Code Name: Fiancée

by Susan Vaughan

  He could think of a dozen reasons to avoid attraction, let alone sex, with her.

  Not the least of which was the fact that she was a government agent, secretive and probably paranoid, schooled in deception.

  Not the girl next door she appeared to be.

  And she thought he was engaged to be married. Why did she make him keep forgetting that? His mind needed to be on their common goal—stopping New Dawn. This dicey situation called for focus and restraint.

  He would ignore his companion. In fact, he would avoid her except for when they had to appear in public as lovers.

  Anything but icy control might blow this whole charade.

  CODE NAME: FIANCÉE

  SUSAN VAUGHAN

  Books by Susan Vaughan

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  Dangerous Attraction #1086

  Guarding Laura #1314

  Code Name: Fiancée #1342

  SUSAN VAUGHAN

  Susan Vaughan is a West Virginia native who lives on the coast of Maine. Battles with insomnia over the years fired her imagination with stories. Living in many places in the U.S. while studying and teaching gave her characters and ideas. Once she even lived with a French family and attended the Sorbonne.

  With her husband, she has kissed the Blarney Stone, canoed the Maine wilderness, kayaked the Colorado River, sailed the Caribbean and won ballroom dancing competitions. Susan’s first Silhouette Intimate Moments book, Dangerous Attraction, won the 2001 NJRW Golden Leaf for Best First Book. Readers may write to Susan at Saint George, Maine 04860, or via her Web site at www.susanvaughan.com.

  To my friend Beth Chamberlin, who gave me

  my first romance novel. Little did you know.

  As always, to my husband, Warner,

  my once and future hero.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Prologue

  “You will return the money your brother stole from us, or we will take action.”

  “It’s three in the morning. Who the hell is this?” Nick Markos slammed down his half-empty glass. Glenfiddich splashed onto the mahogany desk that dominated one end of the library.

  Damn. A waste of single malt Scotch.

  He’d spent the day torn in two directions—running his own business long-distance and trying to sell another. Sleep eluded him this autumn night, but he had no patience for demands in the wee hours. He didn’t know the voice, but recognized the Middle Eastern accent and the menacing tone.

  The quicksand of his brother’s dirty dealings was sucking him deeper and deeper. Would he ever be rid of the muck?

  “My name is not important.” The sly smile in the man’s unctuous voice scraped Nick’s nerves. “Are you not the brother of Alexei Markos? The late Alexei Markos?”

  Regrettably. Although they hadn’t spoken in years until Nick had visited Alexei in the District of Columbia jail, he did regret his younger brother’s untimely death—for many reasons. This phone call among them.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “You are conducting his affairs at present?”

  “If this is about business you had with my brother, call the office tomorrow. Markos Imports, on O Street. During business hours.”

  The cordless headset at his ear, he paced the length of the library. Books on antiques, history, art and artifacts filled the floor-to-ceiling shelves. Their musty odor permeated the room.

  He stopped at the modern globe in the Victorian oak stand. Though Alexei’d lacked integrity, he’d known value and he’d had taste. Nick spun the globe, stopping it with his finger on a tiny Middle Eastern country—about as far from suburban Chevy Chase, Maryland, as you could imagine.

  If, as he suspected, the caller was the leader of an ultra-extremist group from that land, no records of those transactions were in the office or anywhere else Nick had searched. His temporizing tactic would serve only as a chance for more information.

  If he were given more luck than he’d had lately.

  “Your brother conducted transactions for us, but he kept ten million dollars that is ours. It matters not where you get it.” The falsely pleasant tone vanished. His caller fired the words out hard and clipped, bullets. “You know who we are. It is not wise of you to feign ignorance, Mr. Markos.”

  “Ignorance is all I have to offer,” Nick said, forging the steel in his own voice. “Alexei and I weren’t close. He didn’t confide in me. He left no money and no investments. Only debts, which will be paid as much as possible once his business and this house are sold. Get in line.”

  He stalked back to the desk and downed the rest of his drink. The Scotch, smoky and rich, slid warmth down his throat. He’d rather have savored it slowly.

  There was a pause at the other end of the line. Would the bastard give up so easily? Not bloody likely.

  “Mr. Markos, I see you do not yet understand the precariousness of your position. Your brother also thought he could cheat us and get away with it. Alas, the warrior sent into the jail to persuade him otherwise went too far.”

  The chill meaning of the words sank into Nick’s bones. The D.C. jail was notoriously overcrowded and dangerous. A knife fight had broken out during a recreation period. After the scuffle, Alexei had been found stabbed although he hadn’t been anywhere near the two men fighting. The strange altercation made grim sense in light of the caller’s words.

  Nick had hoped to settle his brother’s estate quickly and quietly and return to his business in London and New York. He wanted no breath of the scandal to reach their ailing father in Greece. The depths to which Alexei had sunk boiled his blood and sickened him.

  But redeeming the family honor seemed impossible in the short run.

