Risky Engagement. Merline Lovelace

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      Table of Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

About the Author

Prologue

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

       Copyright

About the Author

      A retired Air Force officer, MERLINE LOVELACE served at bases all over the world, including tours in Taiwan, Vietnam and at the Pentagon. When she hung up her uniform for the last time, she decided to combine her love of adventure with a flair for storytelling, basing many of her tales on her experiences in the service.

      Since then, she’s produced more than eighty action-packed novels, many of which have made USA TODAY and Waldenbooks bestseller lists. More than ten million copies of her works are in print in thirty countries. Named Oklahoma’s Writer of the Year and the Oklahoma Female Veteran of the Year, Merline is also a recipient of Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA® Award.

      Dear Reader,

      Have you ever planned the perfect vacation, only to have one disaster after another occur? That’s what happened when we jaunted down to Cabo San Lucas with our best pals, Neta and Dave. But even disasters can turn into fun with the right attitude—and they make terrific fodder for books!

      I hope you enjoy this, the latest in my Code Name: Danger series. And be sure to check my website at www.merlinelovelace.com for news, information, contests, and releases yet to come.

       Merline Lovelace

Prologue

      Sweat trickled down his temple, into his eye. Impatiently, Wolf blinked it away. He and his team had kept the hacienda perched atop a sun-baked cliff under surveillance for two days and two long nights now. From all indications, the bastard who owned it would make his move soon. And when he did, Wolf would take him down.

      In the meantime, he was close to broiling under the afternoon sun. Summers in this corner of Mexico’s Los Cabos Peninsula could be brutal. October wasn’t much better. It didn’t help that the azure sea shimmered in the distance, making a mockery of the sweat plastering his camouflage shirt to his back and—

      “El Lobo!”

      The low exclamation brought his gaze whipping to the man stretched out a few feet away on the dry, baked earth. He was one of Mexico’s elite, handpicked by Wolf’s counterpart for this op. Like Wolf, he was covered from head to toe in desert fatigues and dripping in sweat.

      “Someone comes,” he whispered urgently. “A woman. Not from here, I think.”

      He edged to one side so Wolf could take his place at the high-powered scope. Tripod mounted and over a foot long when fully extended, the scope packed almost enough power to pick out Neil Armstrong’s footprints on the moon. More than enough to display in startlingly precise detail, the female trudging along the unpaved road leading to the hacienda they were keeping under surveillance.

      His jaw locked, Wolf catalogued sweat-streaked, honey-brown hair showing beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat. Oversize designer sunglasses hid the upper half her face, but the lower half showed a mouth set in tight lines. A rumpled linen sundress in a pale green color, bared shoulders showing the first flush of sunburn.

      “That’s it,” Wolf growled, when she paused at the gate cut into the high walls surrounding the hacienda’s vast acreage and tipped her sun glasses to peer at the phone box beside the gate. “Com’on, chica. Take ‘em off and give me a good target.”

      He centered the crosshairs on her face. Slowly, so slowly, she slid the glasses down an inch. Two.

      With a grunt of satisfaction, Wolf nailed her.

Chapter 1

      Autumn had painted the chestnut trees lining the quiet side street in the heart of Washington D.C.'s embassy district with brilliant color. The blazing reds and oranges and golds lent a festive, almost carnival air to the stately town houses shaded by their branches.

      There was nothing festive in the air inside the town house midway down the block, however. A bronze plaque beside the door identified the building as home to the offices of the President’s Special Envoy. Most Washington insiders knew the special envoy was one of those meaningless titles given by various administrations over the years to wealthy campaign contributors who wanted to rub elbows with the country’s movers and shakers.

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