment, she couldn’t get past his arresting face to check out the rest of him.

Of course, she’d find out about the body soon enough….

“Jane really outdid herself,” he told her simply. “You’ve got just the right look. I assume she told you about my history with sexy redheads?”

Miranda flushed. “If there had been more time, I would have done something to bring out more red highlights—”

“It’s perfect the way it is. Auburn, right?”

She nodded.

Ortega touched her arm. “This is an unconventional assignment, especially for a rookie. It’s okay to be a little nervous.”

“I’m just excited,” she countered, then she flushed again, fearing he’d misinterpret her enthusiasm.

“Great. So? I assume you’ve read the script? How would you like to proceed?”

Miranda gave her shoulders a small shrug. “Jane Smith seemed to think we should…well…fool around a little—”

“Jane Smith is a freaking robot about this kind of thing,” he interrupted, his jaw muscles visibly clenching. “I apologize for her.”

Miranda closed her eyes and was able to breathe normally for the first time since she’d entered the vehicle. “That’s okay.”

“Do you need a drink?”

“No. Not at all.” She gave him a grateful smile. “It really is an honor to assist you, sir.”

“How much did she tell you about my predicament?”

“You’ve been framed for murder. It’s outrageous,” she added staunchly. “No one would believe you’re a killer—”

“I am a killer,” he corrected her. “But not a murderer. So? What do you say we get acquainted? The old-fashioned way. By talking,” he added, his warm smile returning.

He had read Miranda’s file—in fact, he seemed to have memorized it—and asked thoughtful questions about her life on the ranch both before and after the accident that put her father in a wheelchair. He remarked on her awards, complimented her performance during training and smoothly integrated some suggestions regarding their upcoming dates, mostly having to do with her comfort level as he repeatedly reminded her that as his date, she always had the right to say “no” to any move he made. If at any time his pace made her uncomfortable, she had only to say one word to make him back off.

Just like a real date….

“According to your file, they’ve got you in some sort of language immersion program. What’s that about?”

“It’s something new they’re trying,” she explained. “Exposing me to twelve different languages at one time. Not so much to learn any of them, obviously, but to be able to recognize them, and identify key words, patterns, that sort of thing.”

“Have they said why?”

“No, but I’m dying to find out. Some assignment in an international hub, I’m guessing. Or—” she paused to smile “—maybe they just want to see what it does to my thought patterns.”

He nodded in agreement. “Has it affected your dreaming?”

“Not yet. But I’m supposed to keep a dream journal. Do you have a theory?”

“No. But it’s fascinating. You’ll have to tell me how it all works out.”

His mood was so calm, especially given his circumstances, the effect was almost eerie, and so relaxing that Miranda had to shake herself back to attention when the limousine drew to a halt on a side street two blocks from her apartment.

“We’ll walk from here,” Ortega explained, his tone suddenly brisk. “Remember, even though there’s no audio, we’ll stay in character—words as well as actions. You never know when someone might be a lip-reader.”

“I understand.”

The driver opened the door, and Miranda slid out of the vehicle, followed by Ortega. For the first time, she realized how tall he was, and definitely well-built in his black polo shirt and tan slacks. He was staring down at her, the bronze flecks in his eyes sparkling despite the dim lighting, and she barely noticed the limousine pull away.

“Ready?”

She nodded, moistening her lips.

He hesitated, then said quietly, “There’s something you should know, Miranda. I won’t be acting tonight. I’m extremely attracted to you.”

“It’s the hair,” she said, trying for a light tone.

“You’d be gorgeous even if you shaved it all off.” He cupped her chin in his rough hand. “Remember what I said. If I go too far, too fast, resist. I’ll slow it right down.”

“Okay. Thanks. And vice versa,” she added without thinking.

Ortega stared for a second, then chuckled warmly, and for the first time that night she felt as though she had surprised him. Maybe even impressed him.

It was a good feeling, and as she let him take her hand and escort her down the street, she reminded herself that she was more than a pliable rookie. She was a trained officer of the Central Intelligence Agency, with a lot more to offer than just auburn hair and video cameras.

She quickly learned that Ortega was a master at pretending. In fact, he turned their assignment into her best first date ever! He wanted to know everything—her favorite movie, favorite food, favorite book. He teased, bringing a smile to her lips again and again. And through it all, he was respectful and attentive.

And relaxed. She marveled at this above all. He had been framed for murder less than six hours earlier, yet here he was, bantering with her as if they were completely carefree. The alibi would succeed, she realized, not because of hot-and-heavy scenes, but because of this man’s attitude.

And the cameras had ample opportunity to memorialize that attitude, as Miranda and her date paused to chat on the doorstep, then again in the lobby. When the elevator arrived, she expected more of the same, and was surprised—and pleased—when he stepped up his attention just a bit, backing her into the corner and telling her in a husky voice how attractive she was.

Then he lowered his mouth to hers for an unscripted kiss so gentle, yet also so thorough, that she actually heard a small moan of delight emanate from her throat.

Ortega buried his face in her hair and murmured, “Nice touch,” sending a shudder of arousal right through her.

Conscious that her cheeks were flaming red, she darted through the elevator doors the instant they opened, then turned and motioned for him to join her as an afterthought. His eyes twinkled as he followed her to her door, and when she began fumbling for her keys, he reached for her again, his expression supremely confident.

But Miranda was ready, bracing her arms against his chest and pushing gently, her eyebrow arched in warning. And true to his word, he immediately backed off, a frustrated grin on his face.

“Let’s save something for next time, shall we?” she told him.

“Wednesday? I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“It’s a date.”

Unlocking the door, she swung it open, then watched as he ambled back to the elevator. When he turned to give her one last, impish smile, she felt another surge of arousal, and had to dart into the apartment and slam the door shut.

