Willing Target

By Kathleen Mix

The last thing covert operative Mitch Weaver wants right now is to be partnered with a reckless newbie, even if she is gorgeous. Still reeling from the death of his former partner, Mitch doesn’t need the responsibility of keeping anyone else alive – a task made even harder when they volunteer to be a killer’s target. She’s too perky for her own good and too distracting by far–that could get them both killed in this line of work.

Andrea Carnegie’s first assignment isn’t exactly going as she planned. Her partner is sexy as hell, but he’s so frustrating with his determination to keep her away from anything he deems dangerous. How is she supposed to do her job? Andrea knows that masquerading as a billionaire’s sister to bait a possible killer is her chance to shine. But if she’s going to succeed, she’ll have to find a way to work with Mitch… and keep her distance. Even as the very air between them seems to sizzle, Andrea knows the worst possible thing she could do is fall for her partner.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Sep 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781633757516

Book preview

To David, the shipmate I love twice as much today as yesterday.

Chapter One

Andrea Carnegie swung open the weight room door expecting to follow her normal routine for the rest of Sunday afternoon: pump iron, jog ten miles in the crisp November air, fire a few dozen rounds at the shooting range, then spend an hour practicing Russian or Arabic before sitting down to savor a medium-rare steak.

Damn it, Carnegie! Throw the ball.

She froze as someone shouted her name in the break room across the hall. A second later, picturing the all-too-familiar scene, she let her shoulder muscles relax. Some of the other operatives must be watching the big game. Her superstar brother Damian was in as quarterback and scrambling to avoid a tackle.

Was Damian about to eat dirt? Hope trickled down her spine, quickly followed by a torrent of guilt. She should be rooting for her own flesh and blood.

She huffed out a breath. In a normal family, that would be true. But the Carnegies were anything but normal. After twenty-six years of living in Damian’s shadow and fending off his venom, she couldn’t help but wish he’d be fallible. She hustled across the hall and pressed her back tight against the wall, listening.

A groan erupted inside the break room. Shit. He’s down. There goes the game.

Yes! More hope surged. Could Damian’s team actually be losing?

The commentator announced a time-out. Her colleagues in the break room debated the coach’s options: go for a field goal or give Damian a chance to throw.

Give the ball to someone else. Go for the kick, Andrea mumbled.

Damian’s head was already bigger than Texas. If he pulled this game out of the Dumpster, he’d add the story to his repertoire and she’d be forced to endure never-ending replays of another moment of glory at every family get-together. He loved nothing more than bragging about games he’d won or spewing graphic accounts of his sexual exploits.

There’s the decision, folks. Carnegie’s coming back out, going for a Hail Mary pass. The men in the room whooped in celebration. Andrea’s balloon of hope deflated.

The commentator went on, Okay, they’re lining up. There’s the snap. Carnegie’s got the ball and falling back. Looking. Jogging right to avoid a tackle. He’s found a receiver. Wiggs is open in the end zone! Carnegie throws. Wiggs has it! Touchdown!

Crap. Why couldn’t Damian ever botch a throw? Just once, she’d love for one of her brothers to drop a ball, trip over his feet, or draw a penalty. Right now, if the guys in the break room changed the channel, another of her brothers would probably be making a spectacular catch while a commentator gushed about his fabulous speed or ball control.

Andrea shook her head in disgust. She’d never had any hope of keeping up with her NFL superstar brothers. She was the only offspring who’d failed to exploit Coach’s athletic perfection gene. And as the youngest of four and the only girl, she’d been at a disadvantage from day one.

In other families, a girl living with three older brothers and her father might have been protected and prized. In her family, ridicule, cruel practical jokes, bullying, and nicknames like pipsqueak and runt had lashed the little kid who’d been dumb enough to worship her siblings. Toughness and competition had been rewarded. Crying or a hint of compassion scorned.

She reminded herself of her vow to never be vulnerable again and rolled her eyes at the crazy idea that she’d once wanted to be like her brothers. Being like them was aiming low, settling for being cold and unfeeling. She’d be different and better, make her own mark. She wanted to matter somehow, and she would. Just not in their game.

