Not on His Watch Read online

  “I suppose this is the part where I fall into your arms, flutter my eyelashes and tell you that you’re my hero.”

  Quint grinned. “I wouldn’t mind one bit, Natalie.”

  “Don’t hold your breath, cowboy. You lied to me. You’re a bodyguard, aren’t you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Quint leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and rotated his shoulders to relieve the tension in his back. Rescuing Natalie like that had been a crazy stunt, and he was damned lucky that he’d succeeded. If he’d failed, they might both be dead.

  He felt Natalie’s hand on his shoulder. “Quint? Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” he said.

  “You’re shaking.”

  From fear, the fear of losing her. He swallowed hard. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

  “And you?” she asked. “Are you hurt?”

  Looking at Natalie, knowing that she was alive and well, he felt the soul-deep pain beginning to heal. “I’m just fine.”

  “Good.” She straightened her shoulders. “Because I’m going to kill you.”

  Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

  We’ve got another month of sinister summer sizzlers lined up for you starting with the one and only Familiar—your favorite crime-solving black cat! Travel with the feisty feline on a magic carpet to the enchanting land of sheiks in Caroline Burnes’s Familiar Mirage, the first part of FEAR FAMILIAR: DESERT MYSTERIES. You can look for the companion book, Familiar Oasis, next month.

  Then it’s back to the heart of the U.S.A. for another outstanding CONFIDENTIAL installment. This time, the sexiest undercover operatives around take on Chicago in this bestselling continuity series. Cassie Miles launches the whole shebang with Not on His Watch.

  Debra Webb continues her COLBY AGENCY series with one more high-action, heart-pounding romantic suspense story in Physical Evidence. What these Colby agents won’t do to solve a case—they’ll even become prime suspects to take care of business…and fall in love.

  Finally, esteemed Harlequin Intrigue author Leona Karr brings you a classic mystery about a woman who washes up on the shore sans memory. Good thing she’s saved by a man determined to find her Lost Identity.

  A great lineup to be sure. So make sure you pick up all four titles for the full Harlequin Intrigue reading experience.

  Sincerely,

  Denise O’Sullivan

  Associate Senior Editor

  Harlequin Intrigue

  NOT ON HIS WATCH

  CASSIE MILES

  To my old friends, critique groups, the guys at Merrick and Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers.

  Thank you for your caring support,

  for your laughter and your love.

  And, as always, to Rick.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Cassie Miles was born in Chicago, and now lives in Denver, one of the fastest-growing cities in the country, with the traffic jams to prove it. She belongs to the film society and enjoys artsy subtitled cinema almost as much as movies in which stuff blows up. Her favorite entertainment is urban, ranging from sports to museum exhibits to coffeehouse espresso. Yet she never loses sight of the Rocky Mountains through the kitchen window.

  Books by Cassie Miles

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  122—HIDE AND SEEK

  150—HANDLE WITH CARE

  237—HEARTBREAK HOTEL

  269—ARE YOU LONESOME TONIGHT?

  286—DON’T BE CRUEL

  320—MYSTERIOUS VOWS

  332—THE SUSPECT GROOM

  363—THE IMPOSTER

  381—RULE BREAKER

  391—GUARDED MOMENTS

  402—A NEW YEAR’S CONVICTION

  443—A REAL ANGEL

  449—FORGET ME NOT

  521—FATHER, LOVER, BODYGUARD

  529—THE SAFE HOSTAGE

  584—UNDERCOVER PROTECTOR

  645—STATE OF EMERGENCY†

  649—WEDDING CAPTIVES†

  670—NOT ON HIS WATCH

  HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

  567—BUFFALO MCCLOUD

  574—BORROWED TIME

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Quintin Crawford—The long, tall Texan became a Confidential agent to forget his dark personal tragedy. He never expected to find sunshine in Chicago.

  Natalie Van Buren—Daughter of the CEO of Quantum Industries, she struggled to earn her vice president title and learned never to settle for second best.

