Secret Agent Seduction (5 page)

Magliore's brazen defection from the Muwaitian army two years ago had earned him thousands of loyal followers—weak, pathetic souls who came to regard him as their hero, their modern-day savior. Magliore represented everything Alexandre Biassou did not have—righteousness, integrity, goodness and valor. As long as the charismatic rebel leader remained alive, valiantly fighting for the cause of the Muwaitian people, they could hold on to their futile hopes and dreams for a brighter, more prosperous future.

As Magliore's popularity grew, as he successfully mobilized a growing number of dissidents, Alexandre had wanted nothing more than to capture and publicly execute the insolent traitor, making him an example to anyone who dared to defy Alexandre's authority.

But his advisor had warned him against taking such action.

“If you kill him, he will become a martyr. And nothing destroys a kingdom faster than the looming specter of a martyr.”

So Alexandre had proved his critics wrong, and heeded the man's counsel.

For over a year he'd allowed Magliore and his coarse band of freedom fighters to lead their demonstrations and revolts, many of which ended in violent clashes with members of the Muwaitian army. Although he had lost several comrades along the way, Magliore had never backed down. If anything, he seemed to grow more defiant, more relentless in his crusade to overthrow Alexandre. It was as if the loss of each soldier strengthened him, giving him a renewed sense of purpose and commitment to his cause. And instead of blaming him for the senseless deaths of their sons and brothers, the Muwaitian people simply handed over more of their men to help in the fight.

Alexandre was infuriated. He had been severely tempted to disregard his advisor's counsel and strike out, crushing Magliore beneath the heel of his boot like nothing more than an annoying insect. It didn't help that in the back of his mind lingered a secret fear that Magliore would come back to finish what he'd started in the backseat of that limousine two years ago.

Get him before he gets me,
Alexandre had often thought to himself.

And then the unthinkable happened.

Jean-Claude Baptiste, a high-ranking official in Alexandre's party who was disgruntled over his limited share in Alexandre's coffers, had turned on him. He'd gone straight to Magliore and told him everything he knew about Alexandre's illegitimate presidency, including the most damaging part of all—Alexandre's plot to assassinate the president of the United States.

By the time Alexandre had learned of Baptiste's unspeakable treachery, it was too late. Magliore had already contacted the U.S. government and brokered a deal. His testimony against Alexandre in exchange for political asylum in America for his family.

Enraged, Alexandre had reacted swiftly and without mercy. He and his men had taken Baptiste out to the deepest, darkest bowels of the jungle and castrated him, leaving him there to slowly bleed to death. When Alexandre had returned an hour later, Baptiste had been gasping his last breath. Alexandre had spat in his face, then sliced open his chest and ripped out his heart. Baptiste's mutilated remains had been left behind for predators to feast upon. His heart had been delivered to Armand Magliore with a note attached:
This is what happens to traitors.

And then, for good measure, Alexandre had put a bullet between the eyes of his advisor.

If he had not heeded the foolish man's advice in the first place, Magliore would have been dead and buried a long time ago. Instead he'd been allowed to run rampant, spreading his message of dissent among his oppressed countrymen, solidifying himself as one of Alexandre's most formidable enemies.

Alexandre clenched his jaw. As evidence that Baptiste had been secretly devising his downfall for several months, he'd kept for himself indisputable proof of the assassination plot. After he was killed, a search of his residence had revealed a locked safe filled with taped phone conversations and audio recordings from clandestine strategy meetings that had taken place right inside the presidential palace. It was not known whether he had furnished copies of these items to Magliore before he died. In all likelihood, he had not. If the U.S. government were already in possession of irrefutable evidence of Alexandre's guilt, he would already be in prison. No, they did not have the proof, he assured himself once again. They needed Magliore to appear before the United Nations Security Council and testify against Alexandre. Magliore was their secret weapon, their surprise witness. Without his official testimony, no charges could be brought against Alexandre.

He not only intended to keep Magliore from making it to that hearing, he intended to silence him permanently. As he should have done two years ago.

If only he could find capable assassins worthy of the task.

Alexandre ground his teeth. The bitter acid of bile churned in his stomach, rising in his mouth. His hands fisted so tightly that his nails dug into the calloused flesh of his palms. He didn't so much as flinch.

There were two things on this earth Alexandre Biassou could not abide. One was cowardice.

The other was failure.

He may not have succeeded in his first attempt to eliminate the defector who posed the biggest threat to his future.

But Alexandre would not fail again. As far as he was concerned, failure was not an option.

Sunday, September 7, 2008
0400 hours
Thurmont, Maryland
Day 3

L
ia awakened at 4:00 a.m. to work out with the free weights and pull-up bar she'd set up in her room before going to bed the night before. As she went through her sets and reps, pushing her aching muscles to the limit, she watched as dawn broke over the Catoctin Mountains, spreading vivid flame in hues of orange and pink across the sky. It promised to be another beautiful day, one that almost made her wish she were at the scenic mountain retreat on vacation, instead of on assignment.