Squaring her shoulders, Andrea turned to leave.

A voice in the room said, Shit, I really need to date Andrea so I can meet her brothers and father. I bet she can get prime seats at any game, even the playoffs.

She spun back. Why did all men have to be such users? She concentrated on the voice. The gravelly tone and slight Southern drawl verified the speaker’s identity.

No way would he ever get near her. Two things disqualified any man from a date with Andrea Carnegie. Number one, being a football fan. Number two, asking her if she was related to Damian, Xavier, Jordan, or the great Coach Buck Carnegie. She’d established the rules after the Phil fiasco her freshman year of college. Not dating users or football fans eliminated most men old enough to shave and not yet on Social Security, but who needed a guy whose ulterior motive was access to her father or brothers?

She thought of life’s other lesson: loneliness and celibacy were preferable to being a fool. For as long as she could remember, she’d listened to her brothers gloat about their conquests. Lesson learned: men couldn’t be trusted to be discreet or keep anything a girl said or did private. So even if she met a fellow operative who wasn’t a football fan, sleeping with a coworker would be dumb. He’d talk. She’d become the brunt of jokes and have to quit, or worse, work with men who didn’t respect her and were snickering behind her back.

The opening bar of her ringtone echoed in the hallway, jolting her from her reverie. She grabbed her phone from her belt to silence it and raced around the hall corner. Keeping her voice low, she moved farther away from the break room. This is Andrea.

I’m getting married in June! I want you to be a bridesmaid!

The voice of the youngest of her four female cousins. Crap. Not another wedding. Why hadn’t she thought to check caller ID? Andrea choked out the socially acceptable response that was also a blatant lie, That’s great news, Suzie. I mean, congratulations.

He’s the most wonderful man. Wait until you meet him. You’re going to love him. He even has a brother who’d be perfect for you.

Andrea doubted all of it. I’m happily unattached, thanks. My career is enough for me.

Her boss’s assistant, Nick O’Shea, turned the far corner and walked down the hallway toward her. When he stopped a few feet away, as if waiting for her to finish the call, she tensed. For another twenty-three days, she was a trainee and on probation. No way did she want anyone in the elite, covert ops Brisbin’s Rangers organization, and especially Nick, to overhear talk of a wedding. If rumors traveled back to Mr. Brisbin, and he misunderstood and doubted her long-term commitment to her job, he might hesitate to send her into the field.

Listen, I’m busy, she told her cousin. I have to go. I’ll call you back tonight.

As she disconnected the call, Nick announced, You’re wanted in the conference room, Ms. Carnegie. Five minutes. He turned and left.

Her heart jumped. The conference room? Could that mean she was getting an assignment?

She called a quick, Yes, sir, at his back, then rushed toward the locker room.

Was she about to get an opportunity to prove herself? Optimism put a bounce in her step. She grinned and pondered the possibilities. Maybe she’d get to shoot terrorists in a South American jungle. Or rescue someone important from kidnappers. Maybe she’d do such a fabulous job and earn so much praise that they’d forgo the remainder of her probation and make her a full-fledged Ranger. Maybe she’d be training the next new recruit and no longer be the low operative on the totem pole and presumed-inferior newbie.

How perfect would that be?

She stuffed her phone into her backpack. Maybe her stars were aligning, and she was about to get a chance to come out of the shadows. As she hurried to shed her sweats and slip into jeans and a T-shirt, she prayed today would be the day she’d been waiting for all her life.

Andrea walked through the conference room doorway at the stroke of three and instantly felt a wave of discomfort. Mr. Brisbin, Nick O’Shea, and her training supervisor were already seated at the glossy oak table. The three men in the room, and the stranger present via Skype, all wore impeccable business suits.

She tugged down the hem of her NC State T-shirt to smooth out the wrinkles. A little advance warning and time to plan her outfit would have been nice. Nothing in her wardrobe was business formal, but she could have worn a newer pair of jeans or a tailored shirt with a blazer, anything to look less like a cheerleader and more like a skilled professional.