Oh my God….

She leaned against the wall, enjoying the sensation for a moment, then reminded herself they were on the clock. The script allowed a scant two minutes for her to change clothes, sweep her long, loose hair into a braid and redo her makeup, exchanging the gray eyeshadow for a vibrant rust with lip gloss to match.

Forcing herself to concentrate, she completed the transformation, then entered the hallway, doing her best impression of a female headed for a very, very promising second date. In the elevator she adjusted her bra and checked her makeup for the benefit of the camera, then she strode through the lobby and out onto the street. She knew Ortega would be waiting around the corner.

And she knew he’d be smiling that relaxed, confident smile that belied his dilemma. As she approached him, she again marveled that he could be so calm. And so handsome. He, too, had changed outfits in the limousine and was wearing jeans with a black turtleneck.

“Miss me?” he asked when she reached him.

“I just don’t get how you can stay so calm, Ortega.”

He took her arm and escorted her back toward her place. “I actually have an old relaxation technique—something I used to use a lot, then I slacked off. This seemed like a good time to resurrect it.”

“It’s amazing.”

“When all this is behind us, maybe I can teach it to you.”

“Thanks. I’d like that,” she murmured, surprised that he was again suggesting they’d see each other after the assignment was over. Did he see a future for them? Based on a couple of phony dates?

Phony dates that so far were admittedly better than the real thing….

“You’ll find it useful,” he assured her. “Especially if you keep working with Jane. Which I don’t recommend, by the way.”

“Why not? She’s the best, right?”

“Hardly.” He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her close as they approached the front steps. “Ready? Showtime.”

Their second date was a lot like the first, with a heady kiss in the elevator that Miranda decided to enjoy to the hilt. To her delight, Ortega took the same approach, and by the time he hustled her out into the hall, there was an urgency that told the cameras this couple couldn’t wait to get inside the apartment. There would be no rebuffing him at the door this trip, and when she started fumbling for the keys, he commandeered them and had the door open before she could even pretend to react.

The script called for him to stay for five minutes, then leave without ceremony, looking frustrated. She had no idea what they’d actually do for those five minutes, although she knew what she wanted them to do….

But Ortega was all business the moment the door closed. “I’ll check in with Jane. You start changing for date number three. I’ll let myself out in a couple of minutes.”

“Okay.” She edged toward the bedroom, disappointed but reminding herself that this was a good sign. He was treating her like a professional. It was time she started returning the favor.

And she was glad to have the extra time to prepare for the big date—the one where they would be manhandling each other. Ortega was obviously attracted to her—either that or he really was the world’s best actor. But still, she wanted to drive him wild this time.

For the good of the mission, of course.

So she brushed her hair until it shone, then twisted it and fastened it behind her head with a rhinestone-studded butterfly clip. Now Ortega could nuzzle her without impediment, and if he wanted to be ultra-dramatic, he could pull the clip away and let her hair cascade down her back.

She was dousing herself with perfume when she heard the door open and close—or rather, slam, as the frustrated suitor left in a huff.

Laughing out loud, Miranda took a last glimpse in the mirror, then grabbed a black purse with a shoulder strap as her final accessory. She was almost giddy, and while she knew part of it was the prospect of making out with Ortega, she was mostly feeling proud. This assignment—a huge one—had gone perfectly. Ortega’s reputation would be safe and his appointment would go through without a glitch. Jane Smith would be so impressed, she’d invite Miranda to join her team permanently—

Except Ortega warned you against that, she reminded herself as she headed for the door. You’ll have to make him explain that when this is all over. Meanwhile, as he says, it’s showtime!

“How’re you holding up?” Ortega asked when she joined him on the side street.

His concerned tone surprised her, and for the first time, she wondered if she was really doing as well with this assignment as she thought she was. Then she decided he was just being a gentleman, so she smiled and assured him, “Piece of cake.”

He was wearing a strong, musky aftershave this time, and his hair was slightly damp, as though he’d been grooming it right up to the last moment.

Very convincing, she decided with admiration. He definitely seems like a guy intent on scoring tonight.

Intent on scoring, and also used to scoring. She had no doubt about that. He was more or less the sexiest man she had ever been this close to, and she figured he knew it. After all, he had worked undercover for years. Certainly in all that time he had seduced a female or two—for his country—and had probably found it surprisingly easy.

Speaking of easy, she warned herself, try not to be a total slut in the elevator. The script calls for you to enjoy him, not maul him.

Biting back a laugh, she let him rest his hand low on her back—so low it really wasn’t her back at all—as he propelled her toward her building. They flew through the doorway, clearly headed straight to bed. When the elevator didn’t come right away, Ortega began kissing her with greed and lust and several other of the very best sins.

As soon as the doors opened, he pushed her into the back corner and before the doors closed fully, he was devouring her, sliding his mouth down from her neck to her breasts, then lower and lower, until he was pushing her dress up to reveal her lace panties. Shocked, Miranda tried to think. Should she protest? Did he expect her to stop him? Was this part of the charade?

Then his teeth were tugging at the wisp of black silk, and she laced her fingers in his wavy hair. The script called for “mindless enjoyment,” and this was the very definition of the phrase.

“Ortega…” Her moan was slow and husky.

He seemed to take it as a complaint, and stood up quickly. Then he cupped her chin in his hand and murmured, “You’re just so goddammed sexy.”

The elevator opened and he whisked her down the hall, taking the keys and working the lock with one hand while holding her close with the other. Then he pushed the door open, half carried her inside, and closed it.

And then it was over.

Miranda leaned against the wall for a second, just to catch her breath. Then she straightened and gave him a smile she hoped was steady. “That went well, don’t you think?”

He stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then he murmured, “Yeah. You did well. Nice job.”

