To Love a Thief Read online

  “Get the Field Dress unit to fix you up with a wardrobe. You'd better take several gowns, a couple of cocktail dresses and bikinis. You'll only need the bottoms, of course."

  "Of course." Mackenzie tried not to bat an eye. She knew that everyone went topless on European beaches except prudish, self-conscious American tourists. No way she wanted Nick to know she'd fallen smack into the prude category.

  "What about my cover?"

  Nick made a show of pulling down his cuffs, and Mackenzie knew what was coming. The man had a tabloid reputation to live up to, after all.

  "The best cover is always the simplest. When asked, we'll merely introduce you as my companion."

  "Define companion."

  "Friend. Mistress. Lover."

  "I don't think so," Mackenzie drawled. "Let's go with business associate."

  Amusement flickered in Nick's eyes. "Do you really think the French will make any distinction between the two?"

  "The French might not, but we will."

  ISBN 0-373-27295-2

  TO LOVE A THIEF

  Copyright © 2003 by Merline Lovelace

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office, Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, New York, NY 10279 U.S.A.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  ® and TM are trademarks of Harlequin Books S.A., used under license. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

  Visit us at www.eHarlequin.com

  CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in U.S.A.

  Prologue

  Yanking open the passenger door of a nondescript gray sedan, a heavyset male dropped into the seat. He brought with him just enough of the crisp Sep­tember breeze to stir the stale odors of old French fries and half-eaten donuts that permeated the ve­hicle.

  His nose wrinkled in disgust. "I wish to hell you'd dump your garbage in a trash can instead of tossing it in the back seat."

  "Never mind my garbage," the driver growled. "Did you get through?"

  "I got through."

  "What was the message that was so damn im­portant we had to call today?"

  "Our client's getting antsy. Real antsy."

  The driver crumpled his foam coffee cup and tossed it over his shoulder to join the rest of the litter. Scowling, he glared at his associate.

  "Hell! This isn't like taking down a two-bit pusher or some husband who can't keep his pants zipped. We've been trying to set up the job for a week now. The target never takes the same route to work, never eats at the same restaurant two nights in a row and has a security system tougher to crack than Fort Knox, for God's sake!"

  "So tell me something I don't know."

  The retort earned him a hard, swift look. More than a little afraid of the man beside him, the pas­senger gulped and delivered the rest of the message that had come through the phone via a voice syn­thesizer that completely disguised the speaker's age, sex and nationality.

  "We gotta do it within twenty-four hours or the deal's off."

  His mouth set, the driver hunched his arms over the wheel. He'd been in the business long enough to know his reputation was on the line here. He'd accepted the contract, demanded and received a five-figure advance. If he didn't deliver as prom­ised, he could kiss off the rest of the hefty fee he'd been promised. Worse, word would soon get around. Before long, he'd be back to shooting out the kneecaps of gamblers who welched on their debts at a hundred bucks a pop.

  "All right," he snarled. "We'll do it tonight."

  Chapter 1

  From the outside, the elegant, three-story Federal-style town house looked much like its neighbors. It sat midblock on a quiet, tree-shaded street just off Massachusetts Avenue, in the heart of Washing­ton's embassy district. The last rays of the afternoon sun glinted on its tall windows. Ivy meandered over its mellow red brick and almost obscured the dis­creet bronze plaque beside the front door.

  The plaque identified the town house as home to the Offices of the President's Special Envoy. Savvy politicians and diplomats knew the position was created years ago to reward a wealthy campaign contributor with a yen for a fancy title and a han­kering to rub elbows with the powerful elite. Like so many other fabricated posts in the nation's cap­ital, the position had since taken on a staff and a life of its own.

  Only a handful of insiders knew the special en­voy also served as director of an agency whose ini­tials comprised the last letter of the Greek alphabet: an agency so secret that its director reported only to the president. So supercharged that OMEGA's agents were activated only as a last resort, when other government agencies like the military, the FBI or the CIA couldn't respond for political or legal reasons.

  For almost a year now, Nick Jensen had served as acting director of OMEGA. The wealth and in­ternational contacts he'd accumulated as owner of a string of outrageously high-priced watering holes for the rich and famous—not to mention his hefty contributions to the president's reelection cam­paign—had given him the necessary cachet for the special envoy's title.

  But it was Nick's years as one of OMEGA's field agents that had given him the expertise to run the super secret organization. He hadn't sought or par­ticularly wanted the responsibility of sending his fellow operatives into harm's way, but Maggie Sin­clair, the previous director, had convinced the pres­ident that Nick was the best person for the job.

  Few people could hold out against Maggie when she set her mind to something. Nick was no excep­tion—as the present situation indicated.

  "You can't fail me, Lightning! I'm desperate."

  Her voice floated over the speakers in the third-floor control center where Mackenzie Blair, OMEGA's chief of communications, had patched her straight through to the director.

  "The woman stormed out the moment I walked into the house," Maggie exclaimed in exasperation. "Didn't give notice. Didn't offer an explanation. Just grabbed her purse and rushed right past me."