Get over it. You don’t need to dress for success to crawl through a swamp, set up a sniper location, outmaneuver a drug trafficker, or camp out in a jungle.

She nodded to the men at the table and walked to the nearest chair. Was it her self-consciousness or was the stranger looking at her oddly? She shook her hair off her face. Probably another of Dad’s fans.

When she met people for the first time, they frequently told her that they’d pictured her entirely different. Men who’d heard her name and discovered her relationship to Hall of Fame coach Buck Carnegie jumped to the conclusion that she’d be a foot taller than her five foot three and at least ninety pounds heavier than her one hundred five. She was supposed to be built like her brothers and walk around wearing shoulder pads and cleats. At a minimum, they seemed to expect her to slap people on the back and babble like a rabid football fan.

Fat chance.

As soon as her butt touched the chair, Mr. Brisbin said, Thank you for joining us, Ms. Carnegie. May I introduce Stone Industries CEO, Dillon Stone?

She nodded to the Skype image. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Stone. Her mind raced through the recent news headlines. Why would a multimillionaire—some reports said billionaire—need to hire the Rangers? His merger announcement had sparked protests, but patrolling fences to keep out protestors was the domain of lesser security companies. The Rangers were trained for tougher jobs. Covert ops. Challenging assignments involving life and death.

Brisbin’s voice broke into her musings. Mr. Stone has a problem. Mr. Stone? Would you care to take over and explain?

Dillon Stone said, Certainly. As you’ve probably seen in the various media, I recently announced plans for a merger. Some labor union extremists are enraged that pending layoffs will destroy their livelihood and families.

She nodded in acknowledgment. The headlines had screamed that up to six thousand people could lose their jobs. A good reason for Stone to be unpopular. Hell, if the truth be known, her reaction when she’d heard the report was loathing for his anything-to-increase-the-bottom-line tactics and his lack of sympathy for his employees. Far too often, the financial ramifications of losing a job were devastating. And with the holiday season only weeks away, Stone’s timing couldn’t have been worse.

He continued. What hasn’t been reported in the news is that one or more of the extremists, or a disgruntled employee, has threatened to kill my family, specifically my only sibling, Karli.

Andrea’s eyes widened, and she snapped to attention. A death threat. Now this was getting interesting. Even the most despicable CEO didn’t deserve to have his family murdered. Stone might deserve a good slap upside the head, but why should his sister be threatened because of an accident of birth? No one could control the family they got stuck with. Andrea knew that as well as anyone. She blurted, How was the threat delivered?

By mail. The letter was postmarked in Queens the day before yesterday.

She turned to Mr. Brisbin. Maybe we can get a print or trace it, sir.

He shook his head. That’s not why you’re here. Please allow Mr. Stone to continue.

Cringing at the subtle criticism, she pressed her lips tightly shut and returned her attention to the screen.

Dillon Stone went on. Karli is very special to me, Ms. Carnegie. I’m worried the threats are credible, and I’ve asked Mr. Brisbin to keep her safe. She needs protection, starting immediately.

Andrea studied the man’s dark eyes and tense jaw muscles. Beneath his controlled exterior, she sensed seething anger. Because he truly cared about his sister or because he believed himself to be all-powerful and someone had dared oppose him?

Mr. Brisbin passed Andrea an envelope. This is a photo of Karli Stone.

Andrea pulled the picture from the envelope, and her eyes shot open wide again. Holy crap! Karli Stone had dark brown hair worn in a wavy, feminine style, dark brown eyes, and a Cindy Crawford-like mole on the right side of her mouth. Karli had a more suave look, but their facial characteristics and build were the same. With hair dye and brown contact lenses, plus a little make-up, Andrea could pass for her twin.

I also noticed the resemblance, Mr. Brisbin said. That’s the reason you’ve been invited to this meeting.

She looked up at her boss, pulse jumping with hope. Could you please elaborate, sir?