“Thanks.” She bit her lip, wondering if they were just going to stare at one another until dawn. “Would you like a drink? Or coffee? Anything like that?”

He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got about an hour. At some point, coffee will be good. But for the moment, you’re off duty. Do whatever you want. Sleep. Shower. Watch TV. I’ll check in with Jane, then just…well, I’ll find something to do.”

Miranda stepped up to him, concerned. His confidence, his calm, seemed to have abandoned him, and she wondered if he knew something she didn’t. Maybe they hadn’t done as good a job as she thought. She was a rookie, after all. There were subtleties she might miss that an experienced operative would note.

“What’s wrong?” she asked finally.

“Nothing. Everything’s great. I just have something I want to say.”

She flushed. “You don’t have to thank me, Ortega. It’s my job—and my privilege—to help a patriot like you.”

“You don’t understand.” He rested his hands on her shoulders. “Promise me you won’t take this the wrong way?”

She winced but nodded. “I promise.”

Ortega cleared his throat, but his voice was still husky when he told her, “I thought this part of my life was over. This feeling. This amazing, out-of-control, mind-numbing buzz. My God, Miranda, I swear I thought I was past this. But tonight, with you—”

He held up one hand to stop her from interrupting. “Don’t take it the wrong way. I’m just thanking you. For making me feel this way. So foolishly optimistic. So completely inspired. I thought this part of me was dead. But tonight…with you…it’s the most unbelievable thing I’ve ever felt.”

She stared up at him, speechless for what seemed like forever. Then she whispered, “Thank God, Ortega. I thought it was just me.”

His dark eyes widened, then a grin spread slowly over his face.

And then to her shocked delight, he scooped her up in his arms—like some sort of brawny epic hero!—and carried her into the bedroom.

Settling down at a table in the middle of a bustling coffeehouse on the edge of campus, Miranda opened her laptop and pretended to study the screen, while actually listening intently to the conversations of nearby students. She was dressed the part of a graduate student herself in her green-and-white University of Hawaii T-shirt, faded jeans and flat leather sandals.

This was a new phase of her language immersion program. Her assignment? Tracking the discussions she overheard, whether she understood them or not. This particular café was the perfect spot since it catered to international students.

After a weekend of recovering from the Ortega alibi assignment, she had been glad to find distraction in this new adventure. As expected, she hadn’t heard from Jane Smith or Ortega at all, but she had read the newspapers, so she knew that at this point at least Ortega was not considered a suspect in the killing of the president’s advisor. In fact, his agency, SPIN, was leading the investigation. And from all reports, Jane Smith had succeeded in making it appear to be a simple break-in gone wrong.

But Miranda knew better, and she took great pleasure in imagining Ortega and Smith working behind the scenes to catch the bastards who had tried to frame him. The world might never know what really happened, but justice would be done. And with any luck, Ortega would share the top secret details with her on their fourth date.

She was pretty sure there would be a fourth date. He had as much as told her so. It would make the alibi even more believable, for one thing, if they kept seeing each other. And as added incentive, there was the simple matter of the bonfire in her bedroom during that last hour together.

Yes, she was sure she’d hear from him. And maybe from Jane Smith, too, inviting her to join the team permanently. She’d jump at that chance, Ortega’s warning notwithstanding.

But for now, she needed to do a good job on this new assignment. So far, after two days of posing as a student in the coffee house, she had been able to identify most of the languages she overheard, but couldn’t distinguish any words beyond simple greetings and pleasantries.

Unimpressive, she decided with a sigh. Two weeks of training, and nothing to show for it.

Leaning back in her chair, she closed her eyes and sifted her fingers through her hair as though lost in thought, concentrating on the two young men seated across from her.

She couldn’t discern their nationality or language but it was clear they were arguing. Not that their voices were raised. It was more subtle than that—inflection, cadence, the use of very short words.

Maybe this is part of the deal, she told herself, leaning forward and making a note of the observation on her laptop. Maybe that’s what they’re teaching you—to pick up on those sorts of things.

“Miranda Cutler?”

She turned, surprised to hear her name, then surprised again by the sight of a man in a conservative gray suit, so out of place in this venue. Even before he flashed his badge, she knew he was FBI, and her pulse began to race.

This was it. They were going to ask about Ortega. Or better still, they weren’t here about the alibi at all, but had been directed to bring her to Ortega on some pretext. Maybe he even wanted her help on the investigation!

“Yes, I’m Miranda Cutler.” She pretended to be confused, not wanting to blow her cover completely. “Is something wrong?”

“Why don’t we step outside?” he suggested.

She hesitated, then shrugged, closed her laptop and packed it into the knapsack she had slung on the back of her chair.

“Can’t you tell me what this is about?” she asked as she stood and stared into the man’s blue eyes, challenging him, but only slightly.

“Outside,” he repeated.

He was good at his job, she decided, making a note to practice being so completely nondescript and robotic.

She followed him without further protest, and as soon as they were outside, she murmured teasingly, “You didn’t exactly fit in, you know.”

“This way.” He strode to a black sedan parked in a no-parking zone and opened the front passenger door. “Get in.”

It was impossible to engage the gray-suited man in conversation, so Miranda finally stopped trying. Either she was going to be questioned about the alibi or she was being taken to Smith or Ortega. And luckily, she was prepared for either occurrence, so she just leaned back in her seat and forced herself to relax.

She had guessed they were headed for FBI headquarters in D.C., and was relieved when they went to Langley, Virginia, instead. This was Jane Smith territory, although she couldn’t imagine why the CIA hadn’t sent one of their own to pick her up. Apparently the two agencies were working together, but she was still surprised when the guards waved them through without bothering to glance at the IDs they both produced. Not only that, they allowed the FBI agent to proceed without any additional escort as he led Miranda to a small conference room dominated by a forty-two-inch plasma TV.

