He took her wrist and placed the handcuff around it.

He expected her to put up a fight, but instead, she lay back on the bed. He placed a knee on the bed, leaning over her to fasten the other handcuff to the iron railing of the headboard.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’m only doing this because I can’t trust you not to bolt. I meant what I said earlier. It’s dangerous out there. You can get seriously hurt on this mountain. I can’t allow that to happen.”

“No,” she whispered. “We can’t have you botching an assignment, can we?”

“Stop it, Grace. I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work.”

“Then why are you still here?”

She had a good point. If he had half a brain, he’d move away from her, now, before he remembered the sweetness of her lips, the silkiness of her skin—

Who was he trying to kid? He didn’t have to remember, because he’d never forgotten anything about Grace’s lovemaking. The way she kissed. The way she touched him. The way she moved against him…

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

Harlequin Intrigue has such an amazing selection this month, you won’t be able to choose—so indulge and buy all four titles!

We’re proud to present an exciting new multi-author miniseries, TEXAS CONFIDENTIAL. By day they’re cowboys; by night they’re specialized government operatives. Men bound by love, loyalty and the law—they’ve vowed to keep their missions and identities confidential.…Amanda Stevens kicks off the series with The Bodyguard’s Assignment (#581).

Ruth Glick writing as Rebecca York has added another outstanding 43 LIGHT STREET story to her credits with Amanda’s Child (#582). When sexy Matt Forester kidnapped Amanda Barnwell from her Wyoming ranch, he swore he was only protecting her. But with her unborn baby’s life at stake, could Amanda trust her alluring captor?

We’re thrilled to bring you Safe By His Side (#583) by brand-new author Debra Webb. This SECRET IDENTITY story is her first ever Intrigue and we’re sure you’ll love it and her as much as we do. Debra has created The Colby Agency—for the most private of investigations—and agent Jack Raine—a man to die for!

In Undercover Protector (#584) by Cassie Miles, policewoman Annie Callahan’s engagement to Michael Slade wasn’t going to lead to the altar. Michael’s job was to protect Annie from a deadly stalker. But nothing would protect Michael from heartbreak if he failed.…

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Associate Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

The Bodyguard’s Assignment

Amanda Stevens

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Amanda Stevens has written over twenty novels of romantic suspense. Her books have appeared on several bestseller lists, and she has won Reviewer’s Choice and Career Achievement in Romantic/Mystery awards from Romantic Times Magazine. She resides in Cypress, Texas, with her husband, her son and daughter and their two cats.

Books by Amanda Stevens

HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

373—STRANGER IN PARADISE

388—A BABY’S CRY

397—A MAN OF SECRETS

430—THE SECOND MRS. MALONE

453—THE HERO’S SON*

458—THE BROTHER’S WIFE*

462—THE LONG-LOST HEIR*

489—SOMEBODY’S BABY

511—LOVER, STRANGER

549—THE LITTLEST WITNESS**

553—SECRET ADMIRER**

557—FORBIDDEN LOVER**

581—THE BODYGUARD’S ASSIGNMENT

HARLEQUIN BOOKS

2-in-1 Harlequin 50th Anniversary Collection

HER SECRET PAST

The Confidential Agent’s Pledge

I hereby swear to uphold the law

to the best of my ability; to maintain the

level of integrity of this agency by my

compassion for victims, loyalty to my

brothers and courage under fire.

And above all, to hold all information and

identities in the strictest confidence….

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Brady Morgan—An agent for the elite Texas Confidential. His assignment is to protect Grace Drummond at any cost—but can he save her life without compromising his heart?

Grace Drummond—She’s running for her life, and the only person who can save her is the man she once betrayed.

Lester Kane—A Dallas drug dealer, he murdered a man in cold blood, and now he will stop at nothing to eliminate the witnesses.

Stephen Rialto—A ruthless businessman pursued by Texas Confidential, he has ties to the Calderone drug cartel.

Helen Parks—Grace’s best friend, she warned Grace not to go after a story connecting Lester Kane to Calderone.

Burt Gordon—Grace’s boss at the newspaper. Would he sell her out for the sake of a story?

John Kruger—A Department of Public Safety agent who is working closely with Texas Confidential on this case.

Mitchell Forbes—The head of operations of Texas Confidential.

Angeline Drummond—Grace’s ailing mother has become an innocent pawn in a very dangerous game.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Prologue

“I can’t believe you’re going through with this. Do you know what those people will do if they catch you? They’re killers, Grace. Vicious, cold-blooded murderers.”

Her friend’s warning echoed inside Grace Drummond’s head as she tried to settle into a more comfortable position behind the giant pallets of carpet rolls. The fibers made her want to sneeze, and even though she was alone in the warehouse, she pinched her nose painfully until the urge passed.

She pressed the button on her watch to light the dial and noted the time. One forty-three. According to her contact inside Lester Kane’s operation, the meeting between Kane and a representative from Rialto Industries was set for 2:00 a.m., a time when most people would be home sleeping. Grace had seventeen minutes, less than half an hour, to hightail it out of there, but she knew she wasn’t going to run. As a reporter for the Dallas Examiner, she’d been in hairy situations before. This one was no different from a dozen others.

Right.

“Don’t you remember what happened to those DEA agents who came up against the Calderone drug cartel down in Mexico? They cut out their eyes and gave them to the local witch doctor. I shudder to think what they did with the rest of them.”

Grace didn’t need Helen Parks’s graphic reminder to know she was walking a fine line between bravery and stupidity. If she got the story, she’d be able to prove Lester Kane’s connection to Rialto Industries, a Houston-based oil company with secret ties to the Calderone drug cartel in Mexico. Calderone’s entire Gulf Coast operation could be jeopardized because once Grace got the goods on Kane, he’d cooperate with the authorities to save his own sleazy hide—if the police could keep him alive long enough.

Of course, if she didn’t get the story—if she was caught—Grace figured it wasn’t much worse being dead and stupid than being just plain dead. At least she would have tried to make things right.

But no matter how much she might wish to, Grace knew she couldn’t go back and erase the mistakes she’d made five years ago. Because of her, Lester Kane had eluded a sting operation the Narcotics Division of the Dallas Police Department had been working on for months. And because of that, a cop named Brady Morgan had walked out of her life forever.

Tonight, she finally had a chance to make amends for what she’d done, but she doubted it would matter to Brady. He’d told her back then he never wanted to see her again, and he’d kept his word. In the years since he’d left town, Grace had not heard one word from him.

Glancing around, she assured herself once more that she was well-hidden. The warehouse, one of several owned by Kane, was stacked with rolls of carpeting piled more than fifteen feet high. A row of dirty windows beneath the ceiling allowed in a pale dripping of moonlight, just enough so that once Grace had become accustomed to the gloom, she could make out shapes and silhouettes but little else.

Her contact had left a side door unlocked near the back of the warehouse, and Grace had used her flashlight only long enough to plant a remote microphone and then find a hiding place. There was nothing more she could do now but relax and wait, two things she wasn’t terribly good at.

The minutes crept by. Grace glanced at her watch again. Nearly two. Any moment now…

As if on cue, the overhead door rumbled open, startling her so violently she almost dropped her tape recorder.

