Merline Lovelace - To Love A Thief

“Of course.” Mackenzie tried not to bat an eye. She knew that everyone went topless on European beaches except prudish, self-conscious American tourists. No way she wanted Nick to know she’d fallen smack into the prude category.

“What about my cover?”

Nick made a show of pulling down his cuffs, and Mackenzie knew what was coming. The man had a tabloid reputation to live up to, after all.

“The best cover is always the simplest. When asked, we’ll merely introduce you as my companion.”

“Define companion.”

“Friend. Mistress. Lover.”

“I don’t think so,” Mackenzie drawled. “Let’s go with business associate.”

Amusement flickered in Nick’s eyes. “Do you really think the French will make any distinction between the two?”

“The French might not, but we will.”

www.millsandboon.co.uk

spent twenty-three years in the U.S. Air Force, pulling tours in Vietnam, at the Pentagon and all over the world. When she hung up her uniform, she decided to try her hand at writing. Since then she’s had more than forty novels published, with over six million copies of her work in print. She and her own handsome hero live in Oklahoma. They enjoy traveling and chasing little white balls around the fairways.

Look for Merline in the Silhouette anthology In Love and War, coming in August 2003.

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

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Yanking open the passenger door of a nondescript gray sedan, a heavyset male dropped into the seat. He brought with him just enough of the crisp September breeze to stir the stale odors of old French fries and half-eaten donuts that permeated the vehicle.

His nose wrinkled in disgust. “I wish to hell you’d dump your garbage in a trash can instead of tossing it in the back seat.”

“Never mind my garbage,” the driver growled. “Did you get through?”

“I got through.”

“What was the message that was so damn important we had to call today?”

“Our client’s getting antsy. Real antsy.”

The driver crumpled his foam coffee cup and tossed it over his shoulder to join the rest of the litter. Scowling, he glared at his associate.

“Hell! This isn’t like taking down a two-bit pusher or some husband who can’t keep his pants zipped. We’ve been trying to set up the job for a week now. The target never takes the same route to work, never eats at the same restaurant two nights in a row and has a security system tougher to crack than Fort Knox, for God’s sake!”

“So tell me something I don’t know.”

The retort earned him a hard, swift look. More than a little afraid of the man beside him, the passenger gulped and delivered the rest of the message that had come through the phone via a voice synthesizer that completely disguised the speaker’s age, sex and nationality.

“We gotta do it within twenty-four hours or the deal’s off.”

His mouth set, the driver hunched his arms over the wheel. He’d been in the business long enough to know his reputation was on the line here. He’d accepted the contract, demanded and received a five-figure advance. If he didn’t deliver as promised, he could kiss off the rest of the hefty fee he’d been promised. Worse, word would soon get around. Before long, he’d be back to shooting out the kneecaps of gamblers who welched on their debts at a hundred bucks a pop.

“All right,” he snarled. “We’ll do it tonight.”

From the outside, the elegant, three-story Federal-style town house looked much like its neighbors. It sat midblock on a quiet, tree-shaded street just off Massachusetts Avenue, in the heart of Washington’s embassy district. The last rays of the afternoon sun glinted on its tall windows. Ivy meandered over its mellow red brick and almost obscured the discreet bronze plaque beside the front door.

The plaque identified the town house as home to the Offices of the President’s Special Envoy. Savvy politicians and diplomats knew the position was created years ago to reward a wealthy campaign contributor with a yen for a fancy title and a hankering to rub elbows with the powerful elite. Like so many other fabricated posts in the nation’s capital, the position had since taken on a staff and a life of its own.

Only a handful of insiders knew the special envoy also served as director of an agency whose initials comprised the last letter of the Greek alphabet: an agency so secret that its director reported only to the president. So supercharged that OMEGA’s agents were activated only as a last resort, when other government agencies like the military, the FBI or the CIA couldn’t respond for political or legal reasons.

For almost a year now, Nick Jensen had served as acting director of OMEGA. The wealth and international contacts he’d accumulated as owner of a string of outrageously high-priced watering holes for the rich and famous—not to mention his hefty contributions to the president’s reelection campaign—had given him the necessary cachet for the special envoy’s title.

But it was Nick’s years as one of OMEGA’s field agents that had given him the expertise to run the supersecret organization. He hadn’t sought or particularly wanted the responsibility of sending his fellow operatives into harm’s way, but Maggie Sinclair, the previous director, had convinced the president that Nick was the best person for the job.

Few people could hold out against Maggie when she set her mind to something. Nick was no exception—as the present situation indicated.

“You can’t fail me, Lightning! I’m desperate.”

Her voice floated over the speakers in the third-floor control center where Mackenzie Blair, OMEGA’s chief of communications, had patched her straight through to the director.

“The woman stormed out the moment I walked into the house,” Maggie exclaimed in exasperation. “Didn’t give notice. Didn’t offer an explanation. Just grabbed her purse and rushed right past me.”

“Let me guess.” Tapping his twenty-four karat gold Mont Blanc pen against the console in front of him, Nick had no difficulty picturing the scene. “She had grape jelly in her hair, muddy paw prints all down her front and lizard spit decorating her blouse.”

A gurgle of laughter came over the speakers. “Actually, the grape jelly was on her shoes and the lizard spit was dribbling down her right cheek.”

Chuckling, Nick leaned back in his chair. “How many nannies have you and Adam run through in the past six months? Two? Three?”

He caught the eyes of the dark-haired woman on the other side of the console. Grinning, Mackenzie held up four fingers.

“The body count doesn’t matter,” Maggie answered loftily. “What matters is that I don’t have a baby-sitter available for tonight. I can’t miss this banquet, Nick. Adam’s worked too hard and too long. He deserves this recognition for his work with the International Monetary Fund. I may be eight months pregnant, but I’m going to pour myself into an evening gown and strap on high heels. If I can take those extreme measures, you ought to be willing to hold down the fort for a few hours. Can you be here by seven?”