Enemy Infiltration. Carol Ericson

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СКАЧАТЬ “—and I already have a media contact. I’m working with Peyton Fletcher. She has my back.”

      “Oh, I doubt that.” He dropped his hand onto his thigh, rubbing his knuckles across the denim of his jeans. “I’m not with any news organization.”

      The lips he’d been admiring flattened into a thin line. “Cordova’s office? Is that why you were warning me about the truth? You did warn me, didn’t you?”

      “C’mon.” He spread his arms. “Do I look like a politician?”

      Her dark eyes tracked from the top of his head, flicked sideways across his leather jacket and traveled down his jeans. When she reached the silver tips of his black cowboy boots, her nostrils flared.

      The inventory got him hot and bothered, and he willed Lana to keep her eyes pinned to his boots so she wouldn’t notice his response to her assessment a little higher up.

      He got his wish, as her eyes flew to his face. “As a matter of fact, you do kind of look like a politician—the smooth kind who tries to fit in with the locals with expensive designer duds no real Greenvale farmhand would ever wear…or could ever afford.”

      Ouch. His erection died as fast as it had come on.

      Logan tipped back his head and laughed at the sky, laughed so hard he fell backward, his backside, covered by his nondesigner jeans, hitting the dirt. His hands went out behind him, and he wedged his palms against the ground to keep from falling back any farther.

      “You’re a pistol, little lady.” He put on his best Texas drawl. “Would they say things like that, too?”

      One side of her mouth twitched. “Yes, they would. That accent though, it sounds legit. Where’d you pick it up?”

      “Same place I got these fancy duds.” He slapped the side of his right boot. “Dallas. So, if you think you Greenvale, California, cowboys are the real deal, you’re dreaming.”

      “Got me.” Lana held up her hands. “But if you’re not a reporter and you don’t work for Cordova, I repeat my question. Who the hell are you? And don’t say Logan Hess. That name means nothing to me.”

      He’d hoped she wouldn’t recognize his name, but no report would ever reveal the names of a military unit.

      “Let’s try this again.” Logan wiped his dusty palm against his shirt and held out his hand. “I’m Captain Logan Hess with U.S. Delta Force.”

      Her mouth formed an O but at least she took his hand this time in a firm grip, her skin rough against his. “I’m Lana Moreno, but you probably already know that, don’t you?”

      “I sure do.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I saw your little impromptu news conference about an hour ago.”

      “But you knew who I was before that. You didn’t track me down to compare cowboy boots.” She jabbed him in the chest with her finger. “Did you know Gilbert?”

      “Unfortunately, no.” Lana didn’t need to know just how unfortunate that really was. “Let’s get out of the dirt and grab some lunch.”

      She tilted her head and a swathe of dark hair fell over her shoulder, covering one eye. The other eye scorched his face. “Why should I have lunch with you? What do you want from me? When I heard you were Delta Force, I thought you might have known Gilbert, might’ve known what happened at that outpost.”

      “I didn’t, but I know of Gilbert and the rest of them, even the assistant ambassador who was at the outpost. I can guarantee I know a lot more about the entire situation than you do from reading that redacted report they grudgingly shared with you.”

      “You are up-to-date. What are we waiting for?” Her feet scrambled beneath her as she slid up the wall. “If you have any information about the attack in Nigeria, I want to hear it.”

      “I thought you might.” He rose from the ground, towering over her petite frame. He pulled a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his leather jacket and waved it at her. “Take this.”

      “Thank you.” She blew her nose and mopped her face, running a corner of the cloth beneath each eye to clean up her makeup. “I suppose you don’t want it back.”

      “You can wash it for me and return it the next time we meet.”

      That statement earned him a hard glance from those dark eyes, still sparkling with unshed tears, but he had every intention of seeing Lana Moreno again and again and however many times it took to pick her brain about why she believed there was more to the story than a bunch of Nigerian criminals deciding to attack an embassy outpost—a ridiculous cover story if he ever heard one.

      About as ridiculous as the story of Major Rex Denver working with terrorists.

      Her quest had to be motivated by more than grief over a brother. People didn’t stage stunts like she just did in front of a congressman’s office based on nothing.

      “Sure, I’ll wash it.” Lana stuffed his handkerchief into the pocket of her suede jacket.

      “My rental car’s parked around the corner.”

      “That’s nice.” She shrugged her shoulders off the wall. “I’ll take my truck over and meet you at the restaurant.”

      “Understood. You can’t be too careful…especially you.” Logan reached for his wallet. “Do you want to see my military ID before we go any further?”

      She whipped around. “Why’d you say especially me? Come to think of it, why did you say the truth could get me killed?”

      “I’ll explain over lunch.” He slipped his ID from his wallet and held it out to her, framed between his thumb at the bottom and two fingers at the top.

      Her gaze bounced from the card to his face. “Your hair’s shorter in the picture.”

      “Military cut.” He ran a hand over the top of his head, the ends no longer creating a bristle.

      “And lighter.” She squinted at the photo on the card. “Almost blond.”

      Logan felt that warm awakening in his belly again under Lana’s scrutiny. If this woman could turn him on just looking at his picture, he couldn’t imagine what her touch would do to him. He shivered.

      “This—” he tapped the card “—was taken in the summer. My hair tends to get darker in the winter. Any other questions? Do you want me to shed my jacket so you can check out my…weight?”

      Lana’s eyes widened for a second, and a pink blush touched her mocha skin. “I’m not questioning you. The ID matches the man. Do you like Mexican?”

      He blinked. He liked this Mexican. A lot.

      “Food. Do you like Mexican food?” She stomped the dirt from her boots like a filly ready to trot.

      “I’m from Texas. What do you think?”

      “I’ve eaten Mexican food in Texas before, and if you think that salsa is hot…you’re dreaming.”

      His СКАЧАТЬ