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  "I'm not going to sleep with you, David,"

  Paige announced. "Not until I know who you are."

  "You know who I am."

  "No, I don't! Until a few hours ago, I thought you were an engineer."

  "I am an engineer. I've never lied to you, Paige. Except by omission."

  "Well, you omitted a few rather significant details. A whole secret identity, in fact. How could you do that?" She searched his face. "Didn't you trust me?"

  "It's not a matter of trust."

  "Then what?"

  He raked a hand through his hair. "I wanted to keep you separate from this side of my life. It's too dark. Too dangerous."

  "I see," Paige responded. "Look at me, David."

  A faint half smile curved his lips. "I'm looking."

  She smiled. "What do you see?" Then her smile faded. "Because...maybe I'm not quite the woman you thought you knew, either."

  ISBN0-373-07669-X

  UNDERCOVER MAN

  Copyright © 1995 by Merline Lovelace

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, die 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, 300 East 42nd Street, New York, NY 10017 U.SA.

  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 IB are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

  CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed In U.S.A.

  Books by Merlinc Lovelace

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  Somewhere in Time #593

  *Night of the Jaguar #637

  *The Cowboy and the Cossack #657

  "Undercover Man #669

  '"Code Name: Danger

  Silhouette Desire

  Dreams and Schemes #872

  MERLINE LOVELACE

  As a career air force officer, Merline Lovelace served tours of duty in Vietnam, at the Pentagon and at bases all over the world. During her years in uniform she met and married her own handsome hero and stored up enough adventures to keep her fingers flying over the keyboard for years to come. When not glued to the word processor, Merline goes antiquing with her hus­band, Al, or chases little white balls around the golf courses of Oklahoma.

  Undercover Man is the third book in Merline's "Code Name: Danger" series for Silhouette Intimate Moments. Look for Maggie and Adam's story coming in February 1996.

  Merline also writes sweeping historical romances for Harlequin Historicals. She enjoys hearing from readers and can be reached at P.O. Box 892717, Oklahoma City, OK 73189-2717.

  To Al, who's given me a life filled with wonderful adventures. Who would've thought that bowl of raspberries would someday show up in a romance!

  Prologue

  Her heart thumped painfully against her rib cage as she approached the security station. Only one more check­point to pass through. One more screening.

  Despite the chill March air pervading Washington's Dulles International Airport, sweat trickled down be­tween her breasts. But she allowed no sign of her inner trepidation to show as she strolled toward the conveyor with a long-legged grace that made men crane their necks to watch her and women sniff disparagingly.

  Smiling at the wide-eyed girl on the stool behind the X-ray screen, she dropped her white chinchilla coat and her little leather purse, with its discreet designer logo, onto the conveyor, then moved toward the metal detec­tor with an air of assurance. When she caught the hefty, red-faced guard's openmouthed stare, her smile deep­ened into the sensual, teasing pout she'd perfected for hicks like these.

  Without seeming to, she rolled her shoulders. The narrow, slithery front panels of her gold mesh halter shifted, baring most of her generous breasts. The guard's mouth sagged, and she sailed through the detector. No alarms sounded. No beeps distracted the security spe­cialist from his gawking.

  Almost choking with relief, she retrieved her purse and her coat and joined the stream of elegantly dressed pas­sengers heading for the Concorde's gate. With each step, her terror lessened by imperceptible degrees.

  Still, she wished she hadn't let herself get talked into this. It was too nerve-racking. And too damned danger­ous. The last woman who followed this route hadn't ever returned. Sure, the money was fabulous, but she made enough from her regulars to live well, very well, in L.A. She didn't need this kind of—

  "Miss Ames?"

  Her stomach heaved. Swallowing the sudden, acrid taste of bile, she turned to face the broad-shouldered man who stood behind her.

  Under any other circumstance, she might have appre­ciated his square, cleanly shaven jaw and severely cut brown hair, with its subtle mahogany tints. She liked a man who dressed in his conservative style. They usually paid most generously for the decidedly unconservative services she provided.

  But the expression in his gray blue eyes killed her flicker of professional interest instantly. There was no trace of the admiration she was used to. No masculine appreciation of her well cultivated beauty. Instead, those steely eyes sliced through her with an intensity that made her tremble in pure, unadulterated fear.

  "Are you Meredith Ames?" His deep, even voice sent danger signals screaming along her nerves.

  "Y-yes."

  "Come with me, please."

  She threw a frantic glance around the waiting room, seeking an escape route.

  "Don't even think it," he growled, taking her arm in an iron grip.

  Chapter 1

  Cold March winds swirled along the uneven brick side­walks of a quiet side street just off Massachusetts Avenue, in the heart of D.C.'s embassy district. Late-afternoon shadows marched down the facades of the el­egant Federal-style town houses on either side of the street, casting many of them into pre-evening darkness.