  Henry Van Buren—The CEO of Quantum Industries, a megapowerful international oil distributor based in Chicago.

  Nicco, alias Nick Beaumont—The mysterious expert in timed explosives. Who was he working for?

  Gordon Doeller—The Quantum vice president in charge of marketing had his fingers in too many pies.

  Eugene “Hutch” Greely—The leader of the eco-cult Solar Sons held a dangerous grudge against Quantum.

  Zahir Haji Haleem—A force to be reckoned with in oil-based Middle Eastern economies. Was he a hero or a snake?

  Maria Luisa Moreno and Jerome Harris—Loyal Quantum employees. Or were they?

  Vincent Romeo, Whitney MacNair Romeo, Lawson Davies and Andy Dexter—Agents with the newly formed Chicago Confidential.

  Daniel Austin—Founder of Montana Confidential and close friend to Quintin Crawford.

  Javid Haji Haleem—A Middle Eastern ruler and twin to Zahir. He came to Chicago to aid the Confidential investigation.

  Kathy Renk—The receptionist in the Confidential offices.

  * * *

  The Confidential Agent’s Pledge

  I hereby swear to uphold the law

  to the best of my ability; to maintain the

  level of integrity of this agency by my

  compassion for victims, loyalty to my

  brothers and courage under fire.

  And above all, to hold all information and

  identities in the strictest confidence….

  * * *

  Contents

  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 One

  Outside the square granite entryway to the office building, dirty snow marked the curb where a white Fiat sedan and a blue Toyota were parked. The sidewalks appeared to be deserted. No lights shone from the office windows. The stealthy gray of dawn thinned the night shadows into faded streaks.

  If Quintin Crawford had to guess, he’d place the time in the snowy scene to be somewhere between six and six-fifteen in the morning. Quint and four other agents stared at the high-resolution video on the large flat monitor in the special-ops room. They were watching, waiting for something to happen.

  On the screen, a bearded old man came onto the street. His lips moved. His hands, in ragged mittens, pounded the air and twitched as he mumbled incomprehensibly. He could’ve been anyone—any tired soul who got fed up with the daily struggle and opted out. Not too long ago, Quint silently acknowledged, that guy could’ve been him.

  Trudging aimlessly, the bearded man pulled his brown knit cap low on his forehead. His filthy, rumpled jacket and grease-stained trousers were also brown. The only hint of color showed in the dark red woolen scarf wrapped around his neck. Beside him, a three-legged black-and-white Border collie bobbled along in syncopated gait. When the dog hopped ahead, the man hurried for three paces, then slowed again as he rounded the corner and disappeared.

  It was quiet on the street, windless. Not
hing moved.

  For one fleeting instant, the building shuddered and shimmered with an eerie glow. More light than color, this brief flash signaled the onset of danger.

  Quint’s muscles tensed. His senses alert, he watched the screen.

  The gray dawn shattered in flames.

  With a deafening roar, a fierce explosion erupted from inside the stone walls. Glass splintered. Metal door frames crumpled. A ball of fire pitched the Fiat and the Toyota like empty tin cans, sending them crashing and rolling on the concrete street. The Fiat landed on its roof with tires spinning in the air. Black smoke gushed across the sidewalk. The granite entrance gaped like the ragged jaws of hell, spewing flame and soot.

  In the wake of this man-made thunderhead, a remembered pain—more intense and fearsome than any physical hurt—sliced through Quint’s gut. The knife twisted. He closed his eyes and catapulted backward in time. Two years, three months and nine days ago, he had faced another senseless explosion. In those fire-streaked skies over Texas, he had lost everything.

  In his mind, he saw the single-engine Cessna. His wife, Paula, on her first solo flight. The white winter skies over the prairie. Another plane. A blast of gunfire.

  On the ground, Quint was helpless. He could do nothing to stop the attack.