Quickly she checked to make sure the switch was on, then settled back, willing the beat of her heart to slow. Her contact inside Kane’s operation was a man named Alec Priestley, who not only worked for Kane, but had been his childhood buddy. They’d grown up together in Grapevine, a small community north of Dallas. Kane had been the best man at Priestley’s wedding. Grace had no reason to trust Priestley except for what her own instincts told her about him. He wanted out. She’d seen the desperation in his eyes, could almost smell his fear when he’d approached her with his proposition. Either he was telling her the truth, or he was a very good actor. In a few short minutes, she would know which.

A black Mercedes sedan swept silently into the warehouse. Instinctively Grace shielded her eyes from the glare of the headlights as she scrunched lower into her hiding place. A second car followed immediately, this one a silver Jaguar coupe that Grace knew belonged to Kane.

As soon as the overhead door closed, the lights on the Mercedes were turned off and three men in dark suits got out. Kane and Priestley climbed out of the Jag and approached the other three warily. They all met in the amber glow of the Jaguar’s parking lights—the only illumination in the warehouse.

Grace shifted her weight until she could see through a narrow opening between the carpet rolls. She recognized Kane and Priestley, but the other three were unfamiliar to her. She thought one of them might be Stephen Rialto, but he kept his face turned away from her. She had to imagine the cruel set of his mouth, the coldness in his eyes. From everything she’d learned about Rialto, she suspected he would slit her throat—or order it done—without batting an eye if he found her there.

He was flanked on either side by the other two men who had gotten out of the Mercedes. Grace couldn’t see their features clearly, either, but she had the impression of dark eyes and swarthy complexions. Bodyguards, she decided. Trained thugs whose orders were to shoot first and ask questions later.

Her gaze shifted to Priestley. He stood at the periphery of the group, white-faced and jittery as he glanced around the warehouse.

Come on, Grace urged. Stay cool. Don’t give us away.

She prayed the others would be so busy forging their unholy alliance they wouldn’t notice his nervousness. But neither Lester Kane nor Stephen Rialto had gotten as far as he had by being careless. Grace couldn’t hear much of what was being said, but she could tell they were all tense.

Kane was talking in low, persuasive tones, and Grace strained to hear him. The other man’s voice rose as he responded tersely, “Then prove your loyalty, Kane. We have to know we can trust you.”

“If that’s what it takes, then so be it,” Kane said.

From her vantage, Grace saw what none of the others could see. Unobtrusively, Kane reached around and drew a gun from the waistband of his trousers. Grace had only a split second to wonder why Rialto’s men didn’t react before Kane swung his arm toward Priestley. He fired the silenced weapon twice. A soft spit, spit, and Alec Priestley, husband, businessman, father of two, crashed back into a wooden pallet, his face and chest a crimson explosion.

Grace clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from gasping in shock. She watched in horror as the other men began to swing back to their cars. “Torch the place!” someone ordered.

One of the bodyguards grabbed a gas can from the trunk of the Mercedes and began dousing the carpet rolls while Kane reversed the Jag from the warehouse. The other two men climbed into the Mercedes and followed. The first bodyguard finished his job, then tossed the empty gas can aside. Running to the open doorway, he stood gazing around for a moment before flicking a lit match toward a trail of fuel on the floor. Then he disappeared through the opening, and the door immediately closed.

As the ribbon of fire raced toward the drenched carpet rolls, Grace grabbed her recorder and scrambled through the narrow channel between the pallets. The natural carpet fibers would burn quickly, but the synthetic rolls were potentially even more dangerous. The nylon would melt and smolder, causing black smoke to build inside the warehouse. The acrid smell already burned her eyes and throat.

The side door was somewhere just ahead of her. Don’t panic, she told herself. She had plenty of time to get out. Just a few more yards…a few more feet…a few more inches…

Her hand closed around the metal knob and she pulled. When the door wouldn’t budge, she gave it a fierce yank, and then another and another, each more desperate than the last until she realized the exit had been padlocked from the outside. Other than the overhead door through which the cars had driven, there was no other way out of the warehouse.

Grace whirled to retrace her steps, but the flames had spread quickly. The entire warehouse was ablaze, the smoke nearly opaque. In another few moments, she would be overcome.

A few yards in front of her, the smoke curled upward, fanned by a breeze. Grace’s gaze followed the writhing trail, and she realized that a pane in one of the windows was missing. The night air was drawing the thick haze like a flue. It was also showing her what might be another way out.

But the windows were a good twenty feet from the ground. Grace wasn’t at all certain she could reach them. Knowing it was her only hope, she began to climb the wooden pallets, her lungs searing in agony. She wouldn’t let herself look down, or think about the flames that were licking toward her, the rolls of carpeting that were melting beneath her feet.

She wouldn’t contemplate the reality that if she died in this warehouse, she would never be able to redeem herself in Brady Morgan’s eyes.…

Chapter One

The landscape was as vast as it was empty, a wasteland of rugged plains made even more bleak by the dead of winter. In the distance, mist settled over the craggy peaks of the Davis Mountains, softening the jagged edges until gray rock melded almost seamlessly with slate sky.

Brady Morgan huddled in his sheepskin coat as he watched a hawk circle overhead. He’d been living and working on the Smoking Barrel Ranch for almost five years now, but he still hadn’t gotten used to the loneliness of the place.

West Texas was a world unto itself, and he guessed he was still a city boy at heart. He’d grown up in a rough area of Dallas, had been a street cop for several years before joining the Narcotics Division. During those years, he’d seen the worst human nature had to offer, and sometimes the best, but nothing he’d experienced as a cop had ever made him as aware of his own mortality, of his insignificance in the whole scheme of things, as the boundless isolation of the ranch.

He’d been riding fence all morning, and in spite of the thick cowhide gloves he wore, his hands were numb from the cold. The white ranch house was hardly more than a speck on the endless horizon, but Brady could imagine the curl of smoke from the chimneys, the rich aroma of Rosa’s strong coffee permeating the warm kitchen. He gave Rowan a nudge, urging the red chestnut homeward across the rocky turf.

They’d stayed out too long. Rowan’s breath rolled from his nostrils like steam hissing from a locomotive, and the dull ache in Brady’s knee had turned into searing pain. But he wouldn’t give in to that pain. He’d had enough drugs and doctors to last him a lifetime, and besides, none of them could fix what really ate at him anyway. A shot-up knee would heal in time, but a young woman he’d sworn to protect couldn’t be brought back to life.

Idly, he watched a tumbleweed roll across the frozen tundra in front of him, but in his mind’s eye he pictured a cloud of dark hair and soft, soulful eyes. Rachel had been a good person, but she’d gotten herself mixed up in a bad business. A nasty business. When she’d wanted out, her ex-lover, a Houston drug lord named Stephen Rialto, hadn’t thought twice about sending his goons to storm the safe house where Brady had taken her until she could testify. Brady’s leg had been shot to hell in the raid, but Rachel had been killed. She’d died in his arms.

