"It wasn't my idea to get up close and personal with the man in the first place," she replied with a touch of acid. "I'm curious, though. How, exactly, do you plan to take care of him? You're stuck out here on the patch for at least another three weeks."
Tossing the sheet aside, he rolled out of the bunk. When he turned to shag his jeans, Liz got a great view of shoulders roped with hard muscle; a long, tapered back and world-class buns.
The view was just as good when he faced her. The bristles on his cheeks and chin were the same golden brown as the scattering of chest hair that arrowed toward his hard, flat belly. Battling the ridiculous urge to trail a fingernail down that tantalizing line, Liz folded her arms and waited for his response.
"The how isn't important," he told her. "Just trust me on this, okay?"
"Oh, that's good coming from the man who decamped and left me to explain a dead body to the police."
"Sorry 'bout that." He scraped a palm over his bristles, his smile rueful. "It won't happen again."
"What? Me explaining a dead body or you decamping?"
Devlin kept his smile in place, but her tart comment hit home. Like most rig men, he'd made a career of going wherever the job took him. He'd lost a wife to the long separations. He had no business making promises he might not be able to keep. But he would ensure Liz was safe before he departed the scene again.
Crossing the few feet separating them, he curled a knuckle under her chin. "Someone will contact you within the next eight to ten hours. They'll tell you Rigger sent them."
"And Rigger is?" 'That's me, darlin'."
He dropped a kiss on her nose and scooped up the rest of his clothes. The taste of her was still on his lips when he entered his cabin, flipped up his cell phone and activated the secure satellite link to OMEGA control.
Five
"I want someone on her, and fast."
The grim urgency in Rigger's voice bled through his controller's headset. Andrew MacDonald, code named Riever, after the fierce warriors who'd roved the borderlands between Scotland and England, acknowledged the request.
"I hear you."
"This El Tiburon is one bad piece of work. We don't have proof he's involved in this stolen passport ring, but he's sure to have his hands in it somehow. He's got them in everything else down here."
Drew shot a quick glance at the electronic status board that dominated one wall of OMEGA's control center. Four operatives including Rigger were already in the field. Another was undergoing an intensive course in Arctic survival. Yet another was sporting a full leg cast, compliments of the crowbar wielded by the slasher she'd recently taken down.
Drew had already coordinated with the CIA and U.S. customs for undercover operatives to conduct additional screening of crews coming off the various AmMex rigs scattered along the Baja peninsula. He'd have to scramble to get someone down to Piedras Rojas to cover Elizabeth Moore.
"Okay, Rigger, I'll work it and get back to you."
Twenty minutes later Drew took the elevator to the first floor. He made a quick scan of the closed-circuit surveillance screen before exiting the elevator. The chief's executive assistant had already cleared him for access, but someone might have just walked in off the street. Every agent exercised great caution when leaving OMEGA's secure facilities and entering the domain of the president's special envoy.
The grandmotherly figure seated behind an ornate Louis XV reception desk greeted him with a smile. Nothing in Elizabeth Wells's neat appearance or guileless blue eyes gave any hint that she regularly qualified at the expert level with the 9 mm SIG-Sauer secreted in a special compartment in her desk.
"Go right in, Riever. Lightning is waiting for you."
"Thanks."
When she buzzed Drew into the inner sanctum, he saw that Nick Jensen wore his business uniform this morning. Drew had no doubt the tie was silk, the shoes Italian and the gray pinstriped suit made by the hand of a master tailor. He knew Lightning's cover required a patina of sophistication. He also knew the chief was as deadly with a switchblade and garrote as he was with a Beretta, which made him an all-round ace in the estimation of OMEGA's stable of operatives.
"I've been working Rigger's request for cover for Elizabeth Moore," Drew told his boss. "He wants someone on her 24/7."
"Who have you got?"
He and Nick had their heads together, going over the list of possibles, when the intercom buzzed. Moments later Maggie Sinclair Ridgeway, code name Chameleon, breezed into the inner office.
"Hi, guys."
