Secret Agent Heiress

By Julie Miller

By day these agents are cowboys; by night they are specialized government operatives. Men bound by love, loyalty and the law--they've vowed to keep their missions and identities confidential....

THE MISSION: BABY-SIT AN HEIRESS

Rescue a spoiled heiress who'd gotten herself kidnapped? Agent Vincent Romeo did it single-handed. But instead of the society cream puff Vincent expected, this female seemed to think she was the agent in charge! Whitney MacNair was pure trouble on a shapely set of legs--with a charm as lethal as a loaded gun aimed straight at Vincent's jaded heart.

Whitney had felt alone for so long--now a protector as fierce as the Montana mountains refused to leave her side. Falling for the quiet agent was more dangerous than going after the men stalking her, but heartache meant nothing when each kiss might be their last....

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jun 17, 2010
• ISBN: 9781426867484

Julie Miller

USA TODAY bestselling author Julie Miller writes breathtaking romantic suspense. She has sold millions of copies of her books worldwide, and has earned a National Readers Choice Award, two Daphne du Maurier prizes and an RT BookReviews Career Achievement Award. For a complete list of her books and more, go to www.juliemiller.org.

Book preview

Prologue

Jewel? Whitney MacNair’s bay Appaloosa danced beneath her on the rocky path. A sure sign of trouble. Your grandpa did say the rattlesnakes would be in hibernation now, didn’t he?

She glanced up the steep rock wall to the autumn golds and greens of aspen and lodgepole pine trees growing on the plateau above her. Sometimes a coyote would come out of the woods and follow along, just to check the new scents of horses and riders in his domain. The deceptive mix of light and shadow in the trees played tricks on her vision. Maybe something moved up there. And maybe she’d better keep her focus on the narrowing path.

The twelve-year-old girl on the sorrel gelding ahead of her turned in her saddle and shoved her hat back on her honey-blond hair. It’s too cold in October, Whit. Gramps said that if there are any snakes left, they won’t come out to heat themselves on the rocks until this afternoon.

Whitney tugged at the neckline of her frost-blue cashmere sweater. It was warm enough by her standards. She’d already shed the matching wool jacket and tied it to the back of her bulky western saddle. She’d endured three months in this godforsaken wilderness, and she still couldn’t get used to the rapid fluctuations in temperature.

She didn’t really mind it so much today, though, she thought, letting a satisfied smile curve her lips. Sure, the nearest thing that passed for a town was a good fifty miles away in Livingston. And it was another hundred more beyond that to reach anything she’d classify as civilization. But her boss, Daniel Austin, had given her the sweetest compliment earlier today.

Nice job, Whit, he’d said.

It wasn’t so much the words, but the fact that he’d recognized her contribution—however small—to the smooth running of Montana Confidential, a covert branch of the federal Department of Public Safety. Under Daniel’s direction, they’d set up a command center, beneath the guise of a working ranch, to handle the threat of terrorists sneaking into the United States across the unpopulated Montana–Canadian border.

The Black Order, as the terrorists called themselves, had attempted to destroy a research facility, sabotage a public water system, even kill the governor of Montana, trying to get a foothold of control in the U.S. But Montana Confidential and its diverse team of agents had turned them back each time.

Whitney was no agent. She had the thoroughly unglamorous title of executive assistant. Glorified secretary was more like it. Cum laude graduate from the best schools in the East, sentenced to a job well beneath her talents and experience.

But today, after nearly three months in the boondocks of Montana, far away from her family—states away from a proper department store—the isolation hadn’t mattered quite so much.

Nice job.

Her smile broadened. She’d been working day and night fielding calls from law enforcement agencies all over the state, reports of sightings of Dimitri Chilton, the leader of the Black Order terrorist group, who was still at large.

It wasn’t the kind of work she’d trained for at Smith College. But Daniel had needed her to fill that role, and she hadn’t let him down. She’d been more than window dressing. More than a kid sister anyone needed to baby-sit. She’d rolled up her sleeves, sat her butt in the chair and kept the top-secret war room running while the field agents completed an undercover sting designed to expose and capture the Black Order.

Though some of the operatives had nearly lost their lives, they’d saved the Montana governor, and rounded up or eliminated every terrorist except one.

Dimitri Chilton had escaped.

Whitney shivered, feeling a sudden chill despite the trickle of sweat that gathered at the small of her back.

What are we supposed to do if we meet this bear of yours? she asked, diverting her thoughts back to her friend. She wondered if Jewel really had spotted a black bear this late in the year, or if this trail ride was just an excuse to discuss the pitfalls of puppy love with Charlie Korbett.