The burning throb in his leg was a grim reminder of how powerful and dangerous Stephen Rialto had become. Obviously he had a mole somewhere—in the FBI, the Department of Public Safety, maybe even in the Texas Confidential. But Brady didn’t think the latter was too likely. The Confidential was a tight-knit organization. He knew all the agents personally. In some ways, they’d become his family. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe that one of them had betrayed him. But then, betrayal could come where and when you least expected it. He’d learned that lesson a long time ago.

As he drew near the sprawling, two-story ranch house, he saw the front door open, and a figure stepped out onto the wide front porch. She waited until Brady had dismounted and tied Rowan to the cedar rail outside the bunkhouse before running lightly down the porch steps.

Protected from the cold by a dark blue parka, Penny Archer strode toward him with purpose, the flat soles of her boots thudding on the hard ground. The hood of her coat hid her expression, but something about the way she hurried toward him struck Brady as ominous. It was as if she’d been waiting for him, watching for him from one of the front windows of the ranch house.

As she approached, Rowan began to prance and snort, bucking at the reins wrapped around the cedar rail.

Penny said irritably, “Why do you keep that damn horse? He’s dangerous.”

“He’s a pussycat around anyone but you,” Brady teased, his breath frosting on the cold air. “You bring out the beast in him.”

Penny gave him a dour look behind her wire-rimmed glasses. “God knows I should be used to working with animals.”

Brady grinned. Penny’s disdain for the agents—all male—with whom she worked was legendary. She didn’t take much guff from any of them, except maybe for Rafe Alvarez. She tried to pretend his good-natured ribbing didn’t get to her, but Brady had seen the way she looked at the agent when she thought no one was watching. He wondered if Rafe had any idea Penny was in love with him. He wondered if Penny even knew.

“Mitchell wants to see you ASAP,” she told him.

“What’s up?”

She shrugged. “How should I know? He never tells me anything. I’m just the gofer around here.”

Yeah, right. Penny was more than that and she knew it. As Mitchell Forbes’s assistant, she kept the ranch and the Texas Confidential running as smoothly as a well-tuned engine. She knew everything there was to know about each case they took on, and her air of innocence this morning didn’t wash. A bad sign that she was keeping something from him, Brady thought.

“I’ll be in as soon as I see to Rowan,” he told her.

She shrugged again. “Okay, fine. Suit yourself. Mitchell said for you to come immediately, but it’s your hide, not mine. I’m just the messenger.”

Brady’s foreboding deepened as he led the horse toward the barn. Mitchell Forbes wasn’t one for idle conversation. If he wanted to see Brady this urgently, it was because he had an assignment for him. And Brady wasn’t ready for that.

After Rachel, he wasn’t sure he ever would be.

BY THE TIME Brady got to the ranch house, the rest of the agents had already assembled in the war room—that section of the special-built basement which had become Command Central for the organization. The Confidential was not a secret group per se, but as a specialized division of the Department of Public Safety, they worked cases that were highly sensitive. Discretion was vital, literally a matter of life and death, and the possibility of a mole, someone who had tipped off Rialto to Rachel’s whereabouts—who might also be responsible for the recent disappearance of one of their agents—had them all concerned.

“Señor Brady!” Rosa, the Smoking Barrel’s housekeeper, bustled into the library as Brady summoned the elevator.

For security purposes, the elevator was hidden behind a bookshelf that slid away with the push of a button, then rolled back into place once the elevator was activated from inside the car. The high-tech and secretive nature of the organization always made Brady feel a little ridiculous, a little too 007-ish. He was basically just a cop, although the undercover work wasn’t that different from the assignments he’d had as a narc. But that was a long time ago. A part of his life he didn’t much like to think about.

Gratefully, he accepted the steaming mug of coffee the housekeeper handed him. “You read my mind, Rosa.”

She beamed. “You’ve been out in the cold all morning. You need some of Rosa’s good coffee to warm you up. I make it just the way you like. Black and strong enough to grow hair.”

“I think you mean strong enough to put hair on my chest,” he said dryly.

She muttered something in Spanish Brady couldn’t quite catch. He sampled the bitter, chicory brew which no one else at the Smoking Barrel could abide. Wusses, he thought scornfully. Wranglers and secret agents aside, a man wasn’t a man until he could drink a cup of coffee strong enough to…grow its own hair.

Rosa planted a hand on one generous hip as she waited for his response.

“Perfecto. Rosa, I do believe I’d ask you to marry me if I didn’t think you were sweet on ole Slim.”

At the mention of the grizzled ranch hand, Rosa let out a string of rapid-fire Spanish which Brady suspected might have not only grown hair but curled it as well, had he been able to keep up. A few English words were intermixed, something about an old flirt or an old fart, or a combination of the two.

Sipping his coffee, Brady rode the elevator down to the basement. He was greeted warmly by the other agents, and in spite of his trepidation at this impromptu meeting, he couldn’t help responding to the camaraderie. He hadn’t been a part of a family since he was a kid, but in the nearly five years he’d been with the Confidential, he’d become closer to the other agents than he had with anyone since his mother died.

And Mitchell Forbes, the white-haired ex-Texas Ranger who had been in the Hanoi Hilton with Brady’s father, had become, if not a surrogate parent, at least a man Brady looked up to and admired. Mitchell had recruited Brady at a time when his confidence was badly shaken—a time not unlike now.

He took a seat at the conference table next to Jake Cantrell, a former FBI agent. “What’s going on?”

Jake shrugged. “Beats me, but it must be something big. Mitchell looks worried.”

Brady had to agree. Normally, Mitchell Forbes was a man to be reckoned with on the range or in the war room, but today his face was drawn with tension. As he sat at the head of the conference table, gazing at the assembled agents, his thumb worked back and forth on an ornate silver lighter, a sure sign of his anxiety.

A man Brady didn’t recognize was seated to Mitchell’s right. He studied an open folder on the table in front of him, and unlike the others, he hadn’t glanced up when Brady entered the basement.

Rafe Alvarez, ever irreverent no matter what the situation, said into the waiting silence, “Hey, Mitchell, what happened? Maddie stand you up last night?”

Maddie Wells, a widow who owned the neighboring spread, was something of a sore subject with Mitchell, and when Cody Gannon gave a hoot of laughter at Rafe’s impertinence, Mitchell pinned him with an icy glare. Cody’s smile faded, and for a long moment, the two of them remained locked in a silent battle of wills until finally the younger man glanced away.

Brady didn’t understand why Mitchell always picked on Cody. He was the youngest Confidential, and basically a good kid, even if he was a little on the wild side. But, hell, they’d all been young once. And if local talk was to be believed, Mitchell Forbes had sown his share of wild oats.

There’d been a few times when Brady had been tempted to point out that fact to Mitchell, to ask him to lighten up on the kid, but it wasn’t any of his business. And Cody was just muleheaded enough to take offense at the interference. Whatever burr the two of them had under their saddles, Brady figured they’d have to work it out for themselves. Besides, he had his own problems to deal with.

Mitchell flicked open the lighter and touched the flame to the clipped end of his cigar. The puffs of smoke drifting through the room signaled the meeting had come to order. Everyone grew deadly serious, the absence of their colleague, who had vanished a month ago while investigating the Calderone drug cartel, uppermost on their minds these days.

