Copyright © 2015 Pamela Clare
Cover images © to follow
The right of Pamela Clare to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Published by arrangement with InterMix,
A member of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,
A Penguin Random House Company
First published in this Ebook edition in 2015
by HEADLINE ETERNAL
An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN 978 1 4722 2328 9
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
An Hachette UK Company
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.headlineeternal.com
www.headline.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Praise for Pamela Clare
Also by Pamela Clare
About the Book
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Have you met the electrifying I-Team?
Take a wild ride with MacKinnon’s Rangers
Find out more about Headline Eternal
About the Author
USA Today bestselling author Pamela Clare began her writing career as a columnist and investigative reporter and eventually became the first woman editor-in-chief of two different newspapers. Along the way, she and her team won numerous state and national honors, including the National Journalism Award for Public Service and the Keeper of the Flame Lifetime Achievement Award. She writes historical romance and contemporary romantic suspense within view of Colorado’s beautiful Rocky Mountains.
Visit Pamela’s website www.pamelaclare.com or connect with her on Facebook www.facebook.com/pages/Pamela-Clare/167939496589645 or on Twitter @Pamela_Clare.
Just some reasons to take a wildly romantic ride with Pamela Clare:
‘Pamela Clare is a remarkable storyteller’ Fresh Fiction
‘Romantic suspense at its best’ The Romance Studio
‘Riveting, exciting . . . Pamela Clare delivers what readers want’ Connie Mason, New York Times Bestselling Author
‘Pamela Clare is a dazzling talent’ Lori Foster, New York Times bestselling author
‘Packed with action and raw, sexual tension, Pamela Clare . . . brings readers . . . edgy suspense, meaty subject matter, and intense emotions’ Cindy Gerard, New York Times bestselling author
‘Pamela Clare is a fabulous storyteller whose beautifully written, fast-paced tales will leave you breathless with anticipation. She creates heroes, heroines, and villains with the ease of a master that draw the reader irresistibly into the story, making them part of the pain, the fear . . . and the passion’ Leigh Greenwood, USA Today Bestselling Author
‘An exciting, fast-paced romantic suspense thriller . . . Action-packed’ Midwest Book Review
‘Complex characterizations and a fast-paced plot filled with sensual romance and mystery’ Publishers Weekly
By Pamela Clare
The I-Team Series:
Extreme Exposure
Hard Evidence
Unlawful Contact
Naked Edge
Breaking Point
Striking Distance
Seduction Game
The MacKinnon's Rangers Series:
Surrender
Untamed
Defiant
Ride The Fire
About the Book
CIA Officer Nick Andris wants revenge. His last mission failed after a Georgian arms smuggler killed his lover. He’s been tailing a woman for three weeks hoping she will lead him to his target. But there’s a problem with the intel. Holly Elise Bradshaw is nothing more than an entertainment writer with a love for sex and designer clothes. Clearly someone at Langley made a mistake. . .
When Holly finds herself in trouble, the only weapons at her disposal are her brains and her body. But they won’t be enough to handle the man who’s following her. He’s going to turn her world upside-down.
Sexy. Thrilling. Unputdownable. Take a wildly romantic ride with Pamela Clare’s I-Team: Extreme Exposure, Hard Evidence, Unlawful Contact, Naked Edge, Breaking Point, Striking Distance.
This book is dedicated to Rachel Bavaro Patarino, my friend and former mother-in-law, who died suddenly following a tragic car accident as I was writing the first chapter of this book.
Thank you for reading my stories, Rachel, and for encouraging me in the pursuit of my dreams. Thank you most of all for loving my children, your grandsons, Alec and Benjamin. You are not forgotten.
Chapter One
Trust no one.
What the hell was Kramer trying to tell him?
Nick Andris rubbed his closed eyes with the heels of his hands, then looked up at the clock. Almost midnight.
Shit.
This was a waste of time.
For almost three weeks, he’d been keeping Holly Elise Bradshaw under round-the-clock surveillance. He’d turned her life inside out, but had found nothing. He’d tapped her cell phone and landline, sifted through her laptop, searched her condo, memorized the details of her childhood, learned about her friends, pored over her financial records, scrutinized her posts on social media for hints of tradecraft, and tracked every move she’d made via GPS. He’d found nothing remotely suspicious.
He’d even gone behind Bauer’s back and contacted Rich Lagerman, an old buddy from Delta Force who was now working for the FBI, and asked whether Bradshaw was one of theirs. Every federal agency in the country now had undercover officers, and it wouldn’t be the first time operatives from different agencies had tripped over one another while pursuing a suspect.
“Nope. Not one of ours,” Lagerman had said. “But if you need any help with her, maybe some late-night, under-the-covers work, let me know.”