I want to take a picture of it to show at school. The girl’s small shoulders rose and fell in an adult-size sigh. Besides, I had to get away from the ranch. C.J. wanted to take me shopping in Livingston. If she invites me to go on one more dorky outing with her…

Ah. Cecilia Jane trouble. Jewel had a serious crush on C.J.’s new husband, Frank Connolly. Almost three months had passed since their August wedding in Las Vegas, but Jewel just couldn’t forgive C.J. for stealing the man of her dreams, despite several efforts from Frank and C.J. to reach some sort of truce with her.

She’s just trying to be friendly, you know, Whitney commented.

Well, she should stop trying. I’m not interested. I’d rather hang out with you any day. You are way cooler—

The snap of a twig from above cut short the teen-angst tirade. Jewel glanced up as her horse danced beneath her. Did you hear that?

Whitney’s heartbeat quickened. Yeah. She racked her brain for the proper way to defend herself against a bear attack. Trouble was, they didn’t get many bears back in Martha’s Vineyard or Washington, D.C. But avoiding narrow alleys was a good technique to escape muggers. She applied the big-city logic and nudged the heels of her leather boots into the Appaloosa’s sides. Let’s pick up the pace and get to the top of the plateau. There’s not much space to turn the horses around here.

Jewel urged her mount into a trot and Whitney followed close behind. Something was out there. Snake or bear, perhaps. Something big enough and bad enough to spook the horses.

The Appaloosa’s ears flattened against its skull. She leaned forward and stroked its neck, trying to ease the wary tension radiating from the horse into her legs and straight up to the warning bell dinging inside her head. Easy, boy.

She scanned down the tree-studded slope to where Crooked Creek wound through the bottom of the valley. This steady climb into the Absaroka-Beartooth Mountains at the eastern edge of the Lonesome Pony Ranch suddenly seemed hundreds of miles away from the house and outbuildings where she and the Confidential team lived and worked.

Whitney!

A black, stocky figure leaped from the rocks above, caught Jewel by the shoulder and knocked her from her horse.

Bears didn’t leap.

They didn’t wear leather gloves and black baseball caps, either.

Jewel!

Whitney dug in her heels and charged the Appaloosa straight at the girl’s attacker. The man bounced to his feet with Jewel clutched in his arms. But every ounce of tomboy and spitfire kicked and punched. He dropped Jewel on her rump in the dust. Whitney pulled her right foot from the stirrup, held tight to the saddle horn and kicked out just as he turned.

She caught him square in the jaw and sent him flying backward. Tugging hard on the reins, she jerked the Appaloosa to a halt.

Whitney spun around in the saddle to see Jewel going after her hat in the tall grass. Jewel, get on your horse!

The added height and a thousand-plus pounds of frightened animal would give her an advantage over the man. Jewel abandoned the hat and ran for her panicked sorrel.

The man in the short black coat scrambled to his feet. He paused long enough to flash Whitney a taunting smile. With the back of his gloved hand, he wiped the fresh blood from the corner of his mouth. He pulled the bill of his hat low over his forehead, masking his eyes.

Whitney knew a dare when she saw one.

He turned away. His brisk, long stride carried him quickly, methodically closer to Jewel.

The girl caught one rein on the sorrel’s bridle. The horse’s eyes rolled, and he reared up, pulling her off her feet. Jewel held on, but the man closed in on her.

No! Whitney screamed the warning. The man never broke his stride. Jewel tried to calm her horse, but her own desperation was too easy to read. Whitney tugged on the Appaloosa’s reins. But she’d boxed herself in at the narrowest point of the ascent, leaving her no room to maneuver the skittish horse without tumbling down the side of the mountain.

Pulling her feet free of the stirrups, she swung her right leg over the horse’s neck and jumped to the ground. The impact of the hard, dry earth jolted her legs. But she absorbed the shock through her shins and knees and took off running.

Jewel had gotten close enough to wrap her fingers in the sorrel’s mane. The man in black snatched the back of her denim jacket in his fist. Jewel pulled, he tugged, and Whitney charged.

Boot first, she kicked him in the side, aiming for a kidney. He lost his grip, flew three feet and dropped to his knees.

Whitney grabbed Jewel’s left leg and lifted. Get up.

Jewel swung her leg over and snatched at the reins. Whit, look out!

A thick black-clad arm closed around her neck from behind, choking her. The man lifted her away from Jewel. But boredom alone wasn’t the only reason she’d signed up for those kickboxing classes in Livingston.

