B.J. Daniels - The Agent's Secret Child

“Because I don’t know you,” she cried.

“You believe that stuff in the envelope about me? Even after that kiss?”

“No. Jake, I don’t remember anything before waking up in a hospital six years ago.”

“You don’t still believe you’re Isabella Montenegro?”

“How can I after everything that’s happened? After—” The kiss. She unconsciously ran her tongue over her upper lip, the memory still fresh, the feeling still intoxicating.

“But you’re afraid of me because of what you found in the envelope.”

“I don’t know who or what to believe at this point,” she said, looking away.

“If you could remember what you and I had, you’d know the truth,” Jake said softly. “I loved Abby Diaz. We were going to get married. We were going to have a child.”

“We did have a child….”

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Born in Houston, B.J. Daniels is a former Southern girl who grew up on the smell of Gulf sea air and Southern cooking. But her home is now in Montana, not far from Big Sky, where she snowboards in the winters and boats in the summers with her husband and daughters. She does miss gumbo and Texas barbecue, though! Her first Harlequin Intrigue novel was nominated for the Romantic Times Magazine Reviewer’s Choice Award for best first book and best Harlequin Intrigue. She is a member of Romance Writers of America, Heart of Montana and Bozeman Writers Group. B.J. loves to hear from readers. Write to her at: P.O. Box 183, Bozeman, MT 59771.

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….

Isabella Montenegro/Abby Diaz—Was she the former FBI agent who everyone believed was dead? Then why couldn’t she remember who’d tried to kill her? Worse, why couldn’t she remember the man she’d supposedly loved?

Jake Cantrell—His job as an agent for Texas Confidential was to find a woman and child. But he found a lot more.

Elena Montenegro—All the five-year-old had ever wanted was a father.

Julio Montenegro—He knew the truth, but he got greedy and it cost him his life.

Tomaso Calderone—The drug lord thought he’d found his chance to get Jake Cantrell.

Dell Harper—He’d been like a little brother to Abby. But how well had she known him?

Ramon Hernandez—As Calderone’s right-hand man, he had to stop Abby and Jake—or die trying.

Frank Jordan—The past had come back to haunt him. And now it was just a matter of time before the truth got out.

Tommy Barnett—He’d do anything for a friend. Even kill.

Reese Ramsey—He was the only agent from the past who Jake could trust. But was that trust misplaced?

Crystal Winfrey Jordan—She had a very good reason to be jealous of Abby Diaz. But what was that reason?

This book is dedicated to my aunt,

Lenore Collmorgen Bateman (1912-1999).

I never think of Texas without thinking of her.

Some of my fondest memories are of her making

pancakes over a Coleman, joking and laughing.

She was a great cook and one of the strong women

in my life I have tried to emulate.

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

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

She smelled smoke. Just moments before, she’d been helping her daughter Elena look for her lost doll. Now, she stopped, alarmed. Her hand went to the small scars at her temple, memory of the fire and the pain sending panic racing through her. Why would Julio build a fire on such a hot spring day in Mexico?

Then she heard the raised voices below her in the kitchen and the heavy, unfamiliar tread on the stairs.

The feeling came in a rush. Strong, sure, knowing, like only one she’d ever felt before. And yet she trusted this one. Whoever was coming up the stairs intended to harm her and her five-year-old daughter.

Fear paralyzed her as she realized she and Elena were trapped on the second floor. The only way out was the stairs the man now climbed. Her husband had barred the windows and he had the only key. She’d often wondered: what if there was another house fire and Julio wasn’t home?

But Julio always left someone to watch over them when he was gone.

The lumbering footsteps reached the second-floor landing. She shot her daughter a silent warning as she scooped the child into her arms and hurried to the attic stairs at the back of the house.

Her heart lunged in her chest as she moved through the hot cluttered attic, frantically searching for a place to hide. She found the only space large enough for the two of them in a dark corner behind an old bureau where the roof pitched out over the eave and a pile of old lumber formed a small partition.

She could hear the men ransacking the house, their voices raised in angry Spanish she couldn’t make out.

When she heard the plodding tread on the attic stairs, she’d motioned to Elena to keep silent but the child’s wide-eyed look told her that she understood their danger, just as she always had.

The man was in the attic now, moving slowly, carefully. The other men called to him, their feet thumping on the steps as they hurried up to him.

“Where is Isabella and the child?” one of the men demanded in Spanish. He had a quick, nervous voice like the brightly colored hummingbirds flickering in the bougainvillea outside the window.

“I don’t know,” a deeper voice answered. “Montenegro must have gotten them out before we arrived.”

“Damn Julio. Find the money. Tear the place apart if you have to, but find the money.”

“What if he gave it to her?” one of them asked, only to be answered with a curse.

As the men searched the house, she hugged her daughter tightly, determined to protect her child as she had since Elena’s birth, feeling as defenseless and trapped as she always had.

The men eventually searched the attic, including the bureau drawers, while she’d held her breath and prayed they wouldn’t find her and Elena crouched in the darkness and dust.

She took hope when she sensed the men were losing momentum, their movements less frantic but no less angry and frustrated.

“He wouldn’t hide it in the house,” one of the men snapped in Spanish. “He was too smart for that. So why are we wasting our time? He gave it to the woman and kid to hide somewhere for him.”

“Shut up!” the nervous one growled. “Keep searching.” But he said it as he tromped back down the stairs and soon the others followed.