Texas Hero

by Merline Lovelace

  Dr. Smith burst in. His jaw dropping, the pudgy museum curator gaped in disbelief at the carnage. His wild gaze flew from the unconscious figure on the floor to Claire, to Jack. Finally, to Ellie.

  Red suffused his cheeks. His eyes bugged behind his glasses. He sputtered, choked, spit out Ellie's name like a curse.

  "Dr. Alazar! I should have known! What in God's name are you doing?"

  The combination of stark terror and relief so deep and sharp it ate like acid into her bones had her snap­ping right back.

  "What does it look like we're doing, you twit? We're fighting the second battle of the Alamo."

  Chapter 12

  Keeping a tight lid on the shoot-out at the Alamo required the combination of Renegade's forceful per­sonality and Lightning's political influence. There was no way they wanted Foster to know his hit man had gone down. Not yet anyway.

  Dr. Smith went tight-lipped with indignation and disapproval when informed that the President's spe­cial envoy had placed a call to the head of the Daughters of the Texas Revolution. She had agreed that this unfortunate attack on the niece of the Pres­ident of Mexico was a matter for the police, not the press.

  The various law enforcement agencies involved concurred. Wheeling Scarface out of the Alamo on a gurney, they informed the gawking tourists that there had been an accident. He died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital without recovering con­sciousness. His demise left a frustrated Detective Harris and two very disgruntled FBI agents with no clue to the hit man's real identity. Or with anything linking him to Daniel Foster except Ellie's photo­graph.

  "Which," Claire said later that evening in Ellie's hotel suite, "Foster's lawyers will argue is merely a chance juxtaposition of two visitors to a popular his­toric landmark."

  "Yeah, right," Mackenzie groused. "Some visi­tors."

  She took a turn around the sitting room, hands shoved into the front pockets of her jeans. Her Nikes left tracked imprints on the plush carpet. The sex kitten who'd nestled up to Foster at the bar last night was gone. In her place was a woman imbued with a sense of purpose.

  ‘‘We all know Foster hired that bastard to off his wife. We just can't prove it. There's no record of money transfers from his bank to suspicious ac­counts. No traceable phones calls besides the one we intercepted, and that was made to a cell phone we think belonged to Scarface but can't locate, as he didn't have it on him when he died."

  Ellie sat quietly in an armchair, her bandaged hands tucked loosely around her waist. More ban­dages showed beneath the hem of her shorts, padding her knees. She couldn't get quite as worked up as Mackenzie over Daniel Foster's probable guilt. Not just yet. She was still recovering from the trauma of dodging the assassin's bullet.

  Jack had remained quiet since they'd returned from the emergency room, too. As he assured her, the bullet had merely glanced off his clavicle. Luck­ily, the bone hadn't shattered. The entrance and exit wound were clear. He'd refused pain pills and now listened to the others with every evidence of atten­tion, but his glance shifted to Ellie at frequent inter­vals, as if to make sure she wasn't about to keel over from blood loss or delayed shock.

  "Foster's got to be a mass of raw nerves right now," Mackenzie continued. "He'll be expecting a call from Scarface with confirmation he's done the deed. Every hour that goes by without word is going to torque up the pressure on Danny Boy. Sooner or later, he's going to do something stupid. I say we make it sooner."

  "I say we let him sweat," Jack countered. "For tonight, anyway."

  "Yes, but—"

  "I agree with Renegade," Claire said, rising from her chair with fluid grace. "As long as the incident at the Alamo doesn't leak to the press, Foster will think Scarface is still on the hunt. That puts the ad­vantage squarely in our court. Let's use the time to think through our next moves."

  Hooking an arm through Mackenzie's, Cyrene gently but firmly steered the younger woman out. Jack followed them to the door, shot the dead bolt and armed the intrusion detection alarm he'd rigged when he'd arrived. The immediate threat to Ellie had been eliminated, but he couldn't shake an edgy sense of incompleteness. She still had to wrap up the last details of her project. He still had to decide whether to go after Foster or leave him to the locals.

  Then there was the small matter of where he and Ellie went from here.