As soon as her feet touched ground, she shifted her balance and brought her elbow back into his gut. Once. She fisted her hand, squeezed her muscles into steel and struck a second time. The elbow jab loosened his grip and she twisted around. She rammed the butt of her hand up under his nose, and his head jerked back.

Whitney planted her left foot, and with every inch of her long legs stretched up to kick the heel of her boot in the very same place.

A slew of foreign obscenities bespoke his pain as he sank to the ground. She didn’t wait to translate. She spun around and ran for her horse, shouting commands to Jewel behind her. Get out of here! Get back to the ranch. Get help. Go!

Whitney!

Glancing back at the frantic warning was her mistake. The man was on his feet in hot pursuit. She braced for his attack.

She shifted her weight to her left and kicked with her right. But he was ready for her this time. He caught her ankle and twisted her knee, pulling her off balance.

Pain shot up past her thigh and she hit the ground hard, flat on her back, knocking the wind from her chest. The clear blue sky swam above her. She squeezed her eyes shut against the dizzy sensation and tried to suck in precious oxygen, but the effort seared her throbbing lungs.

A heavy weight fell on top of her, crushing her back into the uneven jabs of small rocks beneath her. Her eyes shot open in a breathless cry of pain and she saw the man in black above her. His forearm pressed down on the base of her throat. She was vaguely aware of lifting her hands and trying to push him off her.

Her mouth opened and closed, struggling to bring air into her deprived lungs. The sky above her swirled into a blur. She blinked her eyes clear and tried to move her legs, but the weight of his body trapped her. Her fingers turned to mush and lost their grip on his coat. A hammering sound pounded in her ears. Jewel’s horse? Or the erratic pulse beat of a body fighting for air to breathe?

A drop of blood from her assailant’s battered face hit her cheek and singed her skin. But she couldn’t turn away from the grim touch with his arm anchored at her throat. He was choking her, she realized amid the gray haze that drifted into her mind and robbed her of rational thought.

She was going to die on the side of a mountain in the middle of nowhere, far away from family and friends and any chance of rescue.

With one final surge of energy she punched her hand up and knocked the cap off his head, exposing the shaggy length of his black hair. But it was the even blacker void of his familiar, spiritless eyes that snatched the last lingering breath of air from her throat.

She’d seen that face a hundred times, plastered on the walls and transmitted over the data screens in the Confidential war room.

Dimitri Chilton.

With nothing left inside her, no fight, no breath—no hope—Whitney surrendered to the blackness that consumed her.

Chapter One

We’re here, Romeo.

Agent Vincent Romeo opened his bleary eyes and studied his surroundings before ever lifting his chin from the pillow of his chest.

The Lonesome Pony Ranch looked pretty much the way his pilot escort had described it. Low, sprawling hills nestled between two mountain ranges. Horses grazing in snow-spotted pastures. A log house perched on top of a hill, surrounded by ranch buildings and guest cabins. Clear blue sky.

And not a skyscraper in sight.

Vincent unfolded his long legs from the tight confines of the chopper and stepped onto the concrete helipad. He rolled his cramped shoulders and tested the air by inhaling deeply. Nice. No trace of smog. His city-trained lungs would probably rebel.

He swiped his hand down his face and jaw, trying to shake the lingering fatigue. He could use a shave and a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

But when the President of the United States summoned you at one in the morning for a special assignment, you didn’t say no. Even if twenty-four hours earlier you were finishing up a weeklong stakeout that ended in a messy gun battle, leaving one agent wounded and a hit man dead.

That could have been you, Vinnie. He could hear Melissa’s tearful voice in his head, even five years after she’d dumped him at the altar with that grand speech. Yeah, his job was dangerous. He put his life on the line every time he strapped on his badge and gun. But somebody had to walk the line between the good guys and the bad guys. Somebody had to make the world a safer place.

His father had walked that line. He’d known the risks long before that bullet had claimed his life.

Vincent knew the risks, too.

He strapped on his badge and gun, anyway.

You coming, Romeo? The dark-haired pilot who had picked him up at the airport, Frank Connolly, was already striding down the hill to a battered tan pickup truck.

Obviously fit and strong, Connolly’s uneven gait piqued Vincent’s curiosity. Like his father, had Connolly, too, been struck down in the line of duty?

Vincent didn’t ask. He wasn’t here to indulge his curiosity or to make friends.

He was here to do a job.

Tucking memories and philosophizing neatly away where they couldn’t distract him, Vincent reached behind his seat to retrieve his gear. He traveled light. He already carried the important stuff, either on his person or inside his head. But it paid to be prepared for any contingency. He slung the black nylon duffel bag over his shoulder, and joined Connolly in the truck.

