Strangers When We Meet

Strangers When We Meet
Merline Lovelace

About the Author

A career 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. Over eleven million copies of her works are in print in thirty countries. be sure to check her website at www.merlinelovelace.com for contests, news, and information on future releases.

Strangers

When We Meet

Merline Lovelace

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

This book is dedicated to the men and women of

the Mighty Ninety, charged with the awesome

responsibility of keeping 150 Minuteman III ICBMS

on full alert 24-hours a day, 365 days a year.

Impavide!

Prologue

The annual reception for foreign ambassadors was one of Washington D.C.’s premiere White House events. A string quartet floated exquisite background melodies above conversations held in a host of different languages. White-gloved servers passed among the crowd with silver trays of canapés and sparkling crystal champagne flutes. In addition to diplomats from dozens of nations, the guest list included cabinet members, key congressional leaders and high-powered U.S. agency heads.

Tall, tawny-haired and elegant in his Armani tux, Nick Jensen stood with his wife, Mackenzie. To most of the elite in the room, Jensen was the president’s special envoy. The generally meaningless honorific had been bestowed over the years on a succession of wealthy campaign contributors. A mere handful among the glittering assembly knew Nick—code name Lightning—also served as director of OMEGA, an organization so secret that its operatives were activated only by direction of the president himself.

Mackenzie had been active in OMEGA herself until giving birth to twins a few years ago. So had the two people who crossed the room to greet her and Nick. Mac’s eyes lit up at the sight of a couple who’d been both mentors and role models for her and her husband.

“Maggie,” she said with a rueful smile, “you look too damned gorgeous to be a grandmother.”

It was true. Maggie Sinclair Ridgeway showed only a fine trace of lines at the corners of her sparkling brown eyes and a mere touch of silver in her upswept hair. Her gold lamé Versace gown clung to a figure every bit as svelte as that of her daughters. One of those daughters had presented Maggie and her husband, Adam, with ready-made grandkids when she’d adopted two orphans from Hong Kong a few years ago. Soon Gillian would give birth to a third.

The proud granddad slipped an arm around his wife’s waist. Adam Ridgeway, code name Thunder, wore his years as easily as Maggie did. His hand-tailored tux showcased a lean, athletic body, and his laser-blue eyes held the same penetrating shrewdness that had made him one of OMEGA’s most skilled and lethal operatives before he assumed duties as the agency’s director. He now headed the UN’s International Monetary Fund while Maggie served as an adjunct professor at Georgetown. The love between them still sizzled in the slow smile Adam gave his wife.

“She looks damned gorgeous, period,” he said in response to Mackenzie’s observation.

Their shared years at Omega had forged a bond between the two couples that could never be replicated by others who hadn’t experienced the chalky taste of fear or exhilarating thrill of pulling off an op against all odds. They reminisced about some of their hairier ops while sipping champagne and sampling the internationally inspired canapés served on silver trays by the White House staff.

A megarich restaurateur in his non-OMEGA life, Nick had just given his stamp of approval to a savory glazed lamb minikebob with Moroccan carrots and tahini puree when he spotted the president with his head bent close to the Russian ambassador’s. Although both wore bland smiles, their body language suggested their conversation had veered away from the usual polite chitchat at soirees such as this one.

So Nick wasn’t all that surprised when the president’s chief of staff made her leisurely way through the crowd some time later and headed in his direction. With a warm smile, the striking brunette acknowledged Maggie, Adam and Mackenzie. Her expression didn’t change when she turned to Nick, but the message she conveyed belied her relaxed pose.

“If you don’t mind staying a bit after the reception, Lightning, the boss would like to chat with you.”

She used his code name in a low murmur that only he and the other three could hear over the chatter and music. Nick nodded, and Adam facilitated the meeting by offering to drive Mac home.

Nick met with the president in his book-lined study in the family residence. John Jefferson Andrews was still lean and fit and boyishly handsome, although the responsibilities of his office had added their share of creases to his face. He’d lost his wife to cancer before he’d run for the presidency. In the view of most of the country, he’d done a damned fine job of raising his teenaged daughter in the fishbowl of the White House. But he would always be grateful to Nick and OMEGA for spoiling a fiendish plot that had played his daughter’s mental stability in an attempt to get her worried father to resign during his first year in office.

As a result, his professional relationship with Nick had ripened into a deep and abiding friendship. The ease between them showed in the way Andrews yanked loose his bow tie, let the ends dangle and popped the top button on his pleated shirt before splashing brandy into two crystal snifters.