As always, Maggie brought her own high-charged energy field with her. The sheer force of her personality and bright, engaging smile affected the two men in different ways. Nick had first encountered her on the French Riviera years ago, during a mix-up of identities with a high-priced call girl. Drew had met her only after joining OMEGA but was in awe of her legendary exploits. The fact that she'd brought Adam Ridgeway, OMEGA's sophisticated and coolly ruthless former director, to his knees only added to her mystique.
Now the mother of three children and a tenured linguistics professor at Georgetown University, she juggled kids, pets and the demands of her husband's current chairmanship of the International Monetary Fund with equal skill. The years had put a few character lines at the corners of her brown eyes, but nothing could dim their sparkle.
"Sorry to interrupt," she said with a peck on the cheek for both of them. "I just wanted to drop off some last-minute instructions for Nick."
When Lightning gave her a blank stare, she waggled her forefinger back and forth with vigorous determination.
"Oh, no! Feigning ignorance won't work. No way I'm letting you and Mackenzie out of babysitting for us this weekend."
"Is that this weekend?"
"Yes, it is. Adam and I have reservations at a resort in the White Mountains," she informed Drew. "We're going to hole up for two and a half days of uninterrupted bliss. Unless Nick and Mackenzie fink out on us," she added with a speaking glance at one of the potential finks.
Nick swallowed a groan. Even with a part-time nanny and a live-in housekeeper to assist, an entire weekend at the Ridgeway residence would require fortitude, endurance and protective body armor.
The kids were okay. Pretty darn terrific, in fact. And Nick had a soft spot for the Hungarian sheepdog Maggie had inherited after doubling for the vice president. The shaggy beast's sudden growl had provided the split second of warning necessary to save both Nick and Mackenzie from a vicious spray of gunfire by hired assassins.
It was Maggie's orange-and-purple-striped pet iguana that required constant vigilance. The damned thing had a yard-long tongue and the temperament -of a pit bull with a thorn stuck in its muzzle. Nick and Mackenzie had driven home from the Ridgeways' more than once decorated with iguana spit.
"You're not going to try and weasel out, are you?" Maggie demanded, something close to desperation in her eyes. "You did promise. And you and Mackenzie are Tank's godparents."
The nickname produced a reluctant smile. All OMEGA operatives used code names when in the field. After considerable discussion, they'd unanimously agreed on Tank as a handle for Maggie and Adam's two-year-old son. The kid bubbled with energy and charged joyously at every obstacle, producing enough steam to bulldoze through a brick wall.
"I don't want to weasel out," Nick lied, "but Rigger's requested additional surveillance. Drew thinks he should go himself, which means..."
".. .you'll have to bring someone else in to act as Rigger's controller and personally get them up to speed on the situation," Maggie finished glumly.
She knew how heavily tasked OMEGA's agents were. She should. She'd served as both a field operative and acting head of the agency for a few years. Brow knit, she tapped a forefinger against her lower lip.
"Rigger's working that op in Baja, right? Down at the tip of the peninsula?"
"He is, but don't get any ideas. Adam will skin me alive if you decide to help us here at the control center instead of
joining him for a weekend of uninterrupted bliss."
"Actually, I was thinking of combining business and bliss." Her brown eyes gleaming, Maggie dug in her purse and extracted a cell phone. "There's a world-class resort just north of Cabo San Lucas. The Two Dolphins. Adam and I have talked several times about vacationing there."
"Maggie ..."
"We're all packed. He's on his way home from the office as we speak. We could jump on a plane in a couple of hours. Given the time difference, we should touch down in Cabo San Lucas in time for dinner."
"You might want to think about this, Maggie. You might have to stay in the field longer than a weekend."
"God, I hope so!"
Her fervent prayer raised Nick's brows until he remembered how damned good she'd been. She'd given field ops up for the director's job, then traded that for motherhood and teaching. But her exploits in the field were still the stuff of legend among OMEGA operatives.
"I can manage five or six days with no problem," she said briskly. "Adam will have to rearrange his schedule, but that's doable. We'll ask Nanny to stay at the house with Mrs. Sorenson, so you and Mackenzie will have additional backup at night."