  Tonight wasn't the time to talk about it, though. His wound hurt like hell and Ellie looked ready to drop. Her shoulders drooped. Fatigue left shadows like bruises under her eyes. If that weren't enough to rouse Jack's fiercely protective instincts, the ban­dages on her hands and knees would have done the trick.

  "You should get some sleep," he said, his voice gruff with concern. "You've had a hell of a day."

  "It was rather eventful." A faint smile feathered her lips. "Do you think Dr. Smith will ever let me set foot inside the Alamo again?"

  "I'd say you'll have to do some real sweet talking first."

  "Maybe he'll relent when he hears my theory about young Josiah Kennett."

  "Maybe. In the meantime, I suggest you forget Smith, forget Kennett, forget the second battle of the Alamo and crawl into bed."

  "I might, if you crawl in with me."

  Her smile deepened, starting an ache almost as fierce as the one in Jack' shoulder.

  The docs said you should rest," she reminded him, using her bandaged hands to lever herself awkwardly out of her chair. "Let's go to bed."

  Yeah, right. As if he'd get any rest lying next to Ellie. Particularly when she stopped beside the bed and lifted her hands helplessly.

  "You'll have to undress me. I can't work my shirt buttons with these bandages."

  Jack's throat went dry. "I think I can manage that."

  "I think you can, too."

  His blood was pounding, but he kept his touch gentle as he unbuttoned the linen camp shirt Claire had helped her into after returning from the E.R.

  The docs had assured Jack they'd extracted all the glass shards from Ellie's palms and knees, and that the cuts weren't deep enough to require stitches. Yet the gauzy bandages were a grim reminder as he eased the shirt down past her elbows.

  If he hadn't caught that faint whisper of sound and dodged the assassin's bullet, if Ellie hadn't won a few precious seconds by flinging her camera at the killer, she might have been the one wheeled out of the Alamo on a gurney. The thought made his chest squeeze so tight he couldn't breathe.

  She didn't seem to notice the sudden constriction in his breathing. Peeling off her shoes, she kicked them aside and waited patiently for Jack to start on her shorts.

  By the time he'd stripped her down to her bra and bikini briefs, more than just his chest was tight. Hard and aching, he skimmed a knuckle down the hollow of her belly.

  "You sure you don't want another of the pain pills the docs prescribed?"

  "I'm not feeling any pain at the moment. My sleep shirt is over there, on the chair."

  Jack retrieved the scrap of cotton. The damned thing had put him in a sweat the first time he'd seen her in it. He was feeling pretty much the same effect now. Ignoring the painful pub in his shoulder, he eased it over her head.

  "Now you," she murmured.

  Ellie's throat closed as he eased off his shirt. The neat bandage wrapped around his shoulder brought the afternoon's horror rushing back. Inching side­ways on the bed, she made room for him.

  "Fine pair we are," he said with a wry grin. "Come here."

  Slipping his uninjured arm under her, he brought her closer. Ellie cradled her head in his good shoul­der. Her palm rested on his chest. Beneath her fingers was the strong, sure beat of his heart.

  "This afternoon," she whispered, "when Scarface said you couldn't hear my scream. I thought...I thought I'd lost you."

  “I thought the same thing when I barreled through the door and saw you go down."

  Curling a knuckle under her chin, he tipped her head up. His eyes held hers.

  "A few nights ago, you asked if I'd ever loved yo
u. I've never stopped, Ellie."

  "Oh, Jack!" She wanted to weep with the joy and the sharp, stinging regret. "We wasted so many years. So many days and nights we could have shared."

  "I know." His thumb brushed her cheek. "I don't plan to waste any more."

  She hooked a brow. His teeth flashed in a rueful grin.

  "After tonight," he amended. "Go to sleep, sweetheart."

  The bright bubble of joy was still with Ellie the next morning, when she bundled into one of the ho­tel's plush terry-cloth robes, made a futile attempt at wielding a hairbrush, and ambled into the sitting room in search of Jack and coffee.

  She found both, as well as two other men. One was a stranger. The other Ellie recognized immedi­ately.

  "Colonel Esteban!"

  "Elena. It is good to see you again."