He smiled cryptically. The best way to protect Miss Stone is to remove her from danger immediately. But if she disappears from sight, her would-be murderers will either lie low and wait until she returns or choose another target. So what I’d like to do, and am proposing to you, Mr. Stone, is that we replace your sister with one of our Rangers as soon as possible. Her replacement will serve as bait to apprehend the people who’ve threatened her before they can harm anyone.

Andrea blinked. Bingo. He wanted her to masquerade as Karli Stone.

His gaze bored into her. Of course, an assignment like that would be dangerous, and any Ranger who we put in that situation would have to volunteer.

Nick O’Shea spoke for the first time. I’d like to caution against this, sir. Ms. Carnegie isn’t experienced enough, not ready. And she doesn’t have the polished look to pull off being a socialite.

Her spine stiffened, and she clenched her teeth. She could do anything she put her mind to, and this was her big opportunity to prove she could be a better-than-average operative. Even though she hated stiff social events like weddings and fussy designer clothing, she’d spend time in hell pretending to be Satan’s mistress to earn her superiors’ respect.

Mr. Brisbin eyed Nick and laced his fingers together on the table, as if he were inviting debate. A tingle of panic nipped at her nerves. Damn. Nick O’Shea’s opinion carried a lot of weight, and his doubts could leave her sitting on the bench. He was a legend and highly regarded in the Rangers. The only reason he was temporarily working at a desk here in Boston was that his wife—who was an important senator’s daughter and oozed the inborn sophistication of a socialite—was pregnant and due to deliver any day. He’d requested safe, home-based duty until after his son was born.

Dillon Stone’s authoritative tone took control of the debate. I suppose putting in a substitute might work. But the plan has both pros and cons. The pros: Karli would be safe, your people would be there to watch out for her stand-in, and any attempts would lead to capture. But on the reverse side of the coin: a Ranger could be injured or killed, having someone pretend to be Karli won’t be easy, and Karli, who is rather obstinate at times, would have to agree to drop out of sight. He tapped a finger on his shiny desk. Ms. Carnegie does bear a striking resemblance to my sister, but I wouldn’t want her put into a situation beyond her capabilities.

Andrea saw another naysayer erecting roadblocks and acted fast.

I’m confident I can impersonate Ms. Stone and help capture her would-be assassins. Then she turned to Nick O’Shea and raised her chin in defiance. I spent four years at an internationally famous boarding school in Connecticut and, thanks to an old-fashioned etiquette instructor, I can handle myself quite well in any social situation. I know which fork to use for my salad, shrimp cocktail, main course, and dessert, and I can hold a wineglass in three fingers. And despite what you might think based on how I’m dressed at the moment, I clean up pretty good.

Nick said, Your background may be stellar, but we don’t know what you’re capable of professionally just yet. I’m only concerned for your safety.

Brisbin chuckled and addressed her training supervisor. What do you think, Brad? You’ve seen her progress firsthand. Has she had enough training to be able to keep her head down and work behind a team of experienced Rangers?

All eyes focused on Brad. The quartz clock over the door clicked away a second, then another. Each click plucked at her taut nerves. She stared at the gold pin with the Rangers insignia that shone on Brad’s lapel. She wanted a Ranger pin, and the respect it garnered, so badly that her stomach ached.

Brad glanced at her and nodded. If she’s paired with a good partner, she’ll be okay.

Her chest swelled, and she flashed Brad a quick look of thanks. Damn right she’d be okay. She’d show them Andrea Carnegie was tough and way more than the coach’s kid or Damian’s little sister.

Chapter Two

Mitch Weaver admired the golden sun peeking over the eastern hills as he steered his Jeep around a blind corner near the highest point on Saint Thomas. Movement in his peripheral vision drew his attention back to the road. He slammed his foot on the brake. Shit, could he stop in time?

His tires skidded on the loose sand for a couple yards, then the tread caught and the car slowed. The three-foot-long iguana scurrying across the road used the extra few seconds to bolt to the edge of the blacktop. The animal never looked back as it fled into the safety of a thick stand of banana trees.