  First Alexei had sullied the family name by dealing with these scum calling themselves New Dawn Warriors. To help them fill their war chest, he’d sold valuable imported art and artifacts. He’d murdered two people and tried to kill a third. Four jurisdictions had charged him with crimes. Enmeshed in greed, Alexei had stolen from the extremists and gotten himself killed. More than anything, Nick wished he could erase the whole sordid affair.

  “Are you admitting to murder?”

  He should’ve agreed to the wiretap suggested by the Anti-Terrorism Security Agency, but at first, he’d hidden his head in the sand and denied the need.

  The man barked a laugh. “I am merely saying that the few who cross the New Dawn Warriors often meet with unfortunate accidents. We are the chosen, the enlightened ones who will lead the way. No one thwarts our ordained path.”

  “Sounds like a threat.” He fished through the desk drawer for the card from the ATSA officer. “It won’t work because I don’t have your money. Goodbye.”

  Nick was about to tap the disconnect button, but the caller’s next words stilled his finger.

  “You have a fiancée, do you not?”

  Danielle.

  Fear squeezed Nick’s throat.

  Without waiting for a reply, the caller continued, “A lovely, flame-haired young woman, the warrior in London said. You had your chance, Mr. Markos. Do not bother to meet her flight. She will not be on it. We will be in touch.”

  A quiet click severed the connection.

  Chapter 1

  The next afternoon,
Vanessa Wade entered the ATSA director’s office.

  “Sorry I’m late, General Nolan. Getting this report together took a while, and time got away from me.” She held up a thick black portfolio with the agency’s seal in the center.

  The director beckoned her closer to his desk, a battered oak monument to his career in the U.S. Army.

  “Fine, Wade, your thoroughness is worth waiting for. Relax while I glance at those files.” He leaned back in his swivel chair and chomped on an unlit cigar.

  She scooted back into the enveloping comfort of a leather chair and waited. Though her last mission had been a success, their quarry had died in jail before he could spill information about the New Dawn leader. This development eased her disappointment, but the idea of another undercover gig so soon tightened the muscles in her stomach.

  When undercover work meant cozying up to the bad guys, staying detached was a piece of cake. The challenge—and the adrenaline rush—came from immersing herself in a persona while remaining vigilant.

  But recently she’d mingled with the innocent, involving herself in their lives. This last time she’d befriended an inn full of good people, including the woman ATSA had protected.

  Slamming the door afterward had felt like amputating a piece of herself without anesthetic.

  Duty and responsibility were important, but her naturally gregarious personality needed people. Commitment to friends and family nurtured her soul. Away from her real family in New York, she embraced ATSA as her family.

  But undercover work cut her off even from her colleagues. In a false persona, she couldn’t help but develop friendships undercover. When the assignment ended, so did those connections. Sometimes painfully, with the sudden force and finality of a guillotine. People resented being deceived.

  She’d come to hate deception herself. No more. She couldn’t, wouldn’t do undercover work again.

  She had to convince Nolan that she wasn’t the woman for the role recommended in the portfolio. Especially not with Nick Markos. She’d participate in another capacity.

  Any other capacity.

  Maxwell Nolan fixed her with a steely-gray gaze the same color as his hair. After maneuvering the obscenely large cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, he tucked it in a pocket and laced his fingers on top the file.

  “So it looks like a break in the New Dawn Warriors op.”

  She leaned forward. “Yes, good news. The trail didn’t end with Alexei Markos’s death. Early this morning we had a phone call from his brother, Nicolas Markos.”

  The general listened raptly to her description of Markos’s dilemma. For months ATSA had been searching for Husam Al-Din, the New Dawn leader, and the phone call implied he might be not only in the U.S. but nearby.

  Nolan sat and patted his pocket for his cigar. “The money’s not our concern other than what it means to New Dawn. If ten million’s what Alexei Markos skimmed, they must have a hell of a big war chest. What are they planning?”

  “Stratton’s unit’s working on that one.”

  He flipped open one of the folders and tapped a photograph with his index finger. The grainy faxed picture showed a sleek, elegant woman about thirty.

  “And the woman?”

  “One of our London officers and a couple of FBI agents found her safe in her flat, sipping tea with two Scotland Yard detectives. Since she’s an American citizen, ATSA took over from the Brits. We have her under protection at a safe house.”

  Mouthing the soggy tobacco, he closed the file as Vanessa continued. “Danielle LeBec was supposed to fly here this morning to help her fiancé with funeral and business arrangements. On her way to the airport, two swarthy men speaking an unidentified foreign language tried to force her into a car. She hit them with pepper spray and ran like hell.”

  “Bully for her. Al-Din wants his money. You think he’ll try again?”

  “As you see in the files, sir, intelligence reports indicate Al-Din sees Markos’s fiancée as his Achilles’ heel. We’ll place an ATSA officer in the house and post several others nearby for surveillance. More security might ratchet up the violence level. We don’t want to endanger civilians. A soft target should lure in our bad guys.”