They were immediately joined by two men, one of whom identified himself as Bob Runyon, CIA. The other was FBI, and he and Miranda’s gray-suited escort faded into the background, leaving Runyon in charge.

“What’s this about?” she demanded for the umpteenth time.

“Sit down,” Runyon advised. When she had complied, he pushed a button on a remote control and a video began to play.

Miranda stared at the screen, confused. It was the alibi video, specifically Date Three, just as she and Ortega were dragging one another into the elevator.

Of all parts of that stupid tape to play, they have to pick this one? she complained to herself as she watched Ortega trail his mouth down her body, then up between her thighs. It was mortifying, but she had prepared herself for this moment, so she was able to watch without cringing.

Runyon hit the Pause button at the most humiliating moment possible, then gestured toward the image on the screen. “Care to comment?”

Indignation replaced embarrassment, and Miranda gave him a haughty glare. “How dare you invade my privacy like this. Turn that off. Immediately!”

“Can you identify the man kissing you?”

“Of course I can! It’s Ray Ortega, director of SPIN. I’ve been dating him for a while. Not that it’s any of your business.” She gulped a breath of air, then insisted, “I demand to know what this is about.”

“Drop the act, Cutler. We know all about it. Ortega confessed last night.”

Miranda drew back, suspecting a trap. “Confessed to what? Having sex in an elevator? I’ll admit it’s not our most admirable moment, but since when is it a crime? We were off duty—”

“I said, drop it.” Runyon eyed her with a mixture of annoyance and sympathy. “We know he killed Payton. We know you and Smith cooked up this alibi for him. Like I said, he confessed. Take a look.” He slid a piece of paper across the table, but when Miranda reached for it, he anchored it to the table with his palm. “Look. Don’t touch.”

It was a signed declaration, and the signature was purportedly Ortega’s. Before Miranda could read more than a few sentences of the text, Runyon pulled the paper back and shoved it into a file.

But a few sentences had been more than enough for Miranda to learn the truth, and it sent a chill through her. Falsifying evidence, killing in self-defense, kidnapping—Ortega had confessed to all of these!

“The good news is, Ortega cleared you of anything but gullibility,” Runyon was saying. “He says you were just a dupe. And even if that’s not true, you’ve been pardoned—”

“What?”

“President Standish pardoned you. Pardoned Ortega, too. Jane Smith isn’t so lucky. She’ll do time for this once she gets out of the hospital. And at least two of her guys are dead. So consider yourself lucky.”

Miranda stared in dismay. “I don’t understand.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” The CIA officer’s voice lost its edge. “It took me a while to understand it, too. Apparently Ortega killed Payton in self-defense, then Smith cooked up an alibi for him, using you—in more ways than one. Unfortunately, Smith went too far. She kidnapped an FBI agent and a SPIN employee who had figured out what was going on, and she would’ve killed them both if they hadn’t been smart enough to get away. Ortega wasn’t part of that. Once he figured out what Smith was really up to, he went after her and her crew and apprehended the ones he didn’t shoot. A real bloodbath.”

Runyon laughed darkly before adding, “President Standish decided Ortega redeemed himself at the last minute and pardoned him. Unbelievable if you ask me, but no one asked. The good news is, you got pardoned, too. Otherwise you’d be part of the conspiracy and the charges would apply to you too.”

“I don’t need a pardon,” Miranda insisted, angry and just a little desperate. “I didn’t do anything wrong! I want to make a statement. To clear myself—”

“Not necessary. Ortega cleared you—”

“By calling me a dupe? You think that clears me?”

“Settle down.” Runyon held up a hand to silence her. Then he said with quiet authority, “The only reason for this meeting is to close the loop. Unless you want to press charges against Ortega, in which case, your career is over.”

“I don’t want to press charges. But I want to make a statement. For the file. Like he did.”

“There is no file. This never happened.” He arched an eyebrow in warning. “This will be classified. Top secret. Only a handful of people will ever know about it. And like I said, it won’t affect your career. Unless you let it,” he added, his meaning clear.

Miranda’s heart sank. Her career—she had worked so hard for it. Now Jane Smith and Ortega had ruined it. Ruined her. She had no doubt about that.

Her gaze was drawn to the despicable image on the plasma screen and her gut tightened with disgust. He had seemed so attracted to her. So smitten. But it had all been an act. A way to doubly ensure her loyalty.

She was a dupe…

“Cutler?” Runyon switched off the monitor. “Are you okay?”

She glanced at him, amazed by the question. Then she asked, “You said two of Smith’s agents were dead. Was one named Mark?”

He nodded. “Friend of yours?”

“No. Just the opposite.” She bit her lip. “What about the FBI agent and the SPIN employee? Were they hurt?”

“Yeah, both sustained injuries. One or both are still in the hospital I think.” He smiled. “The spinner saved the day according to the report. Some sort of genius or something. Too bad you’ll never meet her. You owe her, big-time.”

Miranda studied her hands, wondering if he knew how stupid he sounded.

“Any other questions? We need to wrap this up.”

“I’d like to read the file.”

“Sorry. The less you know the better for you.” He cleared his throat. “Do you need counseling? We can arrange it.”

“No.”

“Good answer.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “You’re cleared for duty. Just like it never happened. Tomorrow morning you’re going to request time off. As a reason, you’ll say you never really came to grips with your dad’s death and you need to go home for a few weeks, to grieve. Delayed reaction or whatever. It will be approved, no questions asked.”

He walked to the door and opened it, then gestured for Miranda to join him. When she had done so, he led her into the hall and closed the door behind them. “It’s over, Miranda. Try not to let it get to you. Go home. Hang out with family and friends. Get past this—that’s an order—and then come back. Your career will be waiting for you. And Miranda?”

