respect for his skills. Nick also, however, possessed a Gallic understanding of the power of passion.
Once a skinny, perpetually hungry pickpocket who called the back streets of Cannes home, Henri Nicolas Everard had been adopted by Paige and Doc Jensen, moved to the States and had grown to manhood in a house filled with love. He’d parlayed the near starvation of his childhood into a string of high-priced restaurants scattered around the globe.
Nick was now a millionaire many times over. His cover as a jet-setter gave him access to the world of movie princes and oil sheikhs. It had also led to a number of discreet affairs with some of the world’s most beautiful women. A true connoisseur, he could understand why Jack Carstairs had sacrificed his military career for a fling with Elena Maria Alazar. The background dossier compiled by OMEGA’s chief of communications had painted a portrait of an astonishingly vibrant, incredibly intelligent woman.
Not unlike OMEGA’s chief of communications herself, Nick thought. A mental image of Mackenzie Blair replaced that of Ellie Alazar and produced a sudden tightening just below his Italian leather belt. Both amused and perturbed by the sensation, Nick offered his assurances to Colonel Esteban.
“OMEGA wouldn’t have sent Renegade into the field if we weren’t absolutely confident in his ability to protect Dr. Alazar. If it will ease President Alazar’s mind, however, I’ll pass on his concerns.”
“Perhaps you might also keep me apprised of the situation in San Antonio,” Esteban suggested politely.
Everyone in the room recognized that they were treading tricky diplomatic ground here. Relations between the United States and Mexico had reached new, if somewhat shaky, levels with the recent North American Free Trade Association Treaty. The last thing either president wanted right now was an ugly international incident souring an economic agreement that had taken decades to hammer out.
“Not a problem,” Nick said smoothly. “Once we ascertain that’s what President Alazar wishes, of course.”
“Of course.” Rising, the colonel dug into his suit pocket and produced a business card. “You can contact me day or night at this number.”
His gaze drifted to Maggie, who rose and gave him a warm smile.
“Don’t worry, Luis. Renegade’s one of the best field operatives in the business. He wouldn’t be working for OMEGA otherwise.”
With that blithe assurance, she strolled across the office and clipped a leash on the unblinking iguana. Identical expressions of repulsion crossed the faces of Nick and the colonel as the creature’s long tongue flicked her cheek in a quick, adoring kiss. Adam merely looked resigned.
“We’ll walk you out,” he said to Esteban. “Lightning has some calls to make.”
OMEGA’s acting director made the calls from the control center located on the third floor.
Mackenzie Blair ruled OMEGA’s CC, just as she used to rule the command, control and communication centers aboard the Navy ships she’d served on. She loved this world of high-tech electronics, felt right at home in the soft green glow from the wall-size computer screens—far more at home than she’d ever felt in the two-bedroom condo she and her ex had once shared.
One of the problems was that she and David had never stayed in port together long enough to establish joint residency. He’d adjusted to the separations better than Mackenzie had, though. She discovered that when she returned two days early from a Caribbean cruise and found the jerk in bed with a neighbor’s wife.
She’d sworn off men on the spot. Correction, she’d planted a very hard, very satisfying knee in David’s groin when he’d grabbed her arm and tried to explain, then sworn off men.
Lately, though, she’d been reconsidering forever. Her itchy restlessness had nothing to do with her boss. Nothing at all. Just a woman’s natural needs and the grudging realization that even the most sophisticated high-tech gadgets couldn’t quite substitute for a man.
Which was why goose bumps raised all over her skin when Lightning strolled over to her command console with the casual grace that characterized him.
“Patch me through to the White House.”
She cocked a brow. She wasn’t in the Navy now.
“Please,” Lightning added with an amused smile.
All too conscious of his proximity, Mackenzie transmitted the necessary code words and verifications, then listened with unabashed interest to the brief conversation between Lightning and the Prez. When it was over, she leaned back in her chair and angled OMEGA’s director a curious look.
“Sounds like Renegade’s got the weight of the free world riding on his shoulders on this one.”
“The weight of North America, anyway.”
His gaze lingered on her upturned face. Mackenzie had almost forgotten how to breathe by the time he murmured a request that she get Renegade on the line.
His eyes, narrowed and rattlesnake-mean behind his mirrored sunglasses, Jack Carstairs snapped shut the phone Mackenzie Blair had issued him mere hours ago. The damned thing was half the size of a cigarette pack and bounced signals off a secure telecommunications satellite some thirty-six thousand kilometers above the earth. Lightning’s message had come through loud and clear.
Renegade was to keep his hands off Elena Maria Alazar.
As if he needed the warning! He’d learned his lesson the first time. No way was he going to get shot down in flames again.
Hefting his beat-up leather carryall, he walked out of the airport into a flood of heat and honeysuckle-scented air. A short tram ride took him to the rental agency, where he checked out a sturdy Jeep Cherokee.
The drive from the airport to downtown San Antonio took only about fifteen minutes, long enough for Jack to work through his irritation at the call. Not long enough, however, to completely suppress the prickly sensation that crawled along his nerves at the thought of seeing Ellie Alazar again.
His jaw set, he negotiated the traffic in the city’s center and pulled up at the Menger. Constructed in 1859, the hotel was situated on Alamo Plaza, right next to the famous mission. The little blurb Jack had read in one of the airline’s magazines during the flight down indicated the Menger had played host to a roster of distinguished notables. Reportedly, Robert E. Lee rode his horse, Traveller, right into the lobby. Teddy Roosevelt tipped a few in the bar while organizing and training his Rough Riders. Sarah Bernhardt, Lillie Langtry and Mae West had all brought their own brand of luster to the hotel.
Now Elena Maria Alazar was adding another touch of notoriety to the venerable institution. One Jack suspected wasn’t particularly appreciated by the management.
He killed the engine, then climbed out of the Cherokee. A valet took the car keys. Another offered to take his bag.
“I’ve got it.”
Anyone else entering the hotel’s three-story lobby for the first time might have let their gaze roam the cream marble columns, magnificent wrought-iron balcony railings and priceless antiques and paintings. Six years of embassy guard duty and another eight working for OMEGA had conditioned Jack to automatically note the lobby’s physical layout, security camera placement and emergency egress routes. His boot heels echoing on the marble floors, he crossed to the desk. There he was handed a message. Ellie was waiting for him in the taproom.
After the blazing sun outside and dazzling white marble of the lobby, the bar wrapped Jack in the welcoming gloom of an English pub. A dark cherry-wood ceiling loomed above glass-fronted cabinets, beveled mirrors and high-backed booths. A stuffed moose head with a huge rack of antlers surveyed the scene with majestic indifference, wreathed in the mingled scents of wood polish and aged Scotch.
Instinctively, Jack peeled off his sunglasses and recorded the bar’s layout, but the details sifted right through his conscious mind to be stored away for future reference. His main focus, his only focus, was the woman who swiveled