Nick made a last, feeble attempt. "Your husband might have something to say about the change in plans."
She gave him a pitying smile and punched in a speed dial number. "I'll tell Adam to meet me here so you and Drew can brief us both on the situation."
Half an hour later, the four of them were seated around the conference table.
"This," Nick said, sliding a dossier along the length of polished mahogany, "is Elizabeth Moore. She's a pilot for Aero Baja, under contract with the American-Mexican Petroleum Company. Rigger wants you to keep her under close surveillance."
Liz aimed a stream of water at the windshield of the Ranger. With the late-afternoon sun blazing down and the temperature hovering close to 110, both she and the helicopter benefited from the spray splattering against the Plexiglas.
She'd returned from the patch less than an hour ago and filed her post-flight report. With nothing else to occupy her time, she'd offered to relieve Jorge of the chore of hosing the corrosive salt spray off the chopper. It was an easy task, one that left her mind free to roam. Whatever direction her thoughts started off in, however, they always banked into a steep turn and swooped back to the same point.
Joe Devlin.
Okay, it was impossible not to think about the man when she could still feel the effects of the night before. There was the occasional twinge from muscles unused to the kind of workout Devlin had given them. And the tender patch on her neck where his bristles had scraped. And the sudden tingle in her nipples whenever she remembered how he'd tongued them to hard, aching points.
Still, Liz couldn't quite believe she'd actually done what she'd vowed to during her ritual shredding of Donny's e-mail. She'd gotten naked with the very next man she'd met. It had taken several days and a visit to El Tiburon to make it happen, but happen it had.
Shaking her head, Liz aimed a jet stream at the forward-engine coupling. Who the heck was she kidding? She'd done a whole lot more than just get naked. She'd erupted like a modern-day Vesuvius. Both times. Devlin probably thought he'd struck oil. A hot, gushing stream of...
"Ms. Moore?"
The deep baritone sounded above the water's splash. Keeping the hose aimed at the rotor, Liz speared a glance over her shoulder.
"Yes?"
A figure stepped out of the hangar's shadow into the late-afternoon sunlight. Liz's heart did a nervous little jig until she noted he didn't walk with a limp. Nor was he wearing a purple silk shirt.
When she noted what he was wearing, her breath slid back down her throat. She hadn't been this close to such sophisticated masculinity since... Well. Never.
Devlin and the other oilmen she ferried out and back from the rig were brawny and tough and all male. This guy was Pierce Brosnan classed up several notches, if that was possible. Elegantly casual in a parrot-print polo shirt, pleated khaki slacks and tasseled loafers, he sported jet-black hair touched with silver at the temples and eyes a clearer and more compelling blue than the Pacific.
"The man I spoke to at the operations center—I think his name was Jorge Garcia—said I'd find you here. I'm Adam Ridgeway."
Shutting off the spray, Liz swiped her wet palm on her flight suit and returned his no-nonsense grip. "What can I do for you, Mr. Ridgeway?"
"My wife and I are staying at the Two Dolphins. The concierge told us Aero Baja does charter flights. We're thinking of buying some vacation property here and would like to hire you to show us the coast."
"Aero Baja does charters, but we have to schedule them around our flights for the American-Mexican Petroleum Company. AmMex is our bread and butter."
"No problem. All Maggie and I have to schedule around are our tee times." His penetrating blue eyes went past her to the helo. "I see you're flying the older model 214."
"She may be old, but she's got all new avionics."
"That's good to hear." A small smile played at one corner of his mouth. "Does she still drag her tail when you walk her off the pad with a full load?"
Well, well. He wasn't just a pretty face.
"Like a duck trying to take a squat," Liz admitted, making a swift mental reassessment. "Logged a few hours in a cockpit, have you?"
"A few. My wife's waiting at the office. Shall we go inside?"