“There’s still been no word of Daniel,” Mitchell said gravely, referring to the missing agent. “But we may finally have a break in the case.”

Beside him, Brady sensed Jake’s sudden tension. Jake had a long history with both Rialto and Calderone. They’d taken something from him that he could never get back, and Brady alone knew that this case wasn’t just personal for Jake. It was a vendetta.

Jake leaned forward in his chair, his gaze riveted on Mitchell. “What kind of break?”

Mitchell nodded to the man seated next to him. “This is John Kruger. He’s assigned to the HIDTA office in Houston, but he’s also worked closely with the drug squads in El Paso.” The High Intensity Drug Trafficking Area, or HIDTA, was a task force set up by the Narcotics Service of the Department of Public Safety. The agents who worked in this area were highly trained in undercover, surveillance, and interception. Brady glanced at Kruger with new respect.

“John will be our point man at the DPS,” Mitchell continued. “I’ll let him fill you in on the details.”

For the first time, Kruger looked up from the folder he’d been studying, his gaze cool and assessing as he glanced around the table. He was about Brady’s age—thirty-five—with brown hair and blue eyes so light, they almost appeared transparent. The illusion was a little disconcerting, and as his gaze met Brady’s for an instant, Brady experienced a twinge of unease.

“I’ll get right to the point, gentlemen.” Kruger closed the folder and stood. “We think we’ve found a way to get to Stephen Rialto through a Dallas drug dealer named Lester Kane.”

This time, it was Brady who tensed. Lester Kane was his old nemesis, a devious bastard who had eluded the Dallas P.D.—and Brady—for too many years. “What’s Kane got to do with Rialto?” he asked sharply.

He could feel Mitchell’s steely gaze on him. Besides Jake, Mitchell was the only other person in the room who knew the whole story behind Brady’s sudden departure from the Dallas police force.

“We believe Kane has forged an alliance with Rialto,” Kruger explained. “In recent months, southeastern Texas has become the hottest transit zone for illegal drugs in this country. The Calderone cartel has become second only to the Juarez cartel in terms of volume. We estimate that each cartel ships upward of two hundred million dollars worth of drugs across the border a week. As a distributor for Calderone, Rialto’s business has literally exploded, and he’s looking to branch out, which is where Kane comes in. He wants the Dallas and Fort Worth area, and with Rialto’s help, he’s already muscled out most of his competition.

“We believe Rialto and Kane are positioning themselves to take over Calderone’s entire southwestern operation. The DPS and the DEA have monitored a flurry of recent meetings in both Dallas and Houston between the two organizations. One of those meetings took place the night before last in a warehouse owned by Kane. The place was torched afterward, and a body was found in the rubble. The victim has been identified as Alec Priestley, an associate of Kane’s. He was shot twice at close range before the fire was set. There was a witness.”

A witness.

Brady had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had a score to settle with both Lester Kane and Stephen Rialto, but he didn’t like the sound of this. Witness protection, the kind neither the U.S. Marshals Service nor the DPS was willing to provide, was Brady’s specialty. Or had been, until Rachel.

“Kane and Priestley go back a long way,” Kruger continued. “They both started dealing in college, and afterward, Kane expanded the operation. Priestley went on to law school, but a few years later, he rejoined Kane in the business. Priestley was always the nervous type, but he went along with whatever Kane wanted so long as they kept the operation low-profile. It was a way to rake in a lot of extra cash, selling mainly to friends and clients, people he could trust.

“Then Kane became involved with Rialto and the Calderone drug Mafia, and the business, which had been a sideline for Priestley up until then, got serious. Priestley got scared. He wanted out. He started feeding information to a local reporter about Kane’s connection to Rialto and Calderone, and he arranged for her to be in the warehouse the night he was killed. Not only did she witness Priestley’s murder, but she got everything on tape, including the voice of a man we think is Stephen Rialto.” Kruger paused dramatically, his gaze slipping from one agent’s face to the next. “Kane is the way we get to Rialto.”

“So where do we come in?” Rafe asked.

“Dallas P.D. has requested through the DPS that your organization handle the protection.” Kruger’s gaze stopped on Brady. “We have to assume the witness is refusing to cooperate. She made contact with the police early yesterday morning, but since then, she’s gone underground. No one has seen or heard from her in over twenty-four hours, but one thing’s certain. If we don’t find her before Kane does, she’s a dead woman. The Dallas P.D. are moving to arrest Kane, but without her statement or that tape, they’ll never make the charges stick.”

“Are you sure she’s still alive?” Jake asked.

“By all indications, she’s extremely resourceful. We have every reason to believe she’s alive and well, at least for the time being. But she can’t hide forever. Not with Calderone and Rialto backing Kane.”

Brady hadn’t said a word for several minutes, but the bad feeling he’d experienced earlier had grown into a full-blown premonition. He knew what was coming.

“Who is this reporter?” he asked quietly.

“She works for a small paper called the Examiner. Her name is Grace Drummond.”

Even after all these years, the mere mention of her name was like the twisting of a knife blade in Brady’s gut.

“Her disappearance could have more to do with her desire to get a hot story than anything else,” he suggested, not bothering to disguise the bitterness he still felt toward Grace Drummond.

“We’ve considered that, of course,” Kruger agreed. “But as I said, she did initially make contact with the police. When they arrived at her apartment, the place had been ransacked. We figure she panicked. She realized the tape is her only insurance policy against Kane. Once she gives it up, there’s nothing stopping him from killing her. Your job is to find her before Kane does and…convince her to accept your protection until she can testify against him.”

There was no mistaking his emphasis on the word “convince.” The subtle implication was to use whatever means necessary to bring her in. That, at least, had possibilities, Brady thought perversely.

“I’ll do it,” Jake volunteered.

But Mitchell shook his head. “We need Brady on this one. The doctors have given him the okay to return to active duty, and he’s the protection expert. Besides, DPS thinks she’s still in the Dallas area, right?” When Kruger nodded, Mitchell said, “Brady, you know that city better than any of us. If anyone can find her, you can. Penny’s already made all the arrangements.” He stubbed out his cigar, signaling the conclusion of the meeting. The other agents rose to leave. Until further notice, they’d all resume their duties on the ranch.

Kruger remained for a moment, speaking in low tones to Mitchell. They appeared to be arguing, and then Kruger grabbed up his folder, stuffed it into his briefcase, and with one final glance at Brady, stalked from the room.

For a moment, Brady said nothing, then he got up and walked to the end of the conference table, planting his hands flat on the surface as he leaned toward Mitchell.

“What were you and Kruger arguing about?”

Mitchell shrugged. “That’s nothing for you to worry about. I don’t always see eye-to-eye with Austin,” he said. “You know that.”

“Kruger doesn’t want me for this job, does he?”

Mitchell glanced up at him. “It doesn’t matter what Kruger wants. I’m in charge of the Confidential.”

“Have you ever considered that he may have a point?”

“Meaning?”

Brady straightened, taking pressure off his knee. “Have you forgotten what happened to the last woman you sent me out to protect?”

Mitchell’s gaze narrowed on him. “I haven’t forgotten, but maybe it’s time you did.”