When she finished her workout, she showered and dressed in a crisp white button-down shirt and a pair of tan slacks. She'd washed her hair and blown it dry before she'd gone to bed. She now twisted it into a loose knot atop her head, then surveyed her reflection in the full-length mirror in the bathroom. She looked neat, sensible and professional—exactly what she'd been going for. God knows she didn't want to give Armand Magliore any reason to find her attractive. Although, she noted grimly, her travel-worn appearance hadn't seemed to make a difference at dinner last night. Every time she'd glanced across the table, she'd found Magliore watching her with that bold, possessive gaze. The heat he sent through his penetrating eyes surrounded her, leaving her with a liquid rush in unspeakable parts of her body.

She'd been secretly relieved when, after the meal, Magliore had not joined her and the others for poker, going to bed early instead. She'd waited until she could be sure he was asleep before she'd sent her colleagues on their way. And then she'd lain awake for hours, trying her damnedest not to think about the irresistibly sexy man in the room beside hers, trying not to imagine whether he slept in the nude. Of course, the more she tried not to imagine this, the more her mind wandered. She fantasized about sneaking into his room and sliding beneath his bedcovers to press her naked body against his hot, muscled flesh. He groaned huskily with pleasure and reached for her, cupping her buttocks and holding her tightly against his throbbing erection. She shivered, her clitoris swelling with arousal. She kissed his soft, sensuous lips and slipped her tongue inside his mouth as they writhed against each other.

Without breaking the kiss, Lia rose about him, straddled his hips and lowered herself onto his long, thick shaft. He swore hoarsely and began thrusting into her so hard and fast she nearly lost her balance astride him. But she held on tight for what would become the ride of her life.

The fantasy was so carnal, so
real,
that before long Lia found herself gasping for breath, two fingers pushed deep inside her body as she brought herself to a shuddering orgasm.

It had been a
long
night.

With a sigh of disgust, Lia slipped on a pair of low-heeled pumps and holstered her sidearm before heading out of the room.

It was still early, barely five-thirty. She hoped she had a few more hours to herself before Magliore woke up. She needed at least that much.

But as she stepped from her room, she noticed that his door was halfway open. She felt a slight twinge of disappointment.

So much for having a few hours to myself.

She paused in the doorway for a moment, listening for sounds of movement or running water within the room. It was silent.

She knocked softly. “Mr. Magliore?”

There was no answer.

Lia hesitated, then pushed the door all the way open and slowly entered the room. The large master suite had the same cozy, rustic furnishings as her own room, but it also featured a fireplace and a private seating area with two overstuffed chairs and an ottoman.

One half of the king-size bed was rumpled, the heavy comforter thrown back across the undisturbed side. On a wooden bench at the foot of the bed, a sturdy leather suitcase sat open, filled with the tasteful articles of clothing that had been purchased for Magliore before his arrival.

As Lia ventured farther inside the room, she prayed she wouldn't stumble upon the man naked, or worse, answering the call of nature. How embarrassing would
that
be.

“Mr. Magliore?” she called out.

Still no answer.

The bathroom was empty.

The entire suite was empty.

Lia turned and headed quickly from the room. With a mounting sense of alarm, she checked the living room and the rustic, utilitarian kitchen near the back of the cabin.

Magliore was nowhere in sight.

Cursing under her breath, Lia reached for her sidearm and hurried toward the front door, adrenaline pumping through her veins. Her mind raced with possible scenarios of what had happened to him, foremost that he'd been kidnapped by Biassou's mercenaries in the dead of night and taken somewhere to be tortured and killed.

Oh, God. Please not that!

Lia threw open the front door and burst onto the wraparound porch.

She was brought up short by the sight of Armand Magliore standing at the wooden balustrade that curved around the wide porch. His back was turned to her, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark jeans, as he stared out at the forested hills and mountains in the distance.

At her sudden appearance, he glanced over his shoulder. His lazy gaze ran the length of her, skimming over the service revolver gripped in her right hand before returning to her face.

“Good morning,” he said softly.

The adrenaline ebbed from her system, replaced by an overwhelming surge of relief—and anger.

“Good morning?”
Lia echoed in disbelief. “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

He arched an amused brow at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“I thought you'd been kidnapped by Biassou's men,” she burst out. “I thought they'd broken into the cabin in the middle of the night and snatched you out of bed. I thought you might already be
dead!
”

A ghost of a smile lifted the corners of his sensuous mouth. As he turned slowly to face her, Lia couldn't help noticing how nicely his jeans fit him, riding low on his lean hips and clinging to the hard, sculpted muscles of his thighs and buttocks.

Did the infuriating man have to be so damn sexy?

“As you can see,” he murmured, “I'm very much alive.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Lia snapped. She holstered her weapon, glaring at him. “What the hell are you doing out here by yourself, anyway?”

“I wanted to watch the sun rise. It's a simple pleasure I haven't enjoyed in over a year.”

Something in the quiet admission made Lia feel guilty for yelling at him. Which only angered her more. “Yeah, well, I hope it was worth risking your life for,” she said testily.

“Oh, it was, believe me. It was the most beautiful thing I've seen in a long time.” Gazing at her, he added huskily, “Second only to you.”