As they pulled up in front of the ranch house, a blond-haired man opened the screen door and stepped onto the porch. The weight of authority he carried on his shoulders easily identified him as the boss of this operation. He crossed to the top of the steps and waited for Vincent to approach.

By the time Vincent had set his bag on the wooden bench beside the front door, the boss had been joined by Connolly and two other men, who introduced themselves as Court Brody and Patrick McMurty.

The boss introduced himself last. Daniel Austin.

Vincent unzipped his black leather jacket and reached inside. He pulled out the wallet that carried his badge and ID and flipped it open. Vincent Romeo. National Security Agency.

Daniel glanced at the identification and returned it. His firm handshake welcomed him and urged him to get down to business all at the same time. The war room is downstairs, but I think we can do this right here.

Vincent handed him an envelope sealed with a stamp marked POTUS. President of the United States, huh? Daniel recognized the eagle logo, then slipped his thumb beneath the flap. He wants to oversee this mission personally, is that it?

The hostage is of personal importance to the president.

Daniel paused. His clear brown eyes sent an unmistakable message. "She’s important to us. And we call her Whitney around here."

Vincent acknowledged the warning with a silent nod. He folded his arms across his chest, distancing himself from the palpable urgency of this unusual business meeting. He made no apology for studying the group of men as closely as they scrutinized him. Each man seemed at ease with his surroundings, at ease with the type of job they’d been asked to do for their country. Daniel, Frank, Court—even Grandpa McMurty.

Patrick McMurty was some kind of retired sheriff or military officer. The upright carriage and balanced stance of an alert man ready for trouble were recognizable to Vincent’s trained eye. According to the briefing he’d received on the plane, McMurty had been recruited to run the ranch and provide the cover necessary for the operatives to blend in with this part of the country.

Montana Confidential had put together a pretty fair team of counterterrorist agents. Having outside help to retrieve one of their own probably wasn’t sitting well with any of them.

Vincent shrugged off the observation, only momentarily concerned about treading on another man’s turf. His job was to rescue Whitney MacNair, not win any popularity contest. He focused his attention back on Daniel, who had finished reading the official letter. Everything clear?

We’re to provide you with whatever backup you need. But you’re point man on this mission. Daniel stuffed the papers back into the envelope. Name it and you’ve got it.

Vincent knew his list already. I need a map of the terrain and I need to talk to the girl. I have everything else I need.

Frank Connolly shook his head and stepped forward. You mean we have no part in this? Kyle Foster’s cutting short his honeymoon to help get Whitney back. He and Laura will be here by this afternoon.

Vincent recognized the name of another agent and his new wife, who’d been recruited to help expose collusion between the Black Order and an American contact who worked at her father’s research facility.

The Black Order was no ordinary adversary. Like any terrorist group, they despised the United States and its global domination. But their insidious attempts to influence and undermine the American government, as well as corrupt and frighten its citizens, weren’t his concern at the moment.

He had to bring home a kidnapped society girl. Let Montana Confidential handle the terrorists.

Daniel Austin understood that. He laid a placating hand on Frank’s shoulder. President’s orders. The Confidential group is to play a support role only. Gerald MacNair, Sr., Whitney’s father, seems to be an old family friend. This is being handled out of Washington.

Court Brody swore, clearly as frustrated by the red tape as Frank. This is our territory. We know it better than any hotshot from the East Coast.

Chicago, Daniel corrected him. Court, a former FBI man who probably understood the politics of Washington better than anyone there, seemed unimpressed. And you do know this land better than any of us. The command was clear.

Vincent absorbed the brunt of Court’s steely-eyed glare before he excused himself to do Daniel’s bidding. I’ll draw up a map.

Frank, seemingly a respected voice of reason among the men, turned his argument to Daniel. You’re letting him go in solo? Chilton’s a desperate man. No telling what he’s willing to do.

Vincent handled his own defense. There’s one hostage, one kidnapper. He added the next without false modesty. I only need me.

Daniel pocketed the orders. What Frank’s trying to say is that Chilton’s unpredictable. He may be on his own right now, but he still has a U.S. contact we haven’t been able to uncover. If he somehow managed to make that connection, he may not be alone. You could be walking into an ambush.

Just like Dad. His father had gone into that warehouse to save a little girl’s life. And because of his sacrifice, his partner had been able to bring the girl out alive.

Without betraying the wandering path of his weary brain, Vincent acknowledged Daniel’s advice. Thanks for the friendly warning. But I’ve been briefed on Chilton.

Daniel swept his gaze across the rugged