  The shadows dulled the sheen on the discreet bronze plaque mounted beside the door to a brick-fronted three-story structure midway down the block. Anyone who glanced at the plaque would learn that this particular town house was home to the offices of the president's special envoy—a nebulous position created a decade ago to give a wealthy campaign contributor a fancy, if mean­ingless, title and a chance to rub elbows with the Wash­ington elite.

  Only a handful of the most senior government offi­cials were aware that the president's special envoy also served as director of OMEGA, a secret agency whose initials comprised the last letter of the Greek alphabet.

  An agency that, as its name suggested, served as the president's last resort in certain situations with interna­tional implications.

  Not ten hours ago, an urgent call from the president to the current director had activated an OMEGA response. Now, a small team of dedicated professionals was gath­ered in the control center on the third-floor of the agen­cy's headquarters, preparing to send two of their own into harm's way.

  "Now this is more like it!"

  Maggie Sinclair twirled slowly in front of the crew room's full-length mirror. A wide, sequined gold band circled her throat like a shimmering dog collar. From the collar, narrow folds of gold mesh draped sensuously over her breasts to be caught at her waist with another band of sequins. Everything else above her wai
st was skin.

  She faced the mirror once more and grinned at the men hovering just behind her.

  "You guys should take notes. This is just what every well-dressed secret agent should wear into the field."

  The pudgy, frizzy-haired genius who headed OMEGA'S field dress unit snorted. "I'm just glad the suspect was carrying a purse. Even I couldn't figure out how to con­ceal a weapon in that outfit."

  Her grin widening, Maggie smoothed her palms down over hips encased in sleek, cream-colored spandex leg­gings.

  "This outfit is a weapon," she purred.

  Splaying a hand across her chest to keep the narrow ribbons of mesh in place, she leaned toward the mirror and squinted at the glittery collar through green-tinted contacts.

  "Which one is the microdot?"

  Maggie still found it hard to believe that one of the tiny disks sewn to the collar contained over a million lines of computer code. Code that translated into the latest se­cret technology in fiber optics. Code that was worth hundreds of millions of dollars on the black market.

  She'd known, of course, that both the FBI and CIA had been watching the cadre of very beautiful and very expensive call girls jetting between L.A. and the plea­sure centers of Europe for some time, suspecting them of acting as couriers in the dangerous and often deadly game of industrial espionage. But until the president called the director with the shocking news that highly classified fi­ber-optic technology was at that moment being smug­gled out of the country, Maggie hadn't realized just how high the game stakes were.

  This technology had been developed by the military and now formed the backbone of their command-and-control networks. Using the new optical fibers, electri­cal impulses could be transmitted at many times the speed and a hundred times the capacity of the old cables.

  The same technology would soon be available for ci­vilian use, with certain modifications. To say it would revolutionize the global transfer of visual or digital in­formation was a gross understatement. Huge broadcast news and entertainment conglomerates, particularly, were clamoring for its release.

  The sequin-and-fur-clad woman who'd been eased off a plane at Dulles International Airport a few hours ago and whisked away to a secret holding center in Virginia hadn't known what information she carried. Nor had Meredith Ames known who she was delivering it to, only that someone would contact her after she arrived in Cannes.

  Now Maggie would make contact for her.

  The chief of the field dress unit squinted at the collar, then pointed to one of the small gold circles. "That's the microdot. I think. You need a hand-held infrared scan­ner to tell for sure."

  Maggie squinted at the tiny dot, no different to the naked eye than any of the other glittery sequins. "You could have fooled me," she murmured.

  Rolling her shoulders to settle the slithery gold halter into more graceful folds, she picked up a leather purse and a cream silk jacket that matched her leggings.

  If you guys will pack the rest of this stuff for me, I'll go downstairs. Doc's waiting with the director for our final mission clearance."

  "Will do, Chameleon."

  The chief clucked disapprovingly as one of his subor­dinates started to transfer the rest of Meredith Ames's wardrobe, hastily altered where necessary to fit Maggie, into her suitcases. "Careful! Those Guccis aren't knockoffs, you know."

  Maggie snapped open the flap of the white-and-gold Paloma Picasso purse to make sure it held her lipstick, her newly doctored passport, the diamond-studded compact the Special Devices Unit had given her an hour ago, and her Smith & Wesson .22. Satisfied that all items rested securely in their special nest that would shield them from airport metal detectors, she hooked the bag's chain over her shoulder and strolled out into the control cen­ter.

  A long, low wolf whistle rolled across the banks of communications equipment. Grinning, Maggie did a slow pirouette for Joe Samuels, the senior comm tech­nician, with whom she'd shared many tense hours and cold cups of coffee.

  "Not bad for a small-town Oklahoma girl, huh?"

  "You look like a million dollars."

  "Well, a couple thousand, maybe," she countered with a laugh. "Which is about what this little ensemble cost, and about half what the woman I'm impersonating earns a night."

  The other occupant of the control center, a serene, dark-haired woman with dove gray eyes and a luminous ivory complexion, smiled. "You look stunning, Mag­gie."

  "Thanks, Claire. Do I fit the profile you compiled on Meredith Ames?" "Perfectly."

