Harlequin Intrigue June 2015 - Box Set 2 of 2: Navy SEAL Newlywed\The Guardian\Security Breach (2 page)

For a brief moment he frowned.

She laughed out loud. “If that's happy, you're a terrible actor. Make like we're a couple.”

“Since I didn't get the memo, I'm a little slow on the uptake. Let me set the stage.” Getting past the shock of his contact's gender, Rip had to admit she was a lot prettier than any cowboy he might have expected. He wrapped his arm around her waist, then slid his hand up into her dark brown hair and pressed the back of her neck, angling her face toward his.

“What are you doing?” she said, her eyes widening.

“I would think it was obvious. I'm showing you how happy I am to see you.” Then he captured her mouth in a deep, lip-crushing kiss.

Apparently she was so shocked that her mouth opened. Rip slid his tongue in and caressed the length of hers.

At first her hands, trapped between them, pressed against his chest. But after a moment or two, her fingers curled into his shirt and she kissed him back.

When he finally came up for air, it took him a second or two to come back to his senses and remember where he was, yet again.

He stood so quickly, he had to steady her on her feet before he let go of her. “Let's get out of here.”

“What about your winnings?” she said.

He scooped up enough tokens for two full cups, carried them over to a gray-haired senior citizen and dumped them into her slot machine tray. “Congratulations, you're a winner.” He kissed the woman's cheek, grabbed his contact's hand and headed for the door.

The woman whose hand he held hurried to keep up with him in her bright red cowboy boots. “You were playing the dollar slots.”

“So?” he countered.

“That was probably a couple hundred dollars.”

“Then that woman will go home happy.”

He tipped his baseball cap lower over his forehead, slid his arm around her waist and smiled down at her as he stepped out into the sauna-like Mississippi late afternoon sunshine. “Where's your car?”

“This way.” She guided him to the parking lot and stopped beside a large black 4x4 truck with twenty-inch rims and tinted windows.

“Seriously?” Rip shook his head. “This is yours?”

“One of the perks of working for Hank Derringer. That and an arsenal of every weapon you could possibly need.” When she hit the key fob, the engine started and the doors unlocked. She opened the driver's side door and nodded to the passenger seat. “Hop in.”

“How do I know you really work for Hank?”

“You don't. But has anyone else shown up and told you he's your contact?”

“No.”

“You have that.” She raised her eyebrows, the saucy expression doing funny things to his insides. “So, do you trust me, or not?”

His lips curled upward on the ends. “I'll go with not.”

“Oh, come on, sweetheart.” She batted her pretty green eyes and gave him a sexy smile. “What's not to trust?”

His gaze scraped over her form. “I expected a cowboy, not a...”

“Cow
girl
?” Her smile sank and she slipped into the driver's seat. “I grew up on a ranch, I've worked with cattle and horses and I know the value of a hard day's work. I spent eight years with the FBI. I also know right from wrong and tend to be loyal to a fault, until the person or organization I believe in breaks my trust.” Her lips firmed into a straight line. “Are you coming or not? If you're dead set on a cowboy, I'll contact Hank and tell him to send a male replacement. But then he'd have to come up with another plan.”

Rip considered her words and then acknowledged he didn't have a lot of choices with only a couple of week's reprieve before he had to turn up alive or be buried by the government. He rounded the front of the truck and climbed into the passenger seat. “I'll go along for the ride and maybe you can convince me you're up for the challenge.”

“Please. I don't normally have to justify my existence to the people I work with. I'm a trained operative. I don't need this assignment. However, from what Hank told me, you need all the help you can get.”

“I'm interested in how you and Hank plan to provide that help. Frankly, I'd rather my SEAL team had my six.”

“Yeah, but you're deceased. Using your SEAL team would only alert your assassin that you aren't as dead as the Navy claims you are. How long do you think you'll last once that bit of news leaks out?”

His lips pressed together. “I'd survive.”

“By going undercover? Then you still won't have the backing of your team, and we're back to the original plan.” She grinned. “Me.”

Rip sighed. “Fine. I want to head back to Honduras and trace the weapons back to where they're coming from. What's Hank's plan?”

“For me to work with you.” She pulled a large envelope from between her seat and the console and handed it across to him. “Everything we need is in that packet. Passports, cash, credit cards and new identities. We also have at our disposal Hank's jet, a Citation X, capable of cruising at Mach 0.9, almost the speed of sound. Say the word and we can be in the sky within twenty minutes. It's waiting at the airport.”