“I need something to wash down all that sparkling cider,” he admitted with a wry smile.

As Nick knew well, the president never indulged in alcohol at social or political functions and rarely drank in private. Andrews flatly refused to risk impairing his judgment when he could be called on to make life-and-death decisions at any moment. That he would allow himself a few sips of the two-thousand-dollar-a-bottle limited-production special cuvée that had been a gift from the French president spoke volumes.

He passed Nick a snifter and held his up in silent salute. The brandy slid down the men’s throats like liquid gold. Its mellow fire still lingered on the back of Nick’s tongue when Andrews broached the reason for this meeting.

“The Russian ambassador reminded me that their team was gearing up for the first inspection under the new START treaty.”

“As if you needed a reminder,” Nick commented drily.

All of Washington knew how much political capital the president had expended to push through the new nuclear-arms-reduction pact and how eager his opponents were to see it blow up—metaphorically speaking!—in his face.

“The team will arrive at Francis E. Warren Air Force Base next month.”

The president met and held the eyes of his director of OMEGA, each slipping into their respective roles easily.

“I need you to make sure this inspection goes off without a hitch, Lightning. Put your best operatives on it.”

“They’re all equally skilled,” Nick replied without a hint of exaggeration. “But I have one who fits this op like a glove. I’ll bring him in tomorrow for prebrief. He’ll be primed and in the field when the Russian team arrives.”

“Good.” Andrews’s face was dead serious now. “Last thing I—or the country—needs is for some accident or misunderstanding to kick off a nuclear high noon.”

Chapter 1

“How would you like to get back into an air-force flight suit for a few weeks?”

Sloan Hamilton, code name Dodge, smiled wryly as he steered his rented Jeep 4x4 toward the front gate of Francis E. Warren Air Force Base, on the outskirts of Cheyenne, Wyoming. He had the windows open to the cool September air, shimmering with a crystalline clarity. Dodge’s thoughts weren’t on the purity of his native Wyoming atmosphere, however. Instead, he replayed conversation that had taken place in a windowless control center back in Washington, D.C., just four days ago.

That’s all it had taken. One casual suggestion from

Lightning and Dodge had jumped at the chance to get back in the cockpit again. Not that he didn’t have plenty of opportunity to fly in his civilian job. The other civilian job. The one that didn’t involve crashing headfirst through eighth-story windows or being inserted into a damned near impenetrable jungle in pursuit of some sleazoid drug runners. Conducting aerial surveys in his steady, sturdy Cessna wasn’t anywhere near as much fun as piloting an air-force UH-1N, though. The helo was Vietnam-era vintage, but after several generations of modifications it was still the best and most reliable chopper in the air.

As it turned out, Dodge should have asked for a little more detail before accepting this assignment. Instead of driving a Huey, he was about to undertake what looked to be one of his tamest missions for OMEGA—riding herd on a three-person Russian team that would arrive in Cheyenne tomorrow to inspect U.S. Minuteman III missiles in accordance with the new START treaty.

True, the president had just signed the treaty after more than a decade of fierce negotiations between Russia and the U.S. Also true, recent tensions between the U.S. and Russia had made this first inspection under the new protocols a matter of intense interest at the highest national security levels. Still, Dodge would have much preferred a task that involved flying his old bird to babysitting a Russian major and her two teammates.

Even a Russian major who looked like this one.

He glanced at the file on the passenger seat. Clipped to its outside was a brief bio that included a head-and-shoulders shot of Larissa Katerina Petrovna. The fact that the photo was in black and white and a little grainy in no way detracted from the major’s ice-maiden beauty. Her hair looked as pale as fine champagne. Her wide-spaced eyes stared back at Dodge from above a straight, aristocratic nose. Her mouth was full and ripe and downright sensual.

He knew from the detailed briefing he’d received at OMEGA headquarters, before departing for Cheyenne, that those eyes were electric-blue. He also knew the puckered skin on the left side of Petrovna’s neck and jaw were the result of horrific burns she’d suffered in the apartment fire that had killed her husband and almost claimed her baby girl.

Dodge felt a flicker of sympathy, quickly doused. A female didn’t make it to the rank of major in any air force, Russia’s included, by being soft or welcoming expressions of sympathy. And judging by the jobs Larissa Petrovna held on her way up the ranks, the woman was tough as nails. More to the point, she was here to do a specific task.