Her heart thumped, and she swallowed with difficulty. Refusing to yield to the jagged need suddenly flooding her system, Lia returned his gaze steadily. “In the future,” she said, her voice carefully controlled, “please refrain from leaving the cabin unattended. My job is to protect you, but I can't do that very well if you insist on wandering off alone.”

Magliore inclined his head. “Fair enough.”

“Thank you.”

Slightly mollified that he'd acquiesced so easily, Lia made her way across the wide porch to join him at the railing. She felt his eyes on her as she took a deep breath of cool, clean air, scented with pine and cedar and the soft perfumes of a dozen wildflowers in late-summer bloom. In the distance, the sunlight spilled over the shoulders of the Catoctin Mountains like liquid gold. Halfway up the side of the mountain range, an eagle soared above the tops of the Douglas fir and pine trees, wings outstretched as it climbed higher and higher in the air.

Lia watched in silence, letting the peace and beauty of her surroundings seep into her, if only for a few moments.

“Just for the record,” she murmured, “it
was
a breathtaking sunrise.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Magliore smile at her. “You watched it, too?”

“Yes.
I
watched it from a window in my room. I believe yours has one, too. A window, I mean.”

He chuckled softly. “Touché.”

“I don't even know how you slipped past me,” Lia grumbled irately, unwilling to drop the subject. “I've been up for over an hour. I didn't hear you get up or sneak past my door.”

He flashed a mischievous grin. “I can be very stealthy when I want to be.”

Lia frowned. “That may be true, but what about the security alarm? The control panel is supposed to emit a signal every time someone leaves or enters the cabin.” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously on his handsome face. “I read in your dossier that you're very adept at taking things apart and putting them back together. Did you do something to that alarm?”

Again he chuckled. “I assure you, Miss Charles, I didn't touch the alarm.”

Lia's frown deepened. She'd secured the cabin before going to bed last night, and the alarm had been working just fine. Had someone else tampered with it? She and the other three agents were the only ones who had access to the cabin, and she couldn't imagine any of them sneaking over in the middle of the night to disable the security system.

Don't overreact, Lia. Maybe there's a simple explanation for what happened. Maybe one of the wires had a short circuit.

“Let's go back inside,” she said to Magliore, who was watching her intently. “I can make some coffee before we walk down to the lodge to have breakfast in an hour.”

“Sounds good,” he murmured. Gently he cupped her elbow and steered her toward the open doorway of the cabin, the warmth of his strong fingers penetrating the thin cotton of her blouse. Lia was too distracted by the mystery of the malfunctioning alarm to notice.

Or at least that's what she told herself.

A thorough inspection of the alarm control panel revealed nothing amiss.

After questioning the other agents, who were equally baffled by what had happened, Lia got on the phone with her immediate supervisor in Washington. Nancy Janikowski was in charge of protective services for foreign heads of state, ambassadors and other visiting dignitaries. As team leader, she also served as liaison for agents in the field.

“Given how old those cabins are, you're bound to have some issues with faulty wiring,” Janikowski said after hearing what had happened.

“How soon can you get someone out here to look into it?” Lia asked.

“It may take a day or two. I'll put in a call as soon as I get off the phone with you.”

Lia nodded. It wasn't quite the answer she'd been hoping for, but she knew there was nothing she could do about it.

All thirty cabins on the property were equipped with high-tech security systems that were networked to an off-site central command center. The alarms were largely viewed as a last line of defense, and a thin one at that. The rationale was that if any unauthorized person, such as a terrorist, somehow breached all the security protocols and made it past the marine guard patrols stationed at various checkpoints on the property, an alarm would be sounded long before the intruder reached any of the cabins.

For that reason, no one at headquarters would consider it a priority to dispatch an electrician to investigate faulty wiring at a cabin that would be vacated in less than ten days anyway.

Lia knew it, and so did Janikowski.

“Try to relax a little, Lia. You're at one of the safest places in the world.”

“I know,” Lia murmured.

The rural mountain retreat was so secure that most agents felt comfortable giving their protectees more freedom and privacy. During a previous assignment, in which Lia had been a member of the protection detail for a Lebanese sheikh and his wife, the couple was allowed to go on long, leisurely walks while Lia and the other agents followed at a distance of a hundred yards. As long as the couple remained in their sight, the agents believed they were more than safe.

The difference between then and now, Lia reminded herself, was that Armand Magliore was no visiting dignitary. He was a hunted man. Hunted by a ruthless tyrant who would stop at nothing to keep Magliore from testifying against him. It would be foolish to underestimate Alexandre Biassou, to think the danger had passed simply because they were no longer on his turf. Lia had been trained to anticipate the impossible, to leave nothing to chance. As long as Magliore remained in her custody, she would do everything in her power to keep him safe.

Nothing less would do.

As if reading her mind, Janikowski said, “President Fordham expects us to take very good care of Magliore, to make sure all of his needs are met. Whatever he wants, we're to give it to him—within reason, of course. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Lia said.

“Good.” There was a light tapping on the other end, and Lia could imagine Janikowski seated in her tidy little office back in D.C., drumming her lacquered fingernails on the glass-topped surface of her equally tidy desk.