  Moving with the grace of a jungle panther, he came forward and bowed over her hand. Ellie had met him on several occasions during her visits to her aunt and uncle, yet even her awareness of the shad­owy world the colonel worked in couldn't blunt the impact of his dark eyes, luxuriant mustache and Cae­sar Romero smile. Ellie might have fallen in love with Jack Carstairs all over again, but she wasn't blind. Nor was she oblivious to the tension in the air.

  Frowning, she threw a quick, questioning look at Jack. He had obviously rolled out of bed well before she did. Showered and shaved, he filled a cup with black coffee and carefully passed it into her ban­daged hands.

  "How's your shoulder?" she asked.

  "Hurting but healing. How are your hands?"

  "The same."

  Downing a grateful sip, Ellie returned her attention to the colonel. "It's good to see you, too. What are you doing in San Antonio?"

  "Your uncle sent me. He was informed of the un­fortunate incident at the Alamo and wishes to be as­sured you took no serious hurt."

  "I'm fine."

  The colonel's glance drifted to the white gauze.

  "I just took a few cuts and bruises," Ellie said. "Really. You can tell Uncle Eduardo I'm up and walking and ready to get back to work."

  "Perhaps you should tell him yourself. He would like you to come stay in Mexico until the U.S. au­thorities take care of this bastard who wants you dead."

  "We were discussing that last night. Getting hard evidence against Daniel Foster could take months, even years. I can't—correction, I won't—run away and hide that long."

  The stranger had said nothing, but her protest brought him forward. He was a tall man, dressed with casual elegance in knife-pleated gray slacks and an Italian knit sport shirt.

  "We don't believe it will take as long as that, Dr. Alazar."

  "And 'we' are?"

  "Sorry. I should have introduced myself sooner. I'm Nick Jensen, special envoy to the President of the United States."

  Ellie had spent enough summers with her uncle to have a good grasp of the various levels of bureau­cracy inherent in any government. Despite that back­ground, she didn't have a clue what a special envoy did.

  Jensen didn't enlighten her. ‘‘Like your uncle, the President is concerned for your safety. That's one of the reasons we sent Renegade—Jack—to protect you."

  "You sent him? But I thought—that is..."

  "That your uncle hired him? Let's just say it was arranged through my office."

  Well, she'd already figured out Jack Carstairs wasn't the down-at-heels gumshoe she'd first thought him, but the fact that he worked for the special envoy to the President of the United States took some get­ting used to. Struggling with the mental readjust­ment, she picked up on Jensen's comment.

  "You said concern for my safety was one of the reasons you sent Jack to San Antonio. What were the others?"

  "Quite frankly, the President also worried that the ill will displayed toward you could erupt into ugly anti-Mexico sentiments, possibly derail the North American Free Trade Association Treaty. Neither Mexico nor the United States wanted to see that happen."

  A sick feeling curled in Ellie's stomach. She didn't look at Jack. She couldn't.

  "Let me get this straight," she said slowly, the coffee cup cradled in both hands. "You—all of you—got involved in this mess because political is­sues were at play?"

  "Political issues are always at play," Jensen said, "but your safety was the overriding concern, of course."

  His rueful smile might have charmed Ellie under any other circumstances. At the moment, she was too numbed by the thought that she'd been a political pawn in a game she'd known nothing about.

  "Of course," she echoed dully.

  "It's still the overriding concern," Jensen contin­ued smoothly. "Foster has already demonstrated the lengths he'll go to. He hired one killer. There's noth­ing to say he wouldn't hire another. The President thinks you should consider your uncle's offer. Or at least let us take you to a safe house until Jack and the others put Foster on ice."

  "I see."

  Carefully, she placed the cup on the sofa table. She felt drowsy and frumpy and at a distinct disadvantage facing Esteban and Jensen in her bare feet and bath­robe. But those feelings paled beside the ache that formed around her heart when she turned and saw Jack's face. There was no sign of the tender lover in his stony expression. No spark of warmth in his cool blue eyes.

  "What do you think? Should I leave San Anto­nio?"

  "Yes."

  She waited for some softening of the hardness in his face, some indication another separation would rip him apart as much as it would her. When he didn't so much as blink, Ellie's hurt took a sharp right turn into anger.