“A woman died last year because of me,” Brady said grimly. “I’m not likely to forget it.”

“That’s a load of crap and you know it.” Mitchell took out another cigar, but he didn’t light up. He pointed the end at Brady. “You put your life on the line to protect your witness. You almost died. No one could have done more.”

“Are you sure about that? How do you know Rachel Hayes isn’t dead because of something I did or didn’t do?”

“You think I haven’t been where you are?” Mitchell demanded. “I’ve been there plenty of times. I know what you’re going through, but it comes with the territory. You were a cop for a lot of years, Brady. You know as well as I do that bad things happen and good people die. We’re not God. We can’t save them all. But we do what we can.”

He paused, wrapping his hands around the silver head of his cane. He pushed himself up until he stood eye level with Brady. “There’s a woman out there somewhere, running for her life. She’s the one who needs you now. She’s the one you should be thinking about. If you don’t do what you can to save her, then it’s going to be Grace Drummond’s death on your conscience. No matter what she did to you in the past, I don’t think you want that.”

He was right about that. Brady didn’t want anything bad to happen to Grace, he just never wanted to see her again.

But Mitchell was right about something else, too. Rachel’s death would haunt Brady for the rest of his life, but Grace’s death…

Grace’s death on his conscience might very well destroy him.

Chapter Two

Through her dark glasses, Grace anxiously scoured the pedestrian traffic on Market Street. A cold front had moved in earlier, and she sat shivering in the lightweight denim jacket she’d hastily purchased yesterday, after she’d decided to go underground. Actually, it hadn’t been a decision so much as a necessity. She had to lay low if she wanted to stay alive. If she wanted to keep her mother alive.

At the thought of Angeline, bitter tears stung Grace’s eyes, but she blinked them away. She couldn’t break down now. She had to stay focused, in control. She had to have a plan.

If only there was someone she could call, someone she could turn to. Someone she could trust. But there wasn’t. After everything that had happened since two o’clock yesterday morning, when she’d narrowly escaped that burning warehouse, Grace knew she could rely on no one but herself. No one could save her mother but her.

She suppressed another shiver as she tried to fight back her mounting despair. It was too cold to be seated outside, but she hadn’t wanted to be trapped inside the café. Out here, even with the coming darkness, she could at least watch the street.

Picking up her cup of coffee, she cradled the warmth in her hands as she scanned her surroundings. A horse-drawn carriage ambled down the street, stirring bittersweet memories of the last time she and her mother had taken a carriage ride together. Angeline had been in the early stages of Alzheimer’s then, with only the occasional memory lapse to remind them that one day soon, there would be no such outings.

Grace’s mother had always loved coming to Dallas’s West End, perusing the shops and dining in the converted warehouses. As Grace sat watching the street she and her mother had strolled together so many times in the past, a sense of desperation stole over her. Where are you? she cried silently. What have they done to you?

Yesterday morning, just hours after Grace had fled the warehouse, she’d gone home from a meeting with Burt Gordon, her boss at the Examiner, to find that her apartment had been sacked. As she’d stood gazing at the wreckage of her personal belongings, her cellular phone had rung. When Grace answered, a male voice on the other end said, “Grace Drummond?”

Something about the way he spoke her name made her blood go cold. “Yes?”

“You have something I want.”

“Who is this?”

“You know who I am.”

“Kane?” His name was barely a whisper on her lips.

He gave a low laugh. “I understand you’ve gotten pretty chummy with one of my colleagues. Unfortunately, Alec met his untimely demise earlier this morning, but then, you already know that, don’t you?”

Grace’s heart thundered in her ears. How had Kane known about her association with Priestley? Had Priestley talked? Had he sold her out before he died?

She swallowed, trying to calm her racing pulse. “What do you want?”

“Don’t play dumb. You know what I want.” Kane paused. “Tell me something, Grace. How long has it been since you talked to your mother?”

The connection had been severed with a soft click, leaving Grace clinging to the telephone with a horrible dread. She’d immediately dialed the number of the nursing home where her mother lived, only to have the director tell her that Angeline had been transported by ambulance a short while ago to another facility as per Grace’s written request.

Grace had given no such instructions, and when she’d called the new facility, they’d never heard of her or her mother. By that time, Grace was in her car, racing toward the nursing home. When her cell phone rang again, she lifted it to her ear without saying a word, knowing instinctively who was on the other end.

“Now I have something you want.”

Grace’s stomach rolled sickeningly. “Don’t hurt her. I swear to God, if you hurt her in any way—”

“Cut the dramatics,” Kane said cruelly. “We both know you aren’t in any position to make threats. From here on out, I call the shots.”

When Grace didn’t respond, he laughed. “You’re in over your head, little girl. I’ve got people in places you can’t begin to imagine. You talk to a friend, I’ll know it. You talk to the cops again—I’ll know that to. You understand?”

Grace understood. Only too well. Her hand shook as she gripped the phone. In the last five years, she’d done a lot of research on the drug trade. Drug lords spent millions of dollars a year to keep cops on their side. Obviously, Kane was no exception.

“You want to keep your mother alive, you keep your mouth shut.” His voice lowered dangerously. “If I so much as smell a cop nosing around that nursing home, or anywhere else, she’s a dead woman.”

Grace squeezed her eyes closed in fear. “Tell me what to do.” But even in her state of terror, she knew she was dealing with a man she couldn’t trust. A cold-blooded murderer. It would take equal cunning to get her mother out of this alive.

“You keep that phone close by, you hear? I’ll be in touch. We’ll set up a drop. Your mother for that tape.”

“When—”

The phone had gone dead in Grace’s ear, and she hadn’t heard from Kane since. It had been over twenty-four hours.

She knew what he was doing. He was making her sweat. Wearing her down. Making her so desperate to save her mother that she would get careless.

Her fingers trembled around the now lukewarm cup of coffee as she contemplated her dilemma. Her frail, beautiful mother was being held hostage for the tape that could put Kane away forever, and possibly incriminate Stephen Rialto. That tape—and Grace’s silence—was the only thing that could save Angeline’s life.

But Grace knew once Kane had what he wanted, he would come after them. He wouldn’t take a chance on her silence, and she had to be ready. Once the exchange was made, she and Angeline would have to disappear forever.

Her heart quickened as she spotted a familiar figure crossing the street toward her. Even in the deepening twilight, she could see Helen Parks’s agitation in the way she walked, in the nervous way she glanced over her shoulder from time to time. She was warmly dressed in a long wool coat and leather gloves, and a metal briefcase swung at her side.

Helen paused on the sidewalk in front of the café, her gaze meeting Grace’s for an instant before she disappeared inside, only to emerge moments later on the patio. She sat down at the table with Grace and placed the briefcase on the floor between them.

One leather-clad hand reached for Grace’s on the table. Her dark eyes searched Grace’s face. “God, are you all right? I’ve been worried out of my mind ever since Burt told me what happened.”

“Burt?” Absently, Grace pulled her hand away, entangling her fingers together in her lap. “What did he say?”

