Merline Lovelace - Texas Hero

“Merline Lovelace is the brightest new star in the romance genre. Each new book is an adventure.”

—New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber

“Ms. Lovelace delivers sizzling romantic adventure in the finest tradition and leaves us begging for more.”

—Romantic Times, on Night of the Jaguar, from the original CODE NAME: DANGER miniseries

“You won’t want to wait for the next book in this four-part series!”

—The Paperback Forum, on the original CODE NAME: DANGER miniseries

“…One of the best dramatic and heart-throbbing miniseries to hit the bookshelves in ages.”

—Affaire de Coeur, on the original CODE NAME: DANGER miniseries

“Full of spine-tingling adventure à la James Bond, but Ms. Lovelace doesn’t let that overshadow the tension-filled romance.”

—Genie Romance Exchange, on Perfect Double, from the original CODE NAME: DANGER miniseries

www.millsandboon.co.uk

spent twenty-three years as an Air Force officer, serving tours at the Pentagon and at bases all over the world before she began a new career as a novelist. When she’s not tied to her keyboard, this RITA ®Award-winning author and her husband of thirty years, Al, enjoy traveling, golf and long lively dinners with friends and family. Be sure to watch for Once a Hero, the next in the CODE NAME: DANGER miniseries, in Intimate Moments.

Merline enjoys hearing from readers and can be reached through Harlequin’s Web site at www.eHarlequin.com.

This book is dedicated to my own handsome hero, who I first met in the shadow of the Alamo.

Many thanks for all those wonderful San Antonio memories, my darling.

Prologue

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 14

Epilogue

“Thank God for air-conditioning!”

Swiping a forearm across his dirt-streaked forehead, the tall, flame-haired grad student followed his team leader into the welcoming coolness of San Antonio’s Menger Hotel.

“If I’d had any idea how muggy it gets down here in July,” he grumbled, “I wouldn’t have let you talk me into assisting you on this project.”

“Funny,” the woman beside him responded with a smile, “I seem to recall a certain Ph.D. candidate begging me to let him in on the dig.”

“Yeah, well, that was before I realized I’d be branded as a defiler of history and practically run out of Texas on a rail.”

Elena Maria Alazar’s smile faded. Frowning, she shifted the strap of her heavy field case from one aching shoulder to the other and stabbed at the elevator buttons. Eric’s complaints weren’t all that exaggerated. He and everyone else working the project had come under increasingly vitriolic fire in recent days.

Dammit, she shouldn’t have allowed the media to poke around the archeological site, much less elicit a hypothesis as to the identity of the remains found in the creek bed. She was an expert in her field, a respected member of the American Society of Forensic Historians, for pity’s sake! She headed a highly skilled team of anthropologists and archeologists. She knew better than to let her people discuss their initial findings with reporters. Particularly when those findings held such potentially explosive local significance.

She couldn’t blame anyone but herself for the howls of outrage that rose when the San Antonio Express-News reported that Dr. Elena Alazar, niece of Mexico’s President Alazar and professor of history at the University of Mexico, was rewriting Texas history. According to the story, Ellie had found proof that legendary William Barrett Travis, commander of the Texans at the Alamo, hadn’t died heroically with his men as always believed. Instead, he’d run away from the battle, was hunted down by Santa Anna’s troops and was shot in back like a yellow, craven coward.

Ellie and her team were a long way yet from proving anything, but try telling that to the media! The Express-News wasn’t any more interested in running a disclaimer than a correction to identify her as a professor of history at the University of New Mexico. Never mind that Ellie had been born and raised in the States. To the reporter’s mind—and to the minds of his readers—she was an outsider attempting to mess with Texas history.

Thoroughly disgruntled, she made another stab at the brass-caged elevator. It was an antique, like everything else in the hundred-year-old hotel located just steps from the Alamo. Until the story broke, Ellie had thoroughly enjoyed her stay at the luxuriously appointed establishment. Now, she felt the weight of disapproval from every employee at the hotel, from desk clerks to the maid who cleaned her room.

She didn’t realize just how much she’d earned the locals’ displeasure, however, until she unlocked the door to her suite. Startled, she stopped dead. Behind her, Eric let out a long, low whistle.

“Folks around here sure let you know when they’re not happy. I haven’t seen a room trashed this bad since pledge week at the frat house. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen a room trashed this bad.”

The two-room suite hadn’t been just trashed, Ellie soon discovered. It had been ransacked. Her laptop computer was gone, as was the external drive that stored the data and thousands of digital images her team had collected to date.

The loss of her equipment was bad enough, but the message scrawled across the mirror above the dresser made her skin crawl.

Mexican bitch.

I’ve got you in my crosshairs.

Get the hell out of Texas!

Washington, D.C., steamed in the late afternoon July heat. On a quiet side street just off Massachusetts Avenue, in the heart of the embassy district, the chestnut trees drooped like tired old women and tar bubbled in the cracks of the sidewalk. The broad-shouldered man who emerged from a Yellow Cab took care not to step in the sticky blackness as he crossed the sidewalk and mounted the front steps of an elegant, Federal-style town house located midway down the block.

He paused for a moment, his gaze thoughtful as he studied the discreet bronze plaque beside the front door. The inscription on the plaque identified the three-story town house as home to the offices of the President’s special envoy. Most Washingtonians considered the special envoy’s position a meaningless one, created years ago for a billionaire campaign contributor with a yen for a fancy title and an office in the nation’s capital. Only a handful of insiders knew the special envoy also served as the head of a covert agency whose initials comprised the last letter of the Greek alphabet, OMEGA. An agency that, as its name implied, was activated only as a last resort in instances when other, more established organizations like the CIA or the Department of Defense couldn’t respond for legal or practical reasons.

This was one of those instances.

Squaring his shoulders, the visitor entered the foyer and approached the receptionist seated behind a graceful Queen Ann desk.

“I am Colonel Luis Esteban. I’m here to see the special envoy.”

“Oh, my! So you are.”

Elizabeth Wells might have qualified for Medicare a number of years ago, but her hormones still sat up and took notice of a handsome man. And Colonel Luis Esteban, as OMEGA agent Maggie Sinclair had reported after a mission deep in the jungles of Central America, was gorgeous—drop-your-jaw, boggle-your-eyes gorgeous.