“Yes?” she asked, barely listening to his words.

“When you get back into town, maybe we could have a drink some night after work. Just for fun.”

She blinked, sure she hadn’t heard him correctly. Then she looked into his eyes and saw interest so stark—so degrading—that she knew he was replaying the images from the alibi tape. That scene in the elevator—

Her stomach knotted violently and she shoved past him, sprinting for the ladies room at the far end of the hall. Bursting into a stall, she fell to her knees in front of a gleaming white toilet.

Just in time to vomit her guts out.

Chapter 2

One year later

“I know you’re excited about this, Goldie, but don’t get your hopes up. We don’t really know much about this girl.”

Kristie Hennessy enjoyed the tingle that always shot through her when SPIN Director Will McGregor called her Goldie. Or maybe she was just tingling because he was physically present after a full month of being three thousand miles away, fine-tuning the West Coast office in preparation for transitioning the agency from a stand-alone entity to a division of the FBI.

In the early months of establishing SPIN-West she had been there, too, working side by side with him. Sleeping side by side with him. But lately, she had been pulled away from him with increasing frequency and duration, thanks to her duties at the East Coast headquarters, where she provided creative support for FBI agents in the field by supplying them with undercover identities and profiles of suspects.

“It’s a foolproof plan,” she assured him. “We know all we need to know about Miranda Cutler by watching that videotape. Or at least, almost all we need to know.”

McGregor groaned. “You’re not really going to ask that poor kid if she and Ortega had sex that night, are you?”

“It’s the last piece of the puzzle,” Kristie insisted. “Oh, look!” She pointed at the young woman approaching the reception desk outside of McGregor’s glass-walled office.

With the blinds open, one could see everything happening in the think tank that had made SPIN famous. Of course, had the blinds been closed, Kristie could have kissed McGregor’s square jaw, just for luck.

Not that she had his attention anymore. He was openly staring at Miranda Cutler, and Kristie could hardly blame him. The CIA operative was strikingly lovely, despite her stern expression and the hard set to her shoulders. All of that was more than offset by her mane of long auburn hair that was streaked with red and gold highlights. She was wearing black slacks, black boots and a long-sleeved black knit top with a mock turtleneck. No jewelry, no purse. In fact, her only accessories were the gleaming gun holstered at her waist and the badge affixed to the holster. And that hair.

“Put your eyes back in your head, Will,” Kristie advised with a teasing smile.

“Right.” He flushed. “She just looks so…well, never mind. Let’s get this over with.”

“It’s going to work. Trust me.”

He grimaced, then moved to the door and opened it, calling out, “Agent Cutler? Come on in.”

As Miranda entered the office, a tentative smile finally appeared on her lips. “Director McGregor, I presume?”

“Thanks for coming.” He shook her hand, then motioned to Kristie. “This is Kristie Hennessy, one of our spinners.”

Kristie offered her hand to the visitor. “I’m so glad to finally meet you, Miranda. Sit down, won’t you? We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Miranda followed them to the conference table in the corner of the room, but seemed hesitant to take a seat. Then she insisted with unexpected passion, “I’ve wanted to meet you—to thank you—for so long. I never thought I’d get the chance. I mean, you’re the ones, right? They never told me your names. Only that a spinner and an FBI agent apprehended Jane Smith before any innocent lives were lost.”

She grabbed Kristie’s hand again and pumped it. “You’re the spinner, right? And you!” she added in McGregor’s direction. “You were with the Bureau before you took this position. You’re the agent that apprehended Smith and her team. Right?” Her green eyes sparkled with tears. “Thank you so much for stopping that monster before she succeeded.”

The rush of gratitude had a tinge of desperation to it that startled Kristie, and she quickly reassured their guest. “You don’t need to thank us, Miranda. But believe me, we’ve always wanted to meet you, too. Sit down, okay?”

Miranda nodded and took a seat next to McGregor, across from Kristie.

McGregor gave her a reassuring smile. “You’re probably wondering why we asked you here today. Like Kristie—Ms. Hennessy—said, we’re pleased at this chance to meet you in person. But we also have a favor to ask.”

“Anything,” Miranda told him. “Just name it.”

“It’s not a favor,” Kristie corrected, sending McGregor a warning glance. “It’s an assignment.”

“Even better. Name it.”

McGregor laughed. “Don’t you want to know the details first? It’s strictly voluntary. And a little odd.”

“Sight unseen it’s better than anything I’ve been doing lately,” Miranda replied. “And like I said, I’d do anything for you two.”

Kristie sighed, knowing from Miranda’s file that indeed her recent assignments had been dismal ones, mostly consisting of dates with politicians or minor criminals. Nothing tawdry—at least, not exactly—but certainly nothing interesting. And definitely nothing that used the marksmanship talents that had earned her entry to the CIA in the first place.

To put it bluntly, Miranda Cutler had been typecast over the last year as a femme fatale, and while she was indeed pretty, Kristie had no doubt it was the sexy videotape with Ray Ortega that had short-circuited the young operative’s career.

Miranda looked from Kristie to McGregor, as though trying to fathom their hesitation. “It’s fine. Really. Ask me anything.”

“Okay.” Kristie took a deep breath. “How much do you know about Ray Ortega?”

“What?”

“I mean, about where he’s been and what he’s been doing these last eleven months.”

“I have no idea. And I don’t care.”

Kristie winced, but persisted. “Did you know he left public service—”

“Left it? As if he had a choice? He’s lucky he isn’t in prison! I’ll never understand why President Standish pardoned him.”

“Because he saved my sister’s life, for one thing,” McGregor told her, his voice soft.