  “Logical. A harder target leads to a harder attack. How will this deployment catch Al-Din?”

  “Nicolas Markos is running his deceased brother’s import business and trying to sell it. He’ll be out in society at VIP dinners and receptions. New Dawn is bound to try again to kidnap or harm Ms. LeBec, and we’ll be ready to grab them.”

  “You think one of the flunkies’ll lead you to his boss.”

  “Exactly, sir.”

  She hoped they could get at least one New Dawn flunky to talk. The rest of their plan was loose, improvisation the watchword.

  The cigar rolled across the director’s lower lip. “Then you’ll need to pack for a round trip to London.”

  Not sure she heard him correctly, she blinked. “I’ll be happy to act as control officer or surveillance coordinator. I should stay in the background on this one, sir. Nicolas Markos and I met a few years ago. It’s in the file.”

  Nolan leaned back. “I saw that, but I don’t see the problem. You concerned about the society parties?”

  She was, but not for the reason he thought. Nolan didn’t need a peek at her insecurities. Danielle LeBec was beautiful and elegant. No one had ever used those words to describe Vanessa. “Upper-crust galas are no sweat. I may be a uniform cop’s daughter, but I know which fork to use.”

  “I can always trust your instincts, Wade. That’s one reason I want you on this. The other is this aura that invites people to confide in you. They don’t call you Vanessa the Confessor for nothing. You’re the best officer for this. If the fiancé objects, we’ll deal with it.”

  Her heart sank into her stomach. No way out of it now. Yes, sir, general, sir.

  “And what about Markos? Can he be trusted? Says in his file he was Special Forces in Kuwait and Somalia.”

  She cleared her throat. She shouldn’t think of Markos as anything but an assignment. “Right. He distinguished himself on special ops duty in Iraq, and Special Forces recruited him. After Somalia he quit and started his business. Our security check says he’s clean. He learned of his brother’s criminal dealings when the first murder charge hit the press.”

  “I wonder about his reliability. It says here he refused to help ATSA until the threat to Ms. LeBec forced the issue. His international restaurant-supply business has made him a fortune. He has the means to pay off New Dawn and be done with them while we protect her for him. And who knows what powerful connections he has in society?”

  “Those are legitimate reasons for skepticism,” she said. “We’ll dig deeper and keep a close eye on him.” Just so she wasn’t that close eye.

  The intercom buzzed, and the general picked up the phone.

  Her gaze drifted to the file her boss still held.

  Nicolas Markos. The name conjured up an image of a domineering Greek tycoon out of a novel. The idea both fascinated and repelled her.

  Born in Brooklyn, one of his merchant-ship-captain father’s many residences, self-made multimillionaire. She ignored the sexual tug evoked by visualizing his proud, handsome face.

  The kind of man not to be taken lightly. The kind of arrogant man who thought money and power gave him carte blanche, who went for cover models like her sister Diana. Or sophisticated fashion-magazine editors like Danielle LeBec. The kind of man Vanessa avoided like the plague.

  Whoa.

  Ye gods, where had all that animosity come from?

  Granted, the man was the cold-hearted, calculating type Diana drooled over. Vanessa drooled, too, but hunky guys usually thought of her as a pal, not a femme fatale.

  Glamorous? Not her. Cute and girl-next-door fit her better. Then there were the major chunks anti-terrorism work chopped out of her social life. Social life. For her an oxymoron. Home on Saturday night without even a cat.

  Whether Vanessa
approved of or liked Markos didn’t matter. Her past resentments and insecurities should slink back into her mental attic and stay there for the duration. And a mission like this could last months. She tamped down her dread with professional duty.

  And she would be nothing but professional. She’d prove—if only to herself—that she could do the job without personal involvement.

  When Nolan replaced the receiver, she said, “I’ll arrange to fly to London today, sir.”

  “The sooner the better. I’ve just had an urgent message.”

  “General?”

  “There’s a deadline on this mission.”

  “What’s the deal?”

  “Intelligence reports indicate New Dawn’s plotting some sort of attack here in D.C. on Veterans Day. We have to roll up Husam Al-Din and disrupt their plan by November 11.”

  “But that’s four weeks from now!”

  Early Saturday afternoon, Nick waited in Baggage Claims at Dulles International Airport.

  A polyglot cacophony of greetings surrounded the international-arrivals luggage carousels. On his left an Italian couple in Calvin Klein hugged and kissed a teary old woman in peasant black. On his right a Japanese tour group clicked cameras and chattered with excitement. And somewhere in the waiting crowd lurked three or more ATSA officers.

  At first he’d been reluctant because keeping a low profile distanced him from the slime. The kidnap attempt and learning that New Dawn had engineered Alexei’s death had forced him into action. He wanted none of his brother’s dirty money, but capturing Husam Al-Din and stopping the terrorist plan went a long way toward redeeming the family honor.

  And his personal honor, lost in what seemed another lifetime.