“He’s worried about you, too. He said you called him night before last and had him meet you at the office. He said you were scared to death and that you were going to the police with a tape you’d made.” Helen glanced around the almost deserted patio. “Grace, what’s going on? What have you gotten yourself into? It has something to do with the Calderone drug cartel, doesn’t it?”

“In a roundabout way,” Grace admitted. She scanned the patio, too. “You remember the night I staked out the warehouse? They murdered a man, Helen. My contact. Alec Priestley. I saw it. I got the whole thing on tape. They set the warehouse on fire, and I barely made it out. I didn’t know what to do at first, so I called Burt and asked him to meet me at the office. We talked about the situation for a long time. He wanted me to turn over the tape to him for safekeeping, but I’d already stashed it. And by that time, I knew I had to go to the police. I mean…I’d witnessed a murder. What else could I do?”

Helen’s gaze looked stricken. “I told you not to go there that night, remember? I warned you what kind of people they were.”

“I know. And believe me, I wish I’d listened to you,” Grace said grimly.

“What happened with Burt?”

“He stormed out of the office when I refused to turn over the tape. I used his phone to call the police. I talked to a detective, told him I’d witnessed a murder. I could finger Lester Kane and possibly Stephen Rialto, and I had the whole thing on tape. I asked him to meet me at my apartment later that morning so that I could throw some things together. I knew I’d be taken into protective custody, and I had to take care of some business first. Besides, I had no reason to believe I was in any danger. I mean no one even knew about me, right? Or the tape? At least, that’s what I thought. But when I got home a few hours later, my apartment had been tossed. Someone was already looking for that tape, Helen. Kane already knew about me.”

Helen’s dark eyes widened in fear. “But how did he find out so quickly? You didn’t tell anyone except Burt and the police—” She stopped short. Her gloved hand went to her mouth. “You’re not saying you think Burt—”

“I don’t know. But Kane found out about me somehow.”

“Maybe he already knew. Let’s think about this for a minute.” Helen stared at the street pensively as she tucked her short, dark hair behind her ears. “Your contact—this Alec Priestley—he could have gotten cold feet and told Kane himself. At any rate, Kane must have suspected him. Why else would he have killed him?”

Grace shrugged helplessly. “I’ve been over and over this in my head, Helen. Priestley left a door in the warehouse unlocked for me that night so that I could get in and hide, but after the fire started, I couldn’t get out. Someone had padlocked the door from the outside, which means someone already knew I was in there. I was supposed to die in that fire.” She paused when Helen gasped. Grace leaned toward her slightly, lowering her voice even more. “Burt knew I was going to the warehouse that night. He also knew Priestley was my contact.”

Helen looked a little dazed. “I just don’t buy it. I refuse to believe Burt would sell you out like that. Not even for a story. He wouldn’t be in cahoots with a drug dealer. No way.”

“I don’t want to believe it, either, but who else could have known?”

“Well,” Helen said slowly. “There was me.”

Grace met her gaze in shock. “You? You wouldn’t—”

“No,” Helen cut in. “I wouldn’t betray you. Of course not. But I’m just saying other people knew besides Burt. He can be ruthless when he’s after a story, but he’s not a criminal. I think deep down you know that.”

Grace didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t like Burt Gordon hadn’t betrayed her before. It wasn’t like he was above doing something underhanded.

“What about the police?” Helen asked. “You said you called and told them everything. A cop on the take isn’t unheard of.”

“I know that.” Kane had hinted as much when he’d called her. “I’ve got people in places you can’t begin to imagine.”

Grace shuddered, glancing around the darkened streets.

“The cops have been all over your office,” Helen said. “Going through your files, reading your phone messages. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve put out an APB on you.”

Grace wouldn’t be surprised, either. She was their key witness, after all. “Did they take anything from my files?”

“I don’t know. But a detective came by my office asking questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

Helen shrugged. “The usual stuff—if I’d heard from you. Where I thought you might be.”

“What did you tell him?” Grace asked anxiously.

“The truth. I hadn’t heard from you then, and I didn’t know where to find you.” She leaned across the table toward Grace. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure,” Grace admitted. “Lay low for a few days until I can figure things out.” She hadn’t told anyone, even Helen, about her mother’s kidnapping. The last thing she needed was a horde of cops descending on the nursing home, alerting Kane that she’d talked. “You talk to a friend, I’ll know it. You talk to the cops again…I’ll know that, too.”

Helen nudged the briefcase toward her. “I got the money you asked for. As much as I could on such short notice.”

“I don’t know how I can ever thank you,” Grace told her. “I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.”

Helen’s brown eyes clouded. “It’s not the money I’m worried about. You’re in too deep, Grace. You can’t do this alone. You have to go to the police.”

“I can’t. Until I figure out who’s feeding Kane information, I can’t even trust the police.” Grace’s smile was strained as she glanced at Helen. “You’d better get going before someone sees us together. I don’t want to involve you in this mess anymore than I already have.”

Reluctantly, Helen stood. “Will you keep in touch?”

“If I can.”

“Be careful, Grace. Kane—he’s going to be even more dangerous now. As for Rialto and Calderone…” She trailed off with a shudder, her silence more eloquent than words.

LONELINESS welled inside Grace as she watched her friend disappear into the darkness. She was on her own now. There would be no further contact with Helen until Grace and her mother were safely out of the country. Maybe not even then.

Her plan was fairly simple. After the exchange was made, she and her mother would head for New York, to Grace’s father’s place. Harry Drummond had left them years ago to go chasing after stories halfway round the world, and he’d never looked back. But as successful as he’d become, as arrogant and coldhearted as Grace knew him to still be, she didn’t think even he could turn his back on them now. He had the money and clout needed to get them out of the country as quickly as possible, and Grace was prepared to use whatever trickery and coercion necessary to enlist his help.

Once Helen was out of sight, Grace rose with the briefcase and made her way through the café to the street. Outside, she paused, glancing in both directions before she headed toward the parking lot on McKinney.

In spite of the cold, the streets were crowded with the after-work crowd pursuing happy hour with a vengeance in the bars and cafés that lined the West End. Grace didn’t pay much attention when someone bumped into her. But when a hand grabbed her elbow, she gasped and tried to jerk away.

“Keep walking,” a masculine voice told her. “Don’t look back.”

Grace’s heart thudded against her chest. She had only a split second to decide what to do, but as she gathered her strength to fight back, the man’s hand tightened painfully on her arm, as if he’d intuited her response before she had.

“Don’t try it,” he warned. His voice was low and dangerous, edged with an unfamiliar drawl.

He was too large to be Kane. This man had to be at least six three, with broad, powerful-looking shoulders beneath a sheepskin jacket. Grace was a tall woman, but at five nine, she still had to struggle to match her stride to his.

His face was shadowed by the brim of a Stetson hat, but when she glanced up, she had the immediate impression of chiseled features. Of a strong jaw and a stubborn chin.

“What do you want?” she demanded, trying to cloak her panic behind bravado.

“You know what I want.” Almost the exact same words Kane had spoken to her on the phone.

Grace’s heart almost stopped. “What makes you think I won’t start screaming right here in the middle of the street?”

“That’s not your style, is it, Grace?”