“Oh. I didn’t know that.” Miranda arched an eyebrow. “I’m guessing it’s his fault she was in danger in the first place though, right?” When McGregor nodded, her green eyes flashed. “Why are we talking about him? Has he done something else?”

Kristie reached across the table and grasped Miranda’s hand. “Ray went into seclusion after—well, after the pardon. He wanted to cleanse himself spiritually. To restore balance to his life. He was riddled with guilt, Miranda. It’s so unfair. He’s a good man. A great man, really. You know that in your heart, don’t you?”

Miranda stared at her for a moment, then spun toward McGregor and demanded, “What’s going on?”

“I don’t blame you for being confused. What you don’t know is that Ortega and Kristie are close friends. He hired her. Trained her to be a spinner. She owes him a lot. Loves him like a brother.”

Miranda gave a cool smile. “I guess that makes sense. But it doesn’t explain why you asked me here.”

“It’s simple,” Kristie told her. “Ray doesn’t want to have anything to do with me—with any of us—anymore. But we need his help. There’s a global conspiracy brewing—a dangerous paramilitary cartel—and he’s the only person in the world who can thwart it.”

“I doubt that,” Miranda drawled.

“No, really. He once saved the life of a major player in this conspiracy. A man named Jonathan Kell. We think Ray can get Kell to confide in him.”

Kristie had expected Miranda to scoff again, but the redhead surprised her by smiling with delight. “That’s what you want? Great! I won’t let you down. I’ll get Kell to talk. Believe me, I’ve had practice. And I’m embarrassed to say, I’m pretty good at it. Just tell me what you need to know, and I’ll make him spill it.”

Ignoring McGregor’s chuckle, Kristie insisted, “No, Miranda. You’re missing the point. We don’t want you to talk to Kell. We want you to talk to Ray.” Before the CIA operative could protest, Kristie forged ahead. “I’ve tried, but he shuts me out. He won’t talk to Will—Director McGregor—either. But he feels terrible about what he did to you. How he lied to you. Plus—”

“Kristie, don’t,” McGregor cautioned.

But the spinner knew she was right. “He fell for you that night, Miranda. I think you can get to him where all the rest of us have failed.”

“Fell for me?” Miranda repeated, as though she couldn’t trust her own hearing. “You’re kidding, right?” Her voice grew strident. “Ray Ortega used me. Lied to me. Made a fool out of me. Humiliated me. Ruined my career. That’s what happened that night, Ms. Hennessy. You think he feels guilty for it? Good! I hope you’re right about that. But don’t kid yourself. I was just a dupe, like he said in his stupid statement. I was naïve—”

“You were young and beautiful, with flowing red hair, a perfect face and a great body. And a warm, beautiful smile. Just the kind of female that gets to him. He said it to me himself, when we were investigating the murder together in L.A. He said he met a girl who made him remember what it’s like to fall in love—”

“He was lying! To save himself. My God, you’re worse than I was. I understand he’s your friend, Ms. Hennessy—”

“Call me Kristie. And listen to me, Miranda. I’ve seen the video. I know what happened between the two of you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Drop it, Goldie,” McGregor muttered.

But it was too late. Miranda Cutler was on her feet, clearly upset by the reference to the alibi tape. “You want to know what happened between us that night? He screwed me. Literally and figuratively. That’s what you saw on the video.”

“Miranda—”

“When the cameras stopped rolling, Ortega was just getting started. He seduced me, just like he and Jane Smith planned. But don’t kid yourself. It had nothing to do with genuine feeling. It was all part of a scheme. Then he planted the idea in your head, too. Which makes you a dupe, too. Welcome to the club.”

Before Kristie and McGregor could even begin to respond, Miranda added unhappily, “I’m sorry. I know you think he’s your friend. And I’m sure he cares about you in his own way. But I’m sure he used you, too. Just like he used me. I thought he was this heroic, noble, patriotic guy. He played that part so well.”

Settling back down, she murmured, “He had just killed a man, but he flirted and teased as though we were really on our first date. That’s the Ray Ortega I know.”

“We owe you an apology, Miranda,” McGregor told her with quiet insistence. “We didn’t know how—well, how fresh all this was to you. Or how deep your feelings ran. Obviously, we don’t expect you to contact Ortega.”

“I’ll contact Kell instead,” she interrupted, her passion morphing into confidence before their eyes. “Trust me, I’ll get the information you need. Just tell me where to find him. If he’s heterosexual, he’ll talk to me.”

“I’m sure he would,” McGregor agreed with a chuckle. “But it’s not that simple. Kell’s a little unbalanced. Probably harmless, but he’s not your normal, run-of-the-mill mark.”

“Harmless nuts are my specialty,” the redhead assured him, her eyes sparkling.

McGregor’s eyes were twinkling, too, and Kristie felt a twinge of jealousy. Then she laughed at herself, deciding that this was a good sign. Miranda’s year as a seductress had made her so irresistible, even Will McGregor wasn’t completely immune.

Which meant Ray Ortega would be even more certain to capitulate!

“I don’t think the powers-that-be would be willing to let you handle that part of the assignment on your own,” McGregor was explaining to Miranda. “Talking to Ortega is one thing. Approaching Kell is another.”

“Aren’t you running the op?”

“Just the domestic portion.”

Miranda’s face fell. “So even if I get Ortega to cooperate, I won’t be part of the larger effort?”

“If you get Ray to come back here with you, he’ll be in charge of the op, and I’m sure he’ll want you on his team,” Kristie told her eagerly. “It works for everyone. See?”

“And even if you can’t convince him, we’ll put in a good word for you,” McGregor added.

Miranda bit her lip, visibly torn by the proposition.

“You can do it, Miranda,” Kristie whispered. “You can reach him. I’m sure of it.”