Monahan had only good things to say about Hank and all he could do for the operation, otherwise Rip would have been more hesitant getting the billionaire involved. With a DEA agent and one of his SEAL teammates dead, and himself almost killed, he was determined to find the one responsible. But after losing one of his SEAL brothers, he was hesitant about getting anyone else caught in the crosshairs. “Hank sure pulled all of this together fast.”

The woman's lips tilted up briefly as she drove out onto the street. “Hank has resources most people don't. Not even the government.”

Rip riffled through the contents of the packet, glancing at a passport with his picture on it as well as a name he'd never seen. “Chuck Gideon?”

“Better get used to it.”

“Speaking of names...we've already kissed and you haven't told me who you are.” Rip glanced her way briefly.

Her eyes narrowed and her lips firmed. “No, I haven't.”

“Is it a secret? Do you have a shady past or are you related to someone important.”

“For this mission, I'm related to someone important.” She twisted her lips and sent a crooked grin his way. “You. For the purpose of this operation, you can call me Phyllis. Phyllis Gideon. I'll be your wife.”

Chapter Two

Tracie Kosart had recognized the man in the casino immediately from the photo Hank Derringer had given her and realized that could be a problem. Even with his shaggy long hair, the breadth of his shoulders, the stubborn set of his chin and the steely look in his gray-blue eyes set him apart from the other gamblers there hoping to score a big win.

Though he'd been slouching on the stool, he looked as if he could spring into action at a moment's notice. Now as he sat opposite her in the interior of her truck, he filled the space, his shoulders seeming to block her entire view.

“Phyllis, huh?” He stared at her, his eyes narrowing. “You don't look like a Phyllis.”

“It doesn't matter.” When he looked at her so intently, it made her body heat and her belly tighten.

“Missy?”

“What?”

“Jasmine, Lois, Penelope? I could list names all day.” He pinned her with his stare, a sassy smirk on his face. “You might as well tell me.”

“Penelope?” She shot a glance at him, her mouth twitching as she fought a smile. “You think I look like a Penelope?”

“Some parents have a sense of humor.” He raised his brows. “Well?”

She sighed. “Tracie. My name's Tracie Kosart.”

“That's better.” He stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Tracie. And by the way, the name fits you better than Phyllis.”

She took one hand off the steering wheel to shake his, an electrical surge racing up her arm from their joined fingers. Tracie yanked her hand back and wrapped it tightly around the steering wheel, willing the surge of fiery heat to fade.

“You and Derringer seem to have this all worked out.” Rip leaned back in his set. “Where to first?”

“We've looked over all the photos the dead agent left you, along with the after-action report from the extraction operation and we really don't have much to go on. Yes, they prove the terrorists are receiving American-made weapons in World Health Organization boxes. But we don't know for certain who is sending them or at what point they are packaged to ship via WHO.” Tracie shifted the big truck into Drive and pulled out of the parking lot.

Rip nodded. “I'm betting the World Health Organization didn't send those boxes.”

“What we need is one of those guns so that we can trace the serial number on it back to the manufacturer. Short of going to Honduras to get one, we should exhaust all other stateside options first.”

“Okay, what options?” The SEAL beside her crossed his arms, which made his biceps appear bigger than they already did.

Tracie had to focus on the road to keep from openly drooling. The man had testosterone oozing from every pore. For a moment she forgot Rip's question—then it came back to her. “I was hoping you had some ideas. We think the DEA agent's boss had to have been receiving data from him. He might have other operatives inside the terrorist group or in nearby towns.”

“And how do we find Dan Greer's boss?”

Tracie snorted softly. “Hank already has. He was able to tap into the DEA database and extract that information.” Hank had the connections, the computer power and a technical guru who could tap into any system.

“I'm surprised Hank hasn't already contacted the agent's boss.”

A muffled beep sounded in the console between them. Tracie lifted a cell phone out of a cup holder and glanced down at a text. Her lips formed a broad smile. “As a matter of fact, he has. We have a meeting with Morris Franks in Atlanta in three hours.”

Rip gave her a doubtful smile. “Honey, it takes a lot longer than three hours to drive to Atlanta.”