  "Let me guess." Tapping his twenty-four karat gold Mont Blanc pen against the console in front of him, Nick had no difficulty picturing the scene. "She had grape jelly in her hair, muddy paw prints all down her front and lizard spit decorating her blouse."

  A gurgle of laughter came over the speakers. "Actually, the grape jelly was on her shoes and the lizard spit was dribbling down her right cheek."

  Chuckling, Nick leaned back in his chair. ‘‘How many nannies have you and Adam run through in the past six months? Two? Three?"

  He caught the eyes of the dark-haired woman on the other side of the console. Grinning, Mackenzie held up four fingers.

  "The body count doesn't matter," Maggie an­swered loftily. "What matters is that I don't have a baby-sitter available for tonight. I can't miss this banquet, Nick. Adam's worked too hard and too long. He deserves this recognition for his work with the International Monetary Fund. I may be eight months pregnant, but I'm going to pour myself into an evening gown and strap on high heels. If I can take those extreme measures, you ought to be will­ing to hold down the fort for a few hours. Can you be here by seven?"

  Nick gave the computerized sta
tus board on the far wall a quick glance. He had one agent in Saudi Arabia. Another agent was on his way back to D.C. after weeks in Honduras and would need to be de­briefed sometime tonight. Nick was also expected at a black-tie party thrown by one of Washington's most sophisticated hostesses.

  But this was Maggie Sinclair. Code name Cha­meleon. A young, scrawny Nick had once offered to act as her pimp. It didn't even occur to him to refuse her this small service. Although he had to admit, the thought of spending several hours with the non-adult residents of her chaotic household daunted even OMEGA's acting director. Once again his glance drifted to the woman on the other side of the console.

  "I'll be there by seven," he promised, his blue eyes on his chief of communications. "But I'm not going in alone, unarmed and without backup. I'll bring Mackenzie with me. We can get some work done after the girls are in bed."

  The grin fell off his chief of communication’s face. With a little squawk, she bolted upright in her chair and waved both hands in a frantic negative. Maggie must have caught the strangled sound. Hastily, she terminated the conversation before ei­ther Nick or Mackenzie could weasel out.

  "Great! See you both then."

  The thump of her receiver dropping down echoed through the speakers. The communications techs manning their posts turned away to hide their grins as their chief shoved out of her chair, planted both palms on the console, and directed an evil glare at her boss.

  "Thanks a lot! I'm still flaking green dandruff from the last time I baby-sat for Maggie and Adam. Jilly swore that spray-on hair paint would wash out with a good shampoo."

  "Serves you right for not reading the directions on the can first."

  "Jilly said they'd tested it on Radizwell."

  "Well, that explains the dog's new shaved-to-the-skin look," Nick drawled. "Normally his coat is so thick Adam has to use pruning shears to cut it."

  Realizing he was less than sympathetic to either her or the sheepdog's misadventures with Jilly's paint can, Mackenzie changed tactics.

  "You might consult me before volunteering my services as a baby-sitter," she huffed. "I could have plans for tonight."

  "Do you?"

  He knew the answer before she pursed her lips and shot him another nasty look.

  Everyone at OMEGA agreed their chief of com­munications was a wizard at all things electronic. Since taking over the job, she'd provided field agents with miniaturized devices powerful enough to drop do-wrongs with a single zap, capture the smallest images in stunning digital detail from miles away and detect sounds as soft as a sneaker tread two floors down.

  Everyone at OMEGA also agreed Mackenzie Blair needed to get a life. A short, disastrous mar­riage to another navy officer had spurred her deci­sion to opt out of the military. It had also left her distinctly wary of entanglements. Since joining the OMEGA team, she'd spent most of her waking hours on the job. From all indications, her social life was nonexistent. Nick knew for a fact her eve­ning meals usually consisted of pizza or fast food scarfed down right here at the control center.

  More and more of late, he'd found himself con­templating ways to add variety to her diet...and spice up her social life. Particularly after a recent mission in San Antonio, when Mackenzie had stepped out of her role of chief of communications and into the arms of an overmuscled building con­tractor who'd hired a hit man to murder his wife. She'd snuggled up to the bastard, wearing a low-cut dress that spiked the temperature of every male within a fifty-yard radius. Nick's temperature had shot off the charts, as well. So, it seemed, had his objectivity where this green-eyed brunette was con­cerned.

  Not that she had any clue how much she'd come to occupy his thoughts. Nick was her boss. For the time being, anyway. His professional code of ethics wouldn't allow him to hit on someone who worked for him. Hers, he knew, had been shaped by her years in the navy, where fraternization between the ranks was strictly taboo.

  But when Maggie had her baby and returned to work, Nick thought with a sudden tightening in his groin, he fully intended to make his move.

  If Maggie ever came back to work, that is.

  The prospects were looking dimmer and dimmer with each passing month and additional project she became involved with. As she'd informed Nick on several occasions, he might just have to get used to serving as OMEGA's director. Shoving that thought aside, he offered the still reluctant Mackenzie a bribe.

  "Why don't I fix us dinner at Maggie and Adam's place? I'll bring the ingredients. And the wine," he added, remembering an especially fine white he'd just added to his private cellar.