Miranda gave her a curious stare. “You’re so sure he’s a good guy. But if he really is, if he really cares about his country—about SPIN, about you—why is he refusing to help you break up a dangerous paramilitary cartel?”

“It’s complicated. He doesn’t trust himself anymore. He’s sure his instincts are out of whack, so he’s gone into voluntary exile.”

“And he insists he’s already given us all there is to know about Kell,” McGregor added. “He was thoroughly debriefed after the mission where he saved Kell’s life. That was almost ten years ago. When we contacted Ortega about this—asking for his help—he assured us Kell would be suspicious if he showed up at his place. He said we’re better off using the intel from the debrief and just sending someone else in.”

“I agree with him. You should send someone else. And that someone should be me.”

“Your assignment, if you’re willing to take it, is to lure Ray back here,” Kristie corrected her.

“Lure?”

The spinner grimaced. “Okay, bad choice of words. Just talk to him. Convince him to come back. Then the four of us will plot a strategy for infiltrating the Brigade.”

“Pardon?”

“That’s what they call themselves. The Brigade.”

“Catchy.”

Kristie was relieved to see Miranda could be intrigued, and she decided to make the assignment even more irresistible. “There are five members. We know the identities of four of them, one of whom is Jonathan Kell. But the leader—who calls himself the Brigadier—is a mystery to us. In fact, even the other Brigade members don’t know who the Brigadier really is.”

“Amazing.”

“We’re hoping Kell can provide some clue to the Brigadier’s identity without even realizing it. That’s the most important piece of information we need at the moment, although we’d also like to get a clearer picture of the Brigade’s agenda. So far, they don’t seem to have broken any laws. But they’re raising a fortune, and training paramilitary personnel. It’s all very ominous.”

When Miranda glanced at the file in the middle of the table, Kristie slid it over to her, assuring her mischievously, “It gets better and better. Trust me. You’ll love this assignment.”

“You don’t have to decide right now,” McGregor added. “Take some time to study the file. Everything we know about Kell is in there. And a lot of information about Ortega, too—about his relationship with Kell, and about his current whereabouts and activities. See how you feel after you’ve read it.”

Miranda locked gazes with him. “And if I help, you’ll use your influence to get me on the team that goes after the Brigade? Even if Ortega refuses to come back with me?”

McGregor nodded. Then he seemed to read something in her eyes and murmured, “You trust us, don’t you?”

She sighed. “If you keep your word, I’ll be eternally grateful. And if you don’t, well…” She shrugged her shoulders as if to say it wouldn’t be the first time she was duped, and probably not the last.

McGregor turned sideways in his chair and grasped the young agent’s hands in his own, forcing her to look at him. “You can trust us, Miranda.”

Her cheeks flushed to a gorgeous crimson. “Thanks.”

A new jolt of jealousy, much stronger than the last, surged through Kristie and she drawled, “Do you two need a room?”

Visibly startled, Miranda pulled her hands free and jumped to her feet. “Sorry! I’ll—I’ll take the assignment.”

Kristie stood, too, mortified. “I’m so sorry, Miranda. McGregor and I—”

“Forget it.” Miranda snatched the file off the table, then insisted, “I’ll study this today. Tomorrow I’ll make contact. You’ve got my cell phone number. I’ll keep you informed of my progress.”

She strode to the door and opened it, and for a moment Kristie thought she was going to leave without saying another word. Then she turned and assured them, her voice ringing with pride, “I can do this. I will do this. Thanks again. For everything.”

As soon as Miranda had darted into the reception area and disappeared from view, McGregor turned to Kristie and arched a disapproving eyebrow.

“Okay, okay. Stop yelling at me.” The spinner covered her face with her hands. “I can’t believe I said what I said. Poor Miranda. She must think I’m such a jerk.”

To her relief, McGregor started laughing. “I’ve never seen your jealous side. It was flattering. Horrifying, but flattering.”

“Very funny.” Kristie gave him a wry smile. “I kept thinking how pretty she was—how Ray wouldn’t be able to resist her. Then I suddenly remembered that you kinda like redheads yourself.”

“Just because I like you in your red wig doesn’t mean I like redheads,” he corrected. “I fell in love with a wacky blond spinner who has no idea how good-looking she is. There’s no one else for me.” Resting his hands on her shoulders, he suggested, “Why don’t we cut out of here early? We can go back to your place and you can find some way to apologize for making a scene.”

“You’re not going to make me wear the red wig, are you?”

He laughed again and shook his head.

“Well, then, let’s go. I’m just shocked you’re willing to leave work early for a change.”

“Actually…” He cleared his throat. “If we want to spend some time together, we don’t have a choice. My flight to L.A. leaves at ten.”

“But you just got here!” Kristie scowled. “This is getting old, Will. We never spend any time together.”

“You could come with me. Run your ops from L.A. for a few days.”

She was tempted, but reminded herself that if Miranda succeeded in luring—or rather, convincing—Ray to come back, he’d want to work from SPIN headquarters. “Miranda might call….”

“She’ll call,” McGregor agreed. “With bad news, I predict. Better brace yourself. If he turns her down, you’re going to have to let go of him. Maybe for good. Or at least until he’s ready to make the first move. Can you do that? Let go of that friendship?”

She sighed. “It’s not just for me that I want him back. It’s for SPIN, too.”

“I didn’t think David and I were doing such a bad job running the place,” McGregor replied coolly, pulling his hands away.

Uh-oh…

“That’s not what I meant, Will. You were Ray’s choice, and you’ve been terrific. Sheesh, now we’re both jealous with no reason.” She stepped as close to him as she dared, given the open blinds. “You don’t have to compete with him. He’s my friend, but you’re my everything.”