Have a good one, buddy, Mitch called after the spiny tail of the escaping lizard. He huffed out a relieved breath, then pressed back down on the accelerator. Killing an innocent animal would throw a shadow over his sunny mood. And today of all days, he didn’t intend to let anything get him down or ruin his plans.

He glanced at his watch, aware that he had no real need for speed. Because he’d been feeling restless and high on anticipation, he’d skipped breakfast and shoved off early. Those few extra minutes wouldn’t buy him anything at his destination, however. Arriving at the King’s Bay shipping docks before nine would just mean he’d have to sit and wait.

The distinctive grille of another Jeep appeared around a curve. The two teenage occupants had the radio cranked, and the car’s framework vibrated to the throb of a bass drum as it sped past. Seeing the other car sent his mind spinning toward plans for the future.

If he put an ad in the weekly paper, he should be able to sell his Jeep quickly. They were practical and popular in the islands. With four-wheel drive and a stick shift, his Wrangler easily navigated the steep hills. Heck, it might be old, but it was lightly used. He’d never packed on much mileage, because he was usually away on assignments.

The motor labored, and he downshifted to climb the last hundred yards before the road reached the island’s summit. A police cruiser was parked in the only wide spot, the car partially concealed by giant philodendrons. The officer at the wheel looked bored. Was he watching for speeders or enjoying his morning coffee?

Mitch waved. The guy probably didn’t appreciate the relative safety of the islands. Until a person experienced the alternative, they couldn’t truly value walking on the street without carrying an Uzi.

He chewed the corner of his lower lip. He knew how bad other places could be. And he was glad to be home, living in the open after spending seven months working undercover in the jungles and alleys of that hellhole known as Colombia.

Mitch started down the other side of the hill and pumped the brakes on the first dangerous hairpin turn. He glanced out over an incredibly beautiful vista and the shimmering blue ocean. Don’t think about death and suffering today. Forget that right this minute some bastard is hatching an evil plan. That the world’s sociopaths and predators are picking new targets. That tomorrow morning a child will wake to discover one of his parents is dead.

He shook off the memories that tried to worm toward the surface.

No way was he thinking about work on his first day off in months. Let someone else take a turn at catching the bad guys and making the world a safer place. Let someone else do the dirty work for the next twenty-four hours.

He imagined the rest of his day and chuckled. The next time he drove through here, he’d be sitting in his sleek, straight-from-the-factory, shiny new ride. Right this minute, the bumblebee-yellow Corvette convertible should be coming off a freighter.

As a middle child, his life had always been filled with pre-owned goods like the hand-me-down clothes he’d worn to school. His first car was a castoff from Dad. He’d bought his current Jeep secondhand from his older brother. Today that pattern was about to change.

Today he’d slide into a car with zero miles on the odometer, no scratches or door dings in the finish, and perfectly perfect leather upholstery. Today he’d take possession from the customs agent and then spend the afternoon and evening savoring life. He had some success, enough financial security to buy the car of his dreams. He was alive.

Steve Sikes wasn’t.

Before he could block the image, Mitch pictured the remote Cartagena hillside scarred by an unmarked mound of dirt. Pictured his former Ranger partner, pale and still. Steve was dead after bleeding out from a dozen bullet wounds. Dead at thirty-one years young. Dead. Never to laugh or make love to his wife again. Dead after pulling a stupid, heroic stunt that got a young girl out of the cross fire but cost Steve his life.

Mitch clenched his teeth until his jaw muscles screamed for mercy. There was nothing he could have done. No way Steve could have been saved. He had to stop thinking about that moment and second-guessing his actions. Had to work past his doubts and rebuild his confidence. Despite the constant clawing in his gut, there was no going back, no second chance. No one could have prevented Steve’s death.

He sucked in a deep breath. Okay, Steve was dead. But he was alive.

And damn it, he was going to act alive. He was going to pick up his new ride, put the top down, crank the stereo, and run the vehicle through its paces. He’d drive every mile of road on Saint Thomas, feel the tires grip the road on the hairpin turns of Signal Hill, let the wind rip at his hair on the roller-coaster route along the north shore. Maybe later he’d take the ferry to Saint John and watch the full moon rise over the