Liz would have guessed the urbane Ridgeway would choose a sumptuous redhead or Chanel-draped blonde for a mate. The brunette perched on the corner of the desk looked far more intriguing. Comfortably chic in a gauzy white peasant skirt and white ribbed tank top, she'd pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head to sweep back her shoulder-length, honey-brown hair. It appeared she and Jorge had just shared some joke. Her cinnamon eyes danced with laughter and her rich chuckles suggested a woman who lived life to the fullest.
Liz liked her on the spot. She liked her even more when Ridgeway's voice deepened to a near caress.
"I see you've made yourself at home, my darling. As always."
Any woman who could evoke that husky note from a man like Adam Ridgeway had to be very special. Smiling, Liz held out her hand.
"Hello, Mrs. Ridgeway. I'm Liz Moore."
"Please, call me Maggie." The laughter still danced in her eyes. "Jorge's been telling me about the American who chartered you to take his family whale watching a few months back."
Liz groaned. She'd spent hours cleaning up vomit after that memorable flight. "You'd think a man with four kids prone to motion sickness would find another way to educate them about whales."
"Now, Lizetta," Jorge said with a grin, "the gringo swore he did not know their stomachs were so delicate."
"Our kids aren't with us on this trip," Maggie assured Liz. "And if they were, you wouldn't have to worry about their stomachs."
"True," her husband said with a wry smile. "Gillian would probably be hanging out the side hatch, Samantha would beg you to do loop-de-loops and Tank would want at the controls."
"Tank?"
"Our son."
"He's two," Maggie said blithely, as if that explained everything. "This is the first time we've left them for more than a day or two. Our friends are babysitting." She shared a quick glance with her husband. "I hope Nick and Mackenzie survive."
"They've got plenty of backup," Ridgeway replied calmly. "How does tomorrow afternoon look for you?" he asked Liz. "I checked the map and thought we'd head north first."
She flicked a glance at the grease board on the far wall. She wasn't scheduled to make her next run out to the rig until Tuesday. Unless she came up with an excuse to make one before then.
The thought wiggled into her head like a slippery little eel and wouldn't wiggle out. It snuggled right up to the image of Devlin sprawled in her bunk this morning. Unshaven. Smug. So damned sexy Liz wanted to climb back in and crawl all over him.
She was certifiable, she thought in disgust. Completely certi
fiable! One night with the man and she was already plotting another.
"Tomorrow afternoon is fine," she said crisply, "unless there's an emergency out on the rig and we have to make an unscheduled run."
"I understand we take second priority," Ridgeway replied. "Maggie and I will be out and around tomorrow morning. Here's my card with my cell phone number. Please keep it handy and call if you need to cancel."
Liz fingered the thick velum with its heavily embossed letters. They spelled out an impressive title—Adam Ridgeway, Governor pro tern, International Monetary Fund. Below that was a Washington, D.C., address.
Tugging down the zipper to her leg pocket, she extracted a plastic card case. Ridgeway's card slid in between her Baja Aero ID, her credit cards and several folded hundred-peso notes.
"We'll see you tomorrow," his wife said, slinging a straw tote over her shoulder. She abandoned her perch on the desk and started for the door. Halfway there she turned back.
"Oh, by the way... Rigger sent us."
Maggie hid a smile as Liz's brows shot up. Waggling her fingers in farewell, Maggie accompanied Adam out into the searing heat and tipped her sunglasses from the top of her head onto her nose.
"Nice going," she murmured as her husband escorted her to their rental car. "The chip embedded in your business card will allow us to track her every move."
"Amazing what they've come up with since our days," he replied, only half in jest.
"I like how you got her to tuck the card in with her ID. You haven't lost your touch."
Adam grinned down at her. "Feels good to be back in the field after all these years, doesn't it?"
"Damn good!"
Devlin got word that Chameleon and Thunder had tagged Liz shortly after he came off his twelve-hour shift. Stripping down, he hit the shower.
Chameleon and Thunder were both legends around OMEGA. Devlin knew Maggie better than Adam, having worked for her for a few months before she left to have her second child. But Ridgeway's reputation spoke for itself. Devlin couldn't have asked for better cover for Liz. Unless, of course, he provided it himself.
Devlin and the Deep Blue Sea Page 6