The way he said her name…that voice…

Grace stumbled in shock. He hauled her up, grasping her arms in his hands as he steadied her. Their gazes met, and beneath the brim of his hat, gray eyes watched her coldly.

“Brady?” She said his name in wonder, almost afraid to believe it was really him. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you think I’m doing? I came here to protect you.” His voice was hard and grim, edged with bitterness as sharp as a knife blade.

“Protect me? But how did you know…” Her voice faded as the impact of the situation hit her. For five years, she’d waited for this moment. Waited for the chance to tell Brady Morgan how sorry she was for what she’d done to him. She had no idea where he’d gone off to when he left the police force, or what he’d been doing all these years. But staring up into his eyes, Grace realized that time hadn’t dimmed his feelings for her. He still despised her as much as he had the last time she’d seen him.

“How did you know where to find me?” she finished quietly.

“It doesn’t matter. We need to keep on the move. Someone may be following you.”

Grace started to glance over her shoulder, but his grip on her tightened. He turned her toward the street and started walking, pulling her along at his side.

“You said you came here to protect me,” she said breathlessly, trying to keep up with him. “Who sent you?”

When he didn’t answer, she slowed her steps, until he was forced to do the same.

“Who sent you, Brady? Why are you really here?”

“I told you. I’m here to protect you.” His voice was as frigid as his gaze.

“What does that mean?” she asked almost angrily.

His jaw tightened. “It means I’m taking you someplace where you’ll be safe.”

That stopped her cold. She jerked her arm from his grip. “I’m not going anywhere. Not until you tell me exactly what you’re up to.”

“What’s the matter, Grace? Don’t you trust me?”

His sarcasm stung, but Grace knew she had it coming. She lifted her chin. “Right now, I’m not in a position to trust anyone.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

Was it her imagination, or had his voice softened? Hope trembled through Grace, and she closed her eyes briefly. She wanted to believe him. She wanted more than anything to have an ally, but her mother’s life was at stake. Brady Morgan had once been an honorable man, but five years could change a person.

So could betrayal.

She gazed up at him, hardening her resolve. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I can’t.”

“It’s not up for discussion. We can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way. Makes no difference to me.”

The insolence in his tone triggered Grace’s anger. “Oh, and just what are you going to do when I resist? Grab a fistful of my hair and drag me down the street? Throw me over your shoulder and carry me kicking and screaming into the sunset? Is that the reason for the Marlboro man getup?” Her gaze raked disdainfully over the hat and the sheepskin coat, the boots that made him seem even taller. “Are you trying to convince me you’d actually resort to such tactics?”

He gazed down at her, the gray of his eyes glittering like twin glaciers. “Looks like it’s going to be the hard way.”

When he reached for her, Grace instinctively flinched away. And at that exact moment, something buzzed by her face. A fraction of a second later, she heard the sound of the gunshot as the bullet crashed into the wall of the building behind her.

The next few moments were a blur. Grace realized she’d been shot at just as Brady lunged toward her. The two of them crashed to the ground, and the air rushed from Grace’s lungs. For an instant, the fact that the breath had been knocked out of her frightened her more than the sound of gunshots.

Gunshots. In the plural, her dazed mind finally absorbed. She and Brady were still being fired upon.

Shouts erupted on the street, and the scene became chaotic as frightened onlookers dove for cover. Someone screamed in agony as a stray bullet found a mark. In the pandemonium of thrashing bodies, Brady drew Grace to her feet and all but flung her toward the side of the building.

“Keep low,” he shouted as he shoved her roughly toward the alley between the two buildings. He flattened them both against the wall, and with his weapon drawn, he chanced a glance around the corner. A chunk of the building disintegrated over his head, and he grabbed Grace’s hand. “Run!”

He didn’t have to tell her twice. Grace sprinted up the narrow alley beside him, her long legs pumping full throttle. She wasn’t trying to keep up with Brady this time. She was trying to outdistance him if she could. Bullets whizzing overhead could do that.

It wasn’t until they’d reached the end of the alley and a padlocked gate barred their way that Grace realized she still clung to the metal briefcase. Brady took it from her hand and tossed it over the fence. Then he easily scaled the mesh, reaching a hand down to pull her up. Her sleeve caught on a wire, and she ripped it loose, scrambling over the fence to land on her feet on the other side.

But Brady collapsed to the ground, clutching his knee and writhing on the ground in agony. “Run!” he gasped. “Keep going.”

Sparks flew from the fence as a bullet skimmed the metal. Grace ducked, grabbing Brady’s arm. “Come on!”

Flinging off her hand, he fired several rounds into the alley, the sound almost deafening. Grace recoiled, her ears ringing.

“Get up!” she cried. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Go,” Brady said. “I’ll catch up.”

He fired again as another bullet flashed against the fence. Grace lunged for the briefcase. She wasn’t about to leave it behind. The money inside would help her and her mother leave the country. Or at least, it would tide them over until she could contact her father.

She turned back to find Brady struggling to his feet. “I thought I told you to run.”

“We’re wasting time talking about it.” As another round hummed overhead, she grabbed Brady’s hand. This time, it was Grace who took the lead.

Chapter Three

By the time they emerged back on the street, sirens wailed in the distance. Behind them, panicked shouts and frightened screams melded with the sirens, the cacophony triggering a battery of memories for Brady, none of them good.

Putting away his gun so as not to frighten onlookers, he limped down the sidewalk next to Grace. He could feel her trembling, from fear more than cold, he was fairly certain, but she probably wouldn’t admit it. She’d always been a little too independent for her own good. And a lot too single-minded.

He urged her across Market, using one of the horse-drawn carriages for cover. They moved steadily beside it, keeping the carriage between them and the street. Brady kept hold of Grace’s arm, timing their stride to match the gait of the horse. As they neared the parking area where he’d left his rented truck, he pulled Grace into the shadows, glancing over his shoulder. He couldn’t see anyone following them, but he knew the shooters were still out there somewhere. He and Grace had to get off the street and fast.

“My truck’s just around the corner,” he said. “We need to get out of here.”

She nodded, too out of breath to reply. If they could make it to the truck, Brady knew he could get them out of here. He hadn’t lived in Dallas for nearly five years, but this had once been his town. He knew the back streets and alleys as well as he was coming to know the West Texas terrain. He wasn’t sure which turf was more dangerous.

They made a run for it, and after unlocking the truck, he and Grace scrambled inside. Brady started the engine, reversing from the parking space almost before the doors had slammed shut. Within moments, they were merging with traffic on Commerce.

Grace was silent for a change. Brady thought maybe she’d finally accepted the situation—he wasn’t leaving here without her—but when the interstate loomed ahead, she sat up and looked around in alarm.

“Pull over.”

He shot her a glance. “I don’t think so.”

“I mean it, Brady, pull over. Let me out.”

“Are you crazy? Have you forgotten what just happened back there?”

“We were both shot at. Innocent bystanders were hurt, maybe even killed.” Her pale blue eyes looked haunted in the light from the dash. “I haven’t forgotten. But I still want out.”