“Right.”
Nick now knew more about this woman than she knew about herself. If Holly Bradshaw were some kind of underworld operative, a foreign agent, a traitor who sold US secrets, then he was Elvis fucking Presley.
Someone at Langley had screwed up.
Bauer had recalled Nick from assignment in Tbilisi amid whispers tha
t a handful of officers were missing or dead and that the Agency was conducting an internal investigation of its Special Activities Division, or SAD, the top-secret branch of the CIA that had recruited Nick out of Delta Force nine years ago. He’d never been assigned to operate within US borders, so he’d arrived in Langley expecting to find himself in the middle of an inquisition.
Instead, Bauer, his supervisor, had given him a file with the latest intel on Sasha Dudayev, aka Sachino Dudaev, the Georgian arms smuggler who’d killed the only woman Nick had ever loved.
“He killed an officer and stole a flash drive containing classified information vital to US operations outside the homeland,” Bauer had said. “Holly Elise Bradshaw is his contact for the deal. Keep Bradshaw under surveillance, recover the data, and neutralize them both using any force necessary.”
As a rule, the Agency left affairs within the homeland to the NSA and FBI, but they sometimes broke that rule when it came to high-value international targets and US citizens who’d crossed the line to work with those targets. It was unusual for Nick to run surveillance on a fellow American in her home, but apart from that element of his current mission, Bauer had given him exactly what he’d wanted for two long years now—a chance to make Dudaev pay.
Dudaev had played the Agency and brought the Batumi op down on their heads. Nick had been there that night. He’d watched, wounded and pinned down by AK fire, as the son of a bitch had emptied his Makarov into Dani’s chest, then made off with the cache of AKs the Agency had wrested away from Chechen terrorists. Nick had crawled over to Dani and held her body afterward, held her until he’d passed out from blood loss.
His sole task that night had been to protect her, and he’d failed.
But now things were about to come full circle.
There was only one problem.
The suits at Langley had clearly made a mistake when they’d fingered Ms. Bradshaw as Dudaev’s contact. Okay, so it was an understandable error. The bastard’s last lover had been an Italian journalist who’d acted as his mole and messenger—until he’d killed her. Analysts must have assumed he’d recruited Ms. Bradshaw when she’d interviewed him about his new art gallery and then begun dating him.
As understandable as the error might be, nothing changed the fact that Nick had now wasted three weeks discovering that Holly Bradshaw was exactly what she seemed to be—an entertainment writer; a smart but shallow blonde; a woman who loved sex, expensive clothes, and good times with her friends. He’d explained all of this to Bauer, sharing every bit of intel he’d gathered on her. If Dudaev was about to sell the flash drive, the deal would go down without Bradshaw’s knowledge or participation.
Bauer had blown him off. “Stick with her. I swear she’s the one.”
Some people just hated to be wrong.
Nick’s time would be better spent trailing Dudaev and hunting down the real contact—or sorting truth from rumor on the internal investigation and the missing and dead officers.
Trust no one.
Kramer had contacted him this afternoon, insisting they speak face-to-face. He’d be passing through Denver tomorrow and had asked Nick to meet him for lunch. Nick hadn’t needed to ask what was on Kramer’s mind. It wasn’t unusual for an officer to be killed in the line of duty, but it was strange that Nick and Kramer had worked with all of them. Then Kramer had ended the call with those three words—and Nick’s imagination had taken over.
“They’re ombré crystal pumps in royal blue with four-inch heels.”
Nick took another swig of cold coffee. In his earpiece, Bradshaw and her friend Kara McMillan were still talking.
“I love them,” Bradshaw said, “but my shoe budget is blown for the next ten years.”
Nick doubted that. Bradshaw’s daddy was a retired brigadier general who had served with US Army Intelligence—another reason analysts believed Dudaev had chosen her—and Daddy had created a nice little trust fund for his baby girl.
“How much do a pair of Christian Louboutins cost?” McMillan asked.
Nick ran through the key facts on McMillan, more to help himself stay awake than because he’d forgotten anything.
McMillan, Kara. 40. Journalist, author, journalism instructor at Metro State University. Wife of Sheridan, Reece, lieutenant governor of the state of Colorado. No arrests. No suspected criminal associations. Three children. Formerly employed by the Denver Independent on its Investigative Team, aka the I-Team. Met Bradshaw through work. Close personal friend.
“Well, it depends on where you buy them, whether they’re on sale, which shoe you choose—that sort of thing.”
“Holly,” McMillan said in a stern voice. “How much?”
Bradshaw hesitated. “These were just over three thousand.”