“I’m not worried about competing with Ortega. Mostly because I’d win,” McGregor assured her. “He’s a dropout. A head case. He almost got us killed, remember? He ruined Miranda Cutler’s career. Maybe even her life. Believe me,” he added with a growl, “I’m not worried about measuring up.”

“Wow.” She moistened her lips, confused by the condemnation behind McGregor’s words. “Why didn’t you say something before we sent Miranda to bring him back?”

“We need his help with Kell. And he’s your friend. I know you want to see him again. That’s fine with me. I’m not jealous,” he added firmly. “Let’s just drop it. We’ve got seven hours before my flight leaves. We can spend it talking about Ortega, or we can spend it having make-up sex. Your choice.”

“Close the blinds and I’ll make up with you right here, right now,” she challenged playfully. Then with a glance through the glass wall to make sure no one was looking, she brushed her lips across McGregor’s.

“Speaking of make-up sex,” she added mischievously. “Can you imagine the sparks that will fly when Ray sees Miranda again?”

“Unless it was all an act. A way to cement her loyalty, and to put you off track.” McGregor gave a rueful smile. “I guess we’ll find out. Meanwhile, we’ve got our own sparks to worry about. Right?” He tilted his head toward the door, suggesting, “Let’s go.”

“Okay.” She followed him out of the office, trying to look forward to their unscheduled interlude, but for the first time, a warning bell was going off in her head.

He’s a dropout. A head case. He almost got us killed, remember? He ruined Miranda Cutler’s career. Maybe even her life.

McGregor’s assessment had been harsh, but also true. That was exactly what had happened the last time Miranda got mixed up with Ray Ortega.

And now, because of Kristie, she was about to get mixed up with him again.

The more Miranda read about Jonathan Kell and the Brigade, the more excited she became over this new assignment. The file told an amazing story of a young research scientist working for a drug company in South America, investigating the efficacy and potential of various remedies used by the natives of the rain forests. Then a drug lord who styled himself as a revolutionary had kidnapped the scientist, demanding a ransom from the employer and also seeking information from young Kell about his experiments. The drug company refused to pay, leaving Kell to die in a filthy cage in Benito Carerra’s jungle hideaway. But not before Carerra tortured Kell mercilessly.

Into this drama had come Ray Ortega, an operative unaware of Kell’s plight, sent by the CIA to assassinate Carerra. Ortega seduced Carerra’s wife to learn the location of the husband’s secret headquarters. Unfortunately, a CIA mole tipped off Carerra, who was ready for Ortega and threw him into a cell with Kell. For two weeks, the men were alternately tortured, starved and neglected. According to Ortega’s debrief transcript, Kell had confided that he had been searching for a cure for phobias because Kell himself was riddled with them. Those irrational fears, coupled with the rational ones associated with kidnapping and torture, made the ordeal even worse for Kell. Ortega did his best to help the man stay strong. Stay alive.

And Kell helped Ortega, too, teaching him some relaxation techniques he had developed to help with the phobias. Ortega insisted neither of them would have survived the torture without those skills.

Finally Ortega managed to overpower a guard and confiscate a pistol and crossbow. The two detainees had just reached the vehicle that would take them to safety when a furious Benito Carerra had confronted them, guns blazing. Still cool, even after his ordeal, Ortega had calmly drawn the crossbow, sending an arrow that caught Carerra through the neck, pinning his body to a tree. At the sight of their leader’s ghastly fate, the other guards had fled, and Ortega had rushed Kell to a hospital for treatment.

Kell had pledged undying gratitude to Ortega. But he knew his country hadn’t sent the operative after Carerra on his account, and he cursed the United States for not intervening sooner. As for the drug company? Kell sued it, claiming that it had abandoned him, despite the existence of an insurance policy that would have paid his ransom, because the executives had hoped he’d be killed and the company could appropriate Kell’s valuable research. A court agreed, and Kell was awarded millions, which he used to buy a fortress in the Swiss Alps, where he declared he was no longer an American, and would now conduct and fund his own experiments. Thereafter, he reportedly lived like a virtual hermit, terrified of the world yet also defiant.

And easy prey for the Brigadier, or so the file speculated. The working assumption was that the anonymous leader had promised each of the Brigade members some enticement—be it revenge, security, wealth, or raw power—in exchange for their loyalty and services. Kell could offer his brilliant research; the other three had talents and resources of a military, financial or technological nature.

But even those four men were not trusted with the actual identity of the Brigadier, although SPIN and the CIA hoped Kell might have knowledge Kristie and the CIA analysts could use to deduce that identity.

Miranda shivered with excitement. For the second time in her career, she had an assignment that thrilled her. Inspired her. Made her feel as though she could make a meaningful contribution to her country.

Of course, the last time she had felt that way, it had been a fraud. And she had been a dupe. She couldn’t help remembering that as she stared at the map in the file that gave directions to Ortega’s retreat in the Sierra Nevada mountains.

But this time, the only potential dupe was Kristie Hennessy. Miranda was going into it with her eyes wide open and her expectations at zero.

And it was always possible Kristie was right. She was, after, all a spinner—a psychologist trained to evaluate others. To predict how they would react, and to plot successful scenarios accordingly. It was because of Kristie that the Ortega alibi mess hadn’t led to loss of innocent lives. She was clearly deserving of the trust and respect the SPIN director had placed in her, their apparent love affair notwithstanding.

And even if Kristie’s judgment was clouded this time because of her friendship with Ortega, the worst that would happen was he’d refuse to cooperate. Miranda almost hoped he would! She trusted Will McGregor’s word that he’d recommend her for participation in the CIA’s anti-Brigade op either way, and that was all she really wanted out of this—a chance to redeem herself. To prove her value to the company.

If one more encounter with Ortega could get her that, then all she could say was, Bring it on.

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