  The Cessna was caught—trapped in the cross fire between earth and air. Lethal flares. Tracer bullets. There was a flash. A shimmer. An explosion. The underbelly of the clouds glowed blood-red.

  Pieces of the Cessna, debris, fell to the earth.

  Quint’s heart dropped. His world stopped rotating on its axis. He was numb, yet aching in every fiber of his being.

  Without Paula, he had no reason to live. In the months that followed, he prayed for death—a dark, silent embrace to fill the inconsolable emptiness. He rode into the plains alone and stayed for days, waiting, begging for the end to come. But death was a stubborn bastard.

  Eventually, Quint’s bitter tears ran dry. The remnant of his life was nothing better than a sick joke. He had his health, his oil business, his ranch…and no reason to enjoy any of it.

  Somehow, he forced himself to go on, learned how to laugh to keep from crying, told himself that he’d be able to accept Paula’s death. Someday. He’d pull himself together and become a whole man again. Someday.

  Someday wasn’t here. Not yet.

  His eyelids pried open as the last echoes from the office building explosion on the high-resolution screen faded and the picture went black. It would’ve been nice to pretend this bombing was a DVD from Hollywood where the macho hero would stride through the flames with a smudge on his forehead and a beautiful starlet tucked under his arm—but real life was seldom so neat and tidy. All too often, people died. Real people.

  It was the job of Quint Crawford and the other members of Chicago Confidential, a special division of the Federal Department of Public Safety, to confront the violence and end it. They pursued their investigations undercover—deeply undercover. All agents had other lives. When not on assignment, they worked at successful careers that weren’t necessarily related to law enforcement.

  The Confidential program had started in Texas under the direction of Mitchell Forbes, and there was another branch in Montana. Here in Chicago, the front for their operations was Solutions, Inc., a fictitious corporation located on the penthouse floor of the Langston Building, a skyscraper in the heart of the city.

  With a quick glance, Quint surveyed the faces of the other four agents who sat at the round table in the high-tech confines of the special-operations room. Everybody but the boss seemed shocked by the explosion, a little off balance. Quint was the new guy in town, on loan from Texas Confidential, but he wasn’t sure he liked the way this assignment had been introduced with a bang. It might be good to lighten the mood.

  “I have a couple of questions,” he drawled. “First off, what happened to the dog?”

  Three of the other four agents chuckled, but Vincent Romeo, the head of operations, did not crack a smile. This dark, brawny man, a former National Security Agency operative, was responsible for setting up this new Confidential branch. Though Vincent had the reputation of being a good man and an effective agent, his attitude seemed aloof—somber as his black turtleneck and trousers.

  In Quint’s estimation, Vincent was a serious tight ass. The only time he brightened was when he looked at his redheaded wife, Whitney MacNair Romeo, who had to be the prettiest agent in any Confidential branch.

  Coolly, Vincent responded, “By the time the authorities responded to the explosion, the dog and his owner were long gone. No one—not even the security guards in the building—were injured in this explosion.”

  “So, they never saw the dog again,” Quint clarified. It seemed odd that the authorities on the scene wouldn’t make a point of finding a witness.

  “The dog isn’t our problem,” Vincent said. His tone was near sarcastic. “If there are no more questions, we’ll continue with our briefing.”

  Quint stretched out his long legs and leaned back in the surprisingly comfortable ultramodern chair that hugged his behind like a handcrafted leather saddle. If Vincent wanted to play it cool, Quint would oblige. “Cause of the explosion?”

  “The mechanics of the bomb will be explained in a moment.”

  “When was this video taken?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “Where?” Since it was March, Quint assumed the snow on the curb indicated a colder climate. Something about the shadows and light made him think of northern latitudes.

  “Reykjavik, Iceland.”

  “Why?” Quint asked. This was the hard question—the one that would surely drive their undercover investigation.