“Don’t be an idiot—” When he slowed for a traffic light, Grace opened the door. He grabbed her at the last minute, hauling her back in as he swung the truck to the curb. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

He shoved the gearshift into park as she struggled to free herself from his hold. “Damn it, Grace, calm down. What the hell’s the matter with you?”

She looked almost frantic, like a trapped animal trying to get free. “Let me go! I have to get out of here. I can’t go with you. I can’t leave the city. You don’t understand…”

Her voice trailed off, and she glanced away. Her struggles had ceased, but Brady could tell that she would still bolt at the slightest opportunity.

“I understand better than you think. You’re willing to risk your life for the sake of a story.”

Her eyes glittered, with anger or tears, Brady couldn’t tell which. But he assumed it was the former, because he’d never seen Grace cry. Not once.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said almost desperately.

“Oh, I know. I know better than anyone what you’re willing to do for a story.” When she tried to jerk free of his hold, his grip on her tightened. “These men are killers, and I’m not just talking about back there. They’re brutal and ruthless, and they think nothing of destroying lives. Do you remember the mass graves that were uncovered in Juarez last year? The college students who were mutilated in Matamoros ten years ago because they saw something they shouldn’t have? Men like Kane and Rialto did that, Grace, and they have to be stopped. You have the power to put them away, but you won’t because it would compromise your precious exclusive.”

He let her go in disgust, but the moment she was set free, she reached for the door handle again. Brady’s hand shot out and closed around her wrist, pulling her toward him, and for an instant, their gazes clashed—blue against gray. Her lips trembled, drawing Brady’s attention, and a memory whipped through him. He knew the feel of those lips, the taste of them. What they could do to him.

They’d once been so good together, he and Grace, but that had been a long time ago. Too much had gone wrong between them.

But as if to test his resolve, Grace lifted her hand to stroke his cheek, and her lips parted ever so slightly. She moved toward him, slowly, and then her eyes widened in shock as she felt cold metal replace Brady’s hand on her right wrist. In one swift movement, he clipped the other cuff to the arm rest.

Grace sat frozen in rage. “You son of a bitch,” she finally sputtered. “This is kidnapping.”

“You think?”

“You can’t do this.”

“I just did.” He glanced in the rearview mirror, then put the truck in gear and pulled back onto the street. Beside him, Grace yanked at the cuffs, her movements frenzied. “Give it a rest,” he said gruffly. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

“Like you care.”

Her face had gone pale with anger, making the blue of her eyes stand out starkly in the dash lights. Physically, she hadn’t changed much, Brady thought. She still wore her brown hair long, letting it curl naturally over her shoulders. The wind had whipped it about, and the tangled strands reminded him of how she used to look waking up in the morning. All that hair spilling down her naked back.

Her legs, still slender and shapely beneath her jeans, stirred even more memories. Grace’s legs had always been his downfall.

He tore his gaze away from her and tried to concentrate on the road as he entered the on-ramp of the freeway. Grace didn’t utter another word until they were heading west on I–30, toward Fort Worth. She stared sullenly out her window. “Where are you taking me?”

“I told you. Someplace safe.”

“Would you care to be a little more specific?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters!” She turned in the seat to face him, her expression earnest and desperate, her blue eyes dark with fear. “I can’t leave Dallas, Brady. Please. Just take me back. I’ll be okay. I know how to take care of myself.”

“You still don’t get it, do you?” He scowled at the road. “This isn’t about you anymore. It’s way beyond that. I was sent here to protect you until you can testify against Kane and possibly Rialto, and that’s exactly what I intend to do. With or without your cooperation.”

She sat back against the seat, looking drained. “Who sent you? You’re not a cop anymore. What are you? FBI? DEA?”

“Something like that.”

“That’s what you’ve been doing for the last five years? And here I was thinking you’d turned into some kind of cowboy.”

He spared her a brief glance. “I have.”

She gave a short laugh. “Brady Morgan, a cowboy? I find that hard to imagine.”

“A lot of things are hard to imagine,” he said bluntly. “For instance, after what happened five years ago, I find it hard to believe that you wouldn’t be as eager as I am to put Kane away for good. But then, justice was never particularly a concern of yours, was it, Grace?” He sensed her tension, and almost immediately regretted his harsh words. But sometimes the truth hurt.

“You don’t know anything about me,” she said quietly. “Not anymore. People change in five years.”

“Don’t kid yourself.”

She gave a defeated shrug. “If you could turn yourself into a cowboy—you, a tough-guy cop who grew up on the streets—why can’t you believe I could be redeemed?”

THEY’D LEFT Fort Worth sometime ago, heading in a southwesterly direction on I–30. Traffic thinned once they got out of the city, but a light rain began to fall, and the way the temperature was dropping, Brady was afraid the highway would soon become a mess.

He glanced at Grace. She’d fallen asleep a few minutes earlier, overcome with exhaustion, he suspected. She probably hadn’t slept for two days.

He’d been pondering her question for the last several miles, and he thought he knew the answer. Why didn’t he believe that she could be redeemed? Simple. Because actions spoke louder than words.

If she truly had changed, she wouldn’t think twice about turning over that tape to the police, about giving testimony that would put a ruthless drug dealer behind bars. But she wasn’t willing to do that, and so Brady’s conclusion was the obvious one. She was still the same conniving reporter she’d been five years ago. She was still willing to sell her soul for the sake of a story.

He’d been well rid of her for the last five years, he thought grimly. Now, if he could just survive the next five days with her.…

GRACE HAD no idea how long she’d been dozing, but she would awaken sporadically, shivering with cold. She was finally warm now, almost cozy, and she snuggled deeper into the folds of the blanket.

Not a blanket, she realized groggily. Brady’s coat. He’d taken it off and placed it over her, and she wanted to savor that act of kindness. Wanted to believe that he was coming around, but she knew it was wishful thinking. He thought she was refusing to testify because she was holding out for a story. She might have done that once, but not now. She did remember Juarez. She did remember Matamoros. But most of all, she remembered Dallas, five years ago. She wanted to do the right thing, but her mother’s life was at stake. Grace could do nothing to jeopardize her mother’s safety, not even confide in Brady.

Maybe he could help her, and maybe he couldn’t, but what he would most likely do was notify the authorities, whoever he worked for. And then Kane would know she’d talked, and Angeline would be killed. Maybe that would happen, and maybe it wouldn’t. But Grace wasn’t willing to take any chances, especially since she had no idea who Brady worked for. What she had to do now was get back to Dallas. Anyway possible.

She studied Brady’s profile through slitted eyes as she pretended to sleep. A cowboy. Who would have thought it?

His coat smelled of mountain air and wood smoke, and Grace, city-born and raised, was surprised to find that the scent stirred something primal and feminine inside her. She pulled the coat more tightly around her.

He’d removed his hat, too, and she saw that he still wore his hair short, just long enough for a woman’s fingers. His jeans were the kind that rode low on his lean waist and fit deceptively snug over long, muscular legs.

When Grace had known Brady five years ago, he’d driven a sports car, in keeping with his undercover image, but he looked at home behind the wheel of the truck. She could suddenly picture him on horseback, looking rugged and sexy. Fiercely masculine.

A cowboy, she thought in wonder. Who would have thought it?

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