She turned onto a highway and jerked her head toward a green sign with an airplane depicted in white. “What did I say about having Hank's Citation X available?” Tracie softened. As a former FBI agent, she remembered how unbelievable Hank's assets were when she'd first been exposed to them. “Prepare to be impressed.”

Instead of driving through the terminal area of the Biloxi airport, she drove on to the private businesses' hangars along the runway and parked outside one of them.

As they climbed out of the truck, the door to the structure opened and a man stepped out. “Right this way, Mr. & Mrs. Gideon. I'm Tom Callahan. We've topped off the fuel, your pilot has performed the preflight checklist and he's filed the flight plan. The jet is ready for takeoff whenever you two say the word.” Tom smiled. “And congratulations on your recent marriage.”

Tracie almost did a double take until she remembered that was their cover story. “Th-thank you.”

A hand settled at the small of her back. “It all happened so quickly, we're still getting used to it, aren't we, dear?” Rip guided her through the doorway into a reception area.

Tom led the way past a desk to another door that opened into the hangar where a shiny new Citation X airplane sat on the tarmac. The huge hangar door slid open, sunlight cutting a wide swath into the dim interior.

“Shall we?” Tracie asked.

Rip waved a hand. “Ladies first.” Tracie climbed the short set of stairs into the cabin and took the first seat on the far side.

Ducking to keep from bumping his head, Rip entered the cabin and dropped into the seat beside her.

As soon as they were aboard, a flight attendant pulled the door closed, and the engines ignited.

Soon the small jet, with seating for twelve, taxied down the runway and lifted smoothly into the air.

“Okay, now I'm impressed,” Rip whispered. “How long will it take to get to Atlanta?”

Tracie glanced at her watch. “We should be there in less than an hour. In the meantime, we should go over what data the DEA agent was able to pass off before he died and the after-action report, one more time to see if we missed anything.”

* * *

R
IP
STARED
ACROSS
the narrow aisle at Tracie.

With her long, slender legs crossed at the knees and one of her red high heels bouncing with barely leashed energy, she still didn't look like a trained operative. He was less than thrilled at the idea of Hank sending a woman to help him. He'd rather have had a man to work with. Women tended to complicate things. His natural urge to protect women and children might get in the way of a successful operation.
This operation has been dangerous thus far and will only get worse. I'm not entirely sold on the idea of working with a woman.

“If it makes you feel any better, I used to work for the FBI. I received my training at Quantico and I've been a field agent for more than five years. I worked undercover along the Mexican border to help stop several drug-and human-trafficking rings. I know how to handle a gun, and I'm not afraid to use one.”

Rip nodded in deference to her risky and dangerous duty assignments. “Have you ever been in the jungles of Honduras?”

“No, but I've been held hostage in a cave in Mexico and survived. I know what hard work, prior planning and enemy engagement is all about. Don't let the dress fool you.” She raised her hand, holding the cell phone up. “But, if you're still worried about working with a woman, I can contact Hank now and have him send another agent to replace me.”

He liked her spunk and the fact she wasn't taking any crap from him. Rip sat back in his seat. “What I don't understand is why Hank sent you. I thought he was all about cowboys.”

She shrugged, making that movement look entirely too sexy, her creamy white shoulders in stark contrast with the bright red dress. “As I already mentioned. I grew up on a ranch. Hank likes his cowboys—or girls—to have that ranch-life work ethic and sense of morals and values.”

“I don't know Hank Derringer. All I have to go on is my buddy Jim Monahan's word.”

Tracie's lips quirked upward and she stared out the window. “Hank and his team saved my life. I have nothing but respect for the work they do.”

“Just what is it he does?” Rip asked.

“He champions the truth and justice when other organizations can't seem to get it right or have corruption in their ranks.” As she spoke, her jaw hardened and her mouth pulled into a tight line.

“Why did you give up on the FBI?” Rip asked.

“You know that part about corruption in the ranks?” She snorted. “Well, let's just say, I wouldn't be alive if I had relied only on the organization I had sworn into.”

“Surely not all of the FBI is rotten.” Rip studied her.

Tracie glanced his way. “No, not all of the agents are. But Hank made me an offer I couldn't refuse. After two of the agents I worked with went bad, I was ready for a fresh start.”