  Vincent’s jaw tightened. The corner of his mouth pulled into an expression that could’ve been a frown or a sneer. “You don’t waste words, cowboy.”

  “Y’all have to excuse my impatience.” Quint purposely exaggerated his Texan drawl. “I didn’t know we were chitchatting at an afternoon tea party. You just take your time…city boy.”

  Vincent’s coal-black eyes flared. Apparently, he didn’t like to have his leadership challenged.

  Beside him, Whitney groaned. “This is what I hate about working with men. Everything turns into a contest.”

  She was much too ladylike to call this altercation a spitting match, but that’s what it was. Neither man would quit until they knew whose spit flew the farthest.

  Ever since Quint arrived in Chicago two days ago, Vincent Romeo had been treating him like a brainless hick from the sticks. That attitude was going to stop. Right now.

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” Quint said. “I hail from Midland, Texas. My business is oil, but I run a few head of cattle on my ranch so it’s true I’m a cowboy. Damn proud to be one. And I surely don’t mind if you call me ‘cowboy’ or ‘Tex’ or ‘good old boy,’ but you’d better learn to say it with a smile.”

  “You might not have noticed,” Whitney said, “but my husband isn’t big on unnecessary grins. I think it’s a brooding Italian thing.”

  “I think his shorts are too tight.” Andy Dexter gave a snorting laugh and shot a loopy grin in Quint’s direction. Like most guys who spent a lot of time with computers, Andy was lacking in social skills. He was, however, a genius in telecommunications and computer forensics. His specialized computer equipment made the special-ops room look like the cockpit of a 747, with wall-to-wall blinking lights, switches, screens and dials. In an instant, Andy could analyze and match voiceprints or fingerprints, pull up Interpol data or reproduce satellite photos of troop movements in Zaire. It had been his idea to install built-in laptops in front of each chair at the round table for briefings.

  “Could we get back to business?” Lawson Davies glanced at his Rolex. “It’s already nine-fifteen, and I have a deposition in forty-five minutes.”

  “Really, Law?” Whitney arched a delicate eyebrow. “I wouldn’t think the vice president in charge of a big corporation’s legal department needed t
o bother with such mundane legal tasks.”

  “I’m observing and training a new attorney.” He turned toward Vincent. “That bombing in Iceland. It was the building where Quantum Industries has its offices. Correct?”

  “Yes,” Vincent said.

  “The story they put out to the media claimed the explosion was an accident caused by a gas leak,” Law said thoughtfully. He was well acquainted with the ins and outs of the oil business. When not on undercover assignment, he worked for Petrol Corporation, an oil distributor whose competition was the multinational giant, Quantum Industries, the largest buyer and seller of oil worldwide. “Why was the bombing covered up?”

  “There was a need for an undercover investigation.” Though Vincent directed his reply toward Law, he trained his gaze on Quint. “Within Quantum, nobody but the CEO knows the truth.”

  Staring back at Vincent, Quint asked, “Do we know who set the bomb?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Any of the usual terrorist suspects?”

  “Not as far as we can tell.” Vincent nodded to his pretty redheaded wife. “Please proceed with the briefing information.”

  “Right.” Whitney tapped a few computer keys on the laptop in front of her. The built-in screens all around the table came to life. “First, you have detailed information about Quantum Industries, which you can read later. Second, we have an analysis of the bomb—a high-tech mechanism on an override timer which appeared to be deactivated long enough for the old man and his dog to pass safely. We’re assuming the terrorists didn’t want to attract unnecessary attention with fatalities. The third point is most important for our investigation. Although nobody took credit for the bombing, there was a message. It said: ‘Next time, home base.’”

  “Are we sure they meant Quantum?” Law asked. “There are other offices in that building.”

  “We’re sure,” Vincent said.

  “Then, home base is Chicago.” Law looked away from the screen and removed the wire-rimmed glasses he wore for reading. “If we had windows in this special-ops room, I could point out the Quantum Building over toward the Sears Tower.”