Nick had just taken another swig of coffee and nearly choked.
Three thousand dollars? For a fucking pair of shoes?
“Wow!” McMillan laughed. “Reece would divorce me.”
Damn straight!
“Did you get them for your big date with Sasha tomorrow?”
“I needed something to go with my new dress.”
Nick rolled his eyes. The woman’s closet was full of shoes. The last thing she needed was one more pair—especially one that cost three fucking grand.
“I read in the paper that he’s a billionaire—gas and oil money,” McMillan said.
Nick’s jaw clenched.
Dudaev had built his fortune on human lives, including Dani’s. Killing her had been nothing more than a business transaction to him. He could change his name, wear designer suits, and open a dozen art galleries to make himself seem respectable, but nothing could wash the blood off his hands.
“You should see the sapphire necklace he gave me last week. The chain isn’t actually a chain. It’s a strand of diamonds.”
Nick already knew from another conversation—this time with Sophie Alton-Hunter, another friend from the newspaper—that Bradshaw had bought the dress to match the necklace. Now she’d gotten the shoes to go with the dress. And at last Nick understood what a woman like Holly Bradshaw would see in Dudaev.
Well, greed was blind.
She had no idea what kind of man he truly was. If she wasn’t careful, he’d strangle her with that necklace.
“Sophie told me. It sounds like he’s serious about you. Do you think this will be it—the big night?”
Nick frowned.
What did McMillan mean by that?
“I don’t know. I mean, he’s good-looking enough.”
“Good-looking enough?” McMillan laughed. “He’s a lot better looking than that banker you went out with last year. Where was he from?”
“South Africa.”
“He’s better looking than that Saudi prince, too, whatever his name was. In the news photos, he looks a lot like George Clooney. Sure, he’s got some gray, but I’ll bet he’s fully functional.”
Ah, yes. They were talking about Ms. Bradshaw’s love life. Again.
Nick glanced for a moment at the photos of her he’d pinned to the wall above his desk. He could see why men were eager to sleep with her. She was hot.
Okay, she was incredibly hot. Platinum blond hair. A delicate, heart-shaped face. Big brown eyes. A full mouth, and a body that . . .
Get your mind off her body.
What good were looks if they got you into trouble? There were men who preyed on beautiful women, and Dudaev was one of them.
“Yeah, but he’s . . . I don’t know . . . self-absorbed. He’s probably the kind of man who makes you wish you had a magazine to read when you’re in bed with him. You know—the kind who acts like he’s doing you a big favor when he rams into you for two minutes.”
McMillan was laughing now.
But Bradshaw hadn’t finished. “A lot of guys are oblivious like that. ‘Don’t worry about getting me off, babe. I just want to go down on you all night long’—said no man ever.”
Nick shook his head. Is that truly what she expected?
&n
bsp; A dude would have to have a motorized tongue to pull that off.
Did all women talk like this about sex? Nick couldn’t imagine his sister sharing details about her sex life with her friends or using this kind of language. His mother, a devout Georgian Orthodox Christian, would have had a coronary if she’d caught her daughter or even one of her five sons talking like this.
Not that it offended Nick. He found it kind of sexy, actually. But then, given the things he’d seen and the things he’d had to do, a conversation about oral sex was pretty damned tame.
“Not all men are selfish.”
You tell her, McMillan.
“No, I suppose not. But lots of them are. It makes me want to take out a full-page ad in the paper just to help out womankind. ‘It’s the clit, stupid.’”
Nick let out a laugh—then caught himself.
Keep your shit together, Andris.
* * *
Holly Bradshaw glanced over her shoulder at her living room wall. “Mr. Creeper must be watching something funny on TV. I just heard him laugh. I never hear him.”
“You still haven’t met him?” Kara asked through a yawn.
“He’s lived there for almost a month now and hasn’t once come over to say hello. He stays indoors and keeps the shades drawn. I’ve seen him outside once. He was taking out the trash, but he was wearing a hoodie. I couldn’t see his face.”
Kara’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Maybe he’s a serial killer.”
“You’re not helping.”
“Who cares about him anyway? If I were you, I’d be so excited about tomorrow night. You lead such a glamorous life. I’m so jealous.”
But Holly knew that wasn’t true. “You and Sophie and the others—you spend every evening with your kids and men who love you, while I watch TV by myself or go out to the clubs. I think you’re the lucky ones.”
Like the rest of Holly’s friends, Kara was happily married to a man who cherished her. Reece was one of the kindest, most decent, and sexiest men Holly had ever met—which was really strange, given that he was a politician. He’d bent over backward to prove to Kara that he loved her. Now, they had three kids and lived what seemed to Holly to be a perfect life.