Rip turned away and stared out the window. He knew how she felt. As a member of the Navy SEALs, Rip had been trained to rely on his brothers in arms. When one went bad, as one had on the mission in Honduras, it shook his entire foundation of trust. Especially since the bad apple had been the leader of the mission, the now deceased Gunnery Sergeant Frank Petit. Rip's friend, James Monahan, a man he'd put his complete faith in, had helped to expose Gunny for the traitor he was.

What worried him even more was that they still had no idea who had paid Gunny to leak the information about their mission. He suspected it was someone higher up. Someone in Washington.

For a long moment, he sat in silence, reliving the past few weeks. He was only just recovered from the assassin's gunshot wound. If not for his best friend and a former SEAL teammate, he wouldn't have made it. That fact alone gave him hope for humanity. There were good people out there. His glance shifted to Tracie. She might be one of them. Only time would tell.

After what seemed like only a handful of minutes, the jet began its descent into Atlanta.

The plane's tires kissed the runway with barely a bounce and, after rolling it into an open hangar, the pilot brought the aircraft to a complete stop.

The flight attendant lowered the stairs and stood to the side.

Rip stepped down first into the dim interior of the hangar and held out his hand to Tracie.

For a moment, she refused his proffered hand, her brow puckering. Then she laid her fingers in his.

The last time he and Tracie touched, he'd felt an electric jolt. This time was no different and the fire raced all the way through Rip's body. What was it about the woman that had his body on high sexual alert? To get his mind off her, he leaned close and asked, “If the DEA agent was terminated for what he knew, how has his boss managed to stay alive?”

Tracie nodded. “Perhaps he doesn't know anything.”

Rip ground to a halt. “In that case, we're wasting our time.”

“We won't know that until we meet with him.” Without slowing, Tracie strode across the hangar lengthening the distance between them.

A man appeared at a doorway. “This way Mr. and Mrs. Gideon. Your car is waiting.”

Rather than be left in the hangar, Rip ran to catch up, falling in step beside Tracie.

A sleek black limousine waited at the curb, the chauffeur holding the door. He didn't speak a word as he held the door open while Tracie and Rip slid inside.

Once the door was closed, Tracie turned to Rip. “Have you considered the fact that Morris Franks's willingness to talk to us might be an indication he knew more than he let on to others in his own department?”

Rip's eyes narrowed and he stared out the windshield as if trying to see into the future. “Or, he could be looking for more information himself.”

“I suppose we'll know soon enough. The hotel isn't far from the airport.”

Tracie sat across the limo from Rip, not any single part of her body or limbs so much as touching him. Rip found himself wanting to reach across the short distance and pull her into his arms. The scent of her hair was doing strange things to him. Funny that even with her incredible legs and the classy way the red dress fit her body, the smell of her shampoo was what got to him most. It set every one of his nerves on edge and his groin tightened.

As a SEAL assigned to Special Boat Team 22—conducting missions and training their own team for missions as well as other SEAL teams—he hadn't had the time nor the inclination to pursue a lasting romantic relationship. Not that there were many women to go around when he was stuck in the backwater swamps of the Mississippi bayous at Stennis where SBT-22 was headquartered.

If he were to pursue a woman, Tracie wouldn't be the one. She was some kind of special agent for Hank Derringer. She didn't have any more time than he had to get involved. Not that they would even be compatible. She was too...

Rip struggled to find the right word.

The tightness of her jaw and the slightly narrowed, beautiful green eyes said it all. Intense.

He'd bet she was just as intense in bed. Again his groin strained against the denim of his jeans. Now was not the time to think about getting naked with a woman. He had a job to do.

As a dead man, he needed to resolve the case so that he could resurface alive before the Navy processed him out of a job.

“We're here,” Tracie said as the limo slid up beside the curb in front of what appeared to be a three-star hotel only a few blocks from the airport. “The driver will remain nearby in case we need him on short notice.”

Rip nodded and glanced at the hotel. “Once inside, who do we ask for?”

“We don't. We check in as newlyweds.” Tracie glanced his way. “You'll need your driver's license and credit card. Our guy is in room 627. We'll make our way up to his room after we check in.”

Rip pulled out the wallet Hank had provided and familiarized himself with the contents and his new name.
Chuck Gideon.
“Who came up with the name?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.” Rip got out, rounded the vehicle and beat the chauffeur to opening Tracie's door. “Mrs. Gideon, shall we get a room?” He winked and smiled.

Tracie's eyes narrowed slightly and she placed her hand in his, allowing him to pull her to her feet on the pavement.