  No! Not again! Jack Carstairs had gone all stub­born and tight-jawed and noble about what was best for her nine years ago. No way in hell she was going to let him do it again!

  Her spine snapped straight. Matching him stare for stony stare, she made her position ice clear. "You said I'd have to be the one to walk away this time. I told you then and I'm telling you again, I'm not walking. So you can just deal with it. All three of you!"

  On that note, she exited the scene. Slamming the bedroom door behind her was childish and unnec­essary, but it gave Ellie intense satisfaction.

  The thud reverberated through the sitting room. Esteban and Jensen stared at the closed door for some moments before turning to Jack.

  "You were right," Nick conceded with a grin.

  "She didn't take kindly to the idea of being hustled out of town. We'll have to fall back and regroup."

  Luis Esteban wasn't quite as ready to admit defeat. Smoothing a palm over his lustrous black hair, he gave the closed door a disgruntled glance. "You must speak with her, Carstairs. Convince her to leave. You and I, together we will handle this Fos­ter."

  "You and I?"

  "President Alazar has suggested I remain in San Antonio to, ah, provide whatever assistance you might require."

  Hell! That's all Jack needed! A watchdog hired by Ellie's uncle looking over his shoulder, second-guessing his every move. The urge to tell the colonel just what he and Eduardo Alazar could do with their so-called assistance rose hot and swift in Jack's throat.

  He swallowed the words, right along with his pride. With Ellie still at risk, he wasn't about to turn away any help. Lightning made the bitter pill easier to take when Jack had assembled Comm and Cyrene in his suite some fifteen minutes later.

  "Luis Esteban worked a hairy mission with Mag­gie Sinclair some years ago," he said by way of in­troduction. "She and Thunder both came to my of­fice to meet with him a few weeks ago. The colonel's gone into the private sector now, but he's still one of us."

  That was all the endorsement Mackenzie required. "Anyone Chameleon considers a good guy is a good guy in my book."

  Her unconditional acceptance won her a quick, slashing grin from Esteban. Those gleaming white teeth and glinting black eyes sent the gulp of coffee she'd just taken down the wrong pipe. Choking, Mackenzie rattled the cup onto the table, splashing lukewarm liquid on the polished surface.

  Claire was more reserved in her
reaction to the newcomer. Reaching across to pound her sputtering colleague on the back, she gave the colonel a cool, assessing look.

  Esteban's gaze was considerably warmer. Where in God's name did OMEGA recruit these women? Maggie Sinclair was in a class by herself. The one called Mackenzie possessed a lovely animation and a quick wit. But this one, this mature, composed beauty, stirred his blood in a way no woman had since... Well, since Maggie Sinclair.

  He'd have to find out more about her. His re­sources might not reach as deep or as far as OMEGA's, but he could still access information when he wanted it.

  "So why are you and the colonel here?" the dark­haired Mackenzie asked Lightning when her fit of coughing subsided. "What's the plan?"

  “The plan is, ah, under review at the moment. As to what Colonel Esteban and I are doing here... We flew down to convince Dr. Alazar she shouldn't take any more risks."

  "Well, darn!" A look of acute disappointment crossed Mackenzie's expressive face. "I wish I'd been here to hear Ellie's response to that."

  Even Cyrene was amused. "Renegade made the same argument. Apparently you two didn't have any more success than he did."

  "We'll try again," the colonel assured her. "She must realize we have only her best interests at heart."

  Her best interests.

  The words clanged like a klaxon in Jack's head. He'd uttered them himself. More than once. For the first time, he recognized how pompous and patron­izing they must sound to Ellie. As if she weren't intelligent or rational or mature enough to recognize her needs.

  He still wanted her out of San Antonio. His over­riding instinct was to shield her, to safeguard her from all harm. If anything, the shoot-out at the Al­amo yesterday had reinforced the edgy feeling that she wouldn't be out of danger until they nailed Foster.

  Jack had finally learned his lesson, though. He couldn't make her decisions for her. Nor could any­one else. It was time he acknowledged that fact. Past time.

  "Why don't we get Ellie's input into the revised plan?"

  The suggestion earned him a frown from Esteban, a curious glance from Lightning and an emphatic second from Mackenzie. Claire sent her approval in the form of a small nod.