  She hesitated for several moments. Nick read the doubt in her eyes. Like him, she'd sensed the subtle changes in their relationship over the past few months. Unlike him, she hadn't yet made up her mind what to do about it.

  "Dinner sounds good," she conceded, but in the next breath made it clear she intended to keep mat­ters strictly professional. "As you said, we can use the time to get some work done. I want to wait for Ace to check in before I leave, though. He's sched­uled to transmit a status report at six forty-five, our time."

  Nick nodded. He'd spoken with Ace yesterday and knew the agent had as yet turned up no leads as to the saboteurs responsible for the explosions that ripped through several oil refineries in Saudi Arabia. The outraged Saudis had put a million dol­lar bounty on the person or persons responsible for the bombings. So far, the reward hadn't produced any results. Nor, it appeared, had Ace, who was slogging it out undercover in the oil fields with his Saudi counterpart.

  "Contact me immediately if the report doesn't come through."

  At the whip like command, OMEGA's chief of communications snapped to attention and popped a salute. "Aye-aye, Skipper!"

  Nick's features relaxed into a grin. "As you were, Blair. See you at seven."

  The man moved like a lion, Mackenzie decided as he strolled out of the control center. All supreme confidence, sleek muscle and lethal grace. He looked like one, too, damn him. Forget the cash­mere sports coats. Never mind the silk ties and Ital­ian leather shoes. With his dark gold hair and tanned skin, he would have been right at home roaming the African plains.

  Well, Mackenzie had let one too-handsome beast maul both her heart and her pride. She wasn't about to let another get close enough to sink his teeth in.

  She dropped back into her chair, her mouth twist­ing in wry acknowledgment. Okay, so maybe her pride had suffered more than her heart. Even before she returned early from a cruise and caught her ex in bed with their well-endowed neighbor, Macken­zie had accepted the bitter fact that their marriage was over. She would have chosen a more civilized way to end it, though.

  The mere memory of the very hard, very swift knee she'd planted in David's groin when he'd grabbed her arm and tried to force her to listen to his pathetic excuses was enough to produce a grin. Whistling cheerfully, she went back to work.

  Later that evening, Mackenzie used the short drive to Maggie and Adam's house to prepare herself. She respected Adam, who'd served as OMEGA's director before Maggie, but her loyalty was to his wife, who'd hired her right out of the navy. Mackenzie considered Maggie her friend as well as her mentor. What's more, she thoroughly enjoyed the tales of Chame­leon's outrageous exploits the other OMEGA agents frequently repeated and, she suspected, greatly exag­gerated.

  Friend or no friend, however, no one entered Maggie and Adam's elegant Georgetown residence without putting themselves in a mental brace. Con­trolled mayhem was the kindest way—the only way!—to describe their chaotic household.

  Maggie's pet iguana was bad enough. The thing was the size of a small dog, had a foot-long tongue and devoured plants, newspaper and shoes indis­criminately. Making matters worse was a pony-size Hungarian sheepdog, a gift from the vice president who'd wanted desperately to get rid of the oversize, overfriendly beast.

  Unfortunately, Radizwell had recently developed a bad case of the hots for the blue-and-orange, bug­ eyed iguana. He was always trying to hump the hissing, spittin
g lizard. His enthusiastic efforts wreaked havoc on nearby furniture, had Adam grit­ting his teeth and made Maggie's small daughters shriek with laughter. Mackenzie didn't even want to think about the stories four-year-old Jilly shared with her friends and teachers at nursery school.

  When she pulled into the circular drive leading to Adam and Maggie's two-story home, she saw Nick had already arrived. She pulled up behind his Jag, trying hard not to drool over its gleaming black beauty, and made for the front door. Adam Ridge-way, code name Thunder, answered the tinkling call of the chimes.

  Mackenzie gulped. Nick Jensen in tan cashmere and navy slacks was enough to make any woman swallow her tongue. Adam Ridgeway in white tie and tails could make her forget she ever had one.

  If Mackenzie hadn't sworn off men for the fore­seeable future...

  If this suave, aristocratic Bostonian wasn't mar­ried to her idol...

  If he weren't carrying one dark-haired cherub in the crook of his right arm and had another tucked under his left...

  “Kenzie!"

  The squeal came from the youngest, a bright-eyed two-year-old. Thrusting out her chubby arms, she demanded an instant embrace. With a smile for Adam, Mackenzie gathered Samantha into her arms. Her smile took a quick downward tilt when an ear-shattering woof boomed through the hall. Whirling, Adam rapped out a sharp command. "No!"

  Radizwell put out all four paws and tried to stop. He really tried. Claws clicking on the slick tiles, he slid a good three yards before careening past Adam, who managed to dodge him at the last second.

  The dog recovered and looked up adoringly at Mackenzie, who'd been known to slip him forbid­den delights during previous visits. His near-hairless body quivered from nose to tail. Without his thick, shaggy coat, the poor thing looked more like a newly shorn sheep than a sheepdog, but he was still big enough to knock over a dump truck.

  "Downstairs," Adam ordered, pointing to an open door halfway down the hall. Radizwell gave a long, mournful whine.