  A psychologist with a string of degrees, Claire Huffacker had quietly become one of the world's foremost experts on hostage negotiations after the death of her husband some years ago at the hands of terrorists. Not content just to passively provide information to those combating terrorism's deadly effects, Claire had re­cently joined OMEGA as an agent. Her code name, Cy-rene, was drawn from Greek mythology, and alluded to her hard-won serenity.

  Maggie couldn't think of anyone she'd rather have acting as headquarters controller for this mission than this remarkable woman. Her tranquil expression hid a mind as keen as any in the organization, and an astounding ability to anticipate the reactions of the sort of dangerous characters that Maggie and Doc, her part­ner for this mission, might have to tangle with in the field.

  "Generally, the more expensive call girls dress rather conservatively," Claire commented, surveying Maggie's dramatic appearance. "They tend toward neat suits, pearls and leather pumps, particularly when meeting their clients in public. The businessmen they service don't want it known that the deal being negotiated over drinks and dinner is for sex, instead of stocks and bonds. But Mer­edith is in a different class."

  "Was in a different class," Maggie interjected. The tall, sultry blonde in the Virginia interrogation center would be out of business for some time.

  "Was in a different class," Claire agreed calmly. "The women who work the international scene, as Meredith did, are at the absolute peak of the prostitution hierar­chy. Their clients are usually so wealthy, they're beyond the reach of the law. These men want their escorts to dress with style, and a sensual allure." She hesitated, then tacked on a quiet warning. "Because they're so power­ful, however, they can be absolutely ruthless. Be careful, Maggie."

  "I will," she promised, heading for the door to the control center.

  "Good luck on this one," Joe called out. "Soak up some of those Riviera rays for me."

  "Will do. You just keep Terence away from the twins' homework. You know how he likes to eat paper."

  "Yeah. He's a ready-made excuse when the boys 'for­get' to get their assignments done."

  Joe shook his head, mumbling something about not quite knowing how he'd ever gotten talked into baby­sitting for Maggie's pet in the first place. Wisely, she kept silent. There were few enough people willing to watch the German shepherd-size blue-and-orange striped iguana while she was on assignment. The creature had been a gift from a certain debonair Central American colonel who wanted to establish much more than a working rela­tionship with her. Joe's twins had unofficially adopted Terence, and Maggie secretly hoped to make that ar­rangement official one of these days.

  With Joe mumbling behind her, she flattened a hand against the hidden sensor beside the control center's door, spoke her code name and waited for security's computers to process the positive palm, voice and video identification. In a few seconds, the heavy titanium-shielded oak door hummed open. She swept down the stairs that led to the second floor, the heels of her cream-colored ostrich skin boots beating a tattoo on the oak treads. After a quick scan of the monitors to make sure the second-floor offices were clear, she stepped into the reception area. The gray-haired, matronly receptionist glanced up at her entrance.

  "You look like one of those angels on top of a Christ­mas tree," Elizabeth Wells exclaimed, beaming. "All spun gold and cream."

  "Good grief, I hope not! I was aiming for the other end of the spectrum! You don't think Field Dress over­did it a bit on the hai
r?"

  "That particular shade of ash blond is very attractive on you," Elizabeth declared staunchly.

  "Think so?" Maggie wrapped a finger around one of the wispy tendrils that escaped her smooth French twist. "Well, at least this is a commercial color, right out of the box. I'm not trusting those guys upstairs with dyes any­more, not after that so-called temporary blemish they tattooed on my chin for the last mission. It took two months for that thing to fade completely."

  When she dipped a shoulder to examine the pale white-gold strand of hair, the halter slid to one side.

  So did Elizabeth's smile. "Er, won't you be a bit cool in that top, dear?"

  "Not in the least. Honestly, Elizabeth, there's a white chinchilla coat waiting with my bags that you have to see to believe. Apparently high-class hookers don't worry about being politically correct. They're still into real fur!"

  "If you say so." The grandmotherly woman cast an­other doubtful glance at the skimpy halter and picked up the intercom.

  When Maggie walked down the short corridor that led to the spacious office of the president's special envoy a few moments later, excitement bubbled in her veins, as it always did at the start of a mission. But this time the bubbles were two parts professional and at least one part personal. With an unabashedly feminine sense of antici­pation, she couldn't wait for Adam Ridgeway to see her in this particular field uniform.

  During her three-plus years as an OMEGA agent, Maggie's unique ability to alter not only her physical ap­pearance, but also her very personality, to fit whatever role she was playing had earned her the code name Cha­meleon. She had gone underground as everything from a nun to a streetwalker. Had slathered every substance on her skin, from camouflage soot to bone-white makeup. Had traveled in every conveyance from a mule cart to an air force jet.

  For the first time, she was going first class. In slinky, sinfully expensive clothes. Bathed in the subtle scent of Bal de Versailles, at three hundred dollars an ounce. Flying via the Concorde to Paris, and then by chartered jet to a sun-soaked playground for billionaires on the Mediterranean. She was definitely going to enjoy this mission.