Undercover Encounter

She and Alex McMullin were alone in a very small bedroom

“Alex!” Gillian gasped, taking in the reality of the man in a split second, starting with the wavy, jet-black hair and the piercing blue eyes. “You…. What in Sam Hill do you think you’re doing—lying in wait for me?”

He laughed. “I’m giving you an illustration of the dangers you’re going to be facing—if you let your lieutenant talk you into this job.”

“You’ll have to excuse me. I’m late for a training session.”

When she tried to brush past him, he put a restraining hand on her shoulder. “Yeah. It’s already started. I’m your trainer for the afternoon. We’re going to be working together, so we might as well get comfortable with each other.”

Both of them knew there was no way for them to be comfortable with each other. Not with pictures flashing in her mind of the hot and steamy sex they’d enjoyed before he’d ended the relationship. Was he thinking about that, too?

“I thought I was going over self-defense strategies,” she blurted. “This isn’t supposed to be anything sexual.”

He turned to face her. “You are playing the part of a prostitute. So, by its very nature, your assignment has sexual implications. Depending on how things shake out, you and I could easily end up in bed together.”

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

Temperatures are rising this month at Harlequin Intrigue! So whether our mesmerizing men of action are steaming up their love lives or packing heat in high-stakes situations, July’s lineup is guaranteed to sizzle!

Back by popular demand is the newest branch of our Confidential series. Meet the heroes of NEW ORLEANS CONFIDENTIAL—tough undercover operatives who will stop at nothing to rid the streets of a crime ring tied to the most dangerous movers and shakers in town. USA TODAY bestselling author Rebecca York launches the series with Undercover Encounter—a darkly sensual tale about a secret agent who uses every resource at his disposal to get his former flame out alive when she goes deep undercover in the sultry French Quarter.

The highly acclaimed Gayle Wilson returns to the lineup with Sight Unseen. In book three of PHOENIX BROTHERHOOD, it’s a race against time to prevent a powerful terrorist organization from unleashing unspeakable harm. Prepare to become entangled in Velvet Ropes by Patricia Rosemoor—book three in CLUB UNDERCOVER—when a clandestine investigation plunges a couple into danger….

Our sassy inline continuity SHOTGUN SALLYS ends with a bang! You won’t want to miss Lawful Engagement by Linda O. Johnston. In Cassie Miles’s newest Harlequin Intrigue title—Protecting the Innocent—a widow trapped in a labyrinth of evil brings out the Achilles’ heel in a duplicitous man of mystery.

Delores Fossen’s newest thriller is not to be missed. Veiled Intentions arouses searing desires when two bickering cops pose as doting fiancés in their pursuit of a deranged sniper!

Enjoy our explosive lineup this month!

Denise O’Sullivan

Senior Editor, Harlequin Intrigue

MILLS & BOON

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Award-winning, bestselling novelist Ruth Glick, who writes as Rebecca York, is the author of close to eighty books, including her popular 43 LIGHT STREET series for Harlequin Intrigue. Ruth says she has the best job in the world. Not only does she get paid for telling stories, she’s also the author of twelve cookbooks. Ruth and her husband, Norman, travel frequently, researching locales for her novels and searching out new dishes for her cookbooks.

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…

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Alexander McMullin—He was a tough cop who quit the NOPD. Now he’s working for New Orleans Confidential on a top-secret case.

Gillian Seymour—A rookie cop, she takes a dangerous undercover assignment to clean up the streets of the Big Easy and forms an uneasy alliance with the man from her past.

Wiley Longbottom—The retired director of Colorado Department of Public Safety came to New Orleans to have a good time and ended up close to death.

Conrad Burke—As head of NOC, he’s determined to find out who put Wiley Longbottom in the hospital.

Seth Lewis—A rough-around-the-edges Confidential operative.

Tanner Harrison—This world-weary ex-CIA agent has problems he doesn’t even know about….

Maurice Gaspard—The pimp who cracks the whip at the elegant bordello called the McDonough Club.

Madame Cynthia Dupré—She keeps the working girls in line and the customers satisfied at the McDonough Club.

Jack Smith—This bartender mixes drugs with drinks at Bourbon Street Libations.

Lily—This frightened teenage runaway is “working” at the McDonough Club, but she didn’t volunteer for the job.

Ricardo Gonzalez—Evil to the core, he plans to overthrow the government of Nilia, a South American country.

Jerome Senegal—This ruthless and wealthy New Orleans businessman is in over his head with Gonzalez.

Sebastion Primeaux—Both powerful and corrupt, this district attorney knows how to keep the right people happy.

Contents

Prologue

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

Epilogue

Prologue

“It’s not your fault,” Alexander McMullin said from the doorway of the hospital room.

Conrad Burke, who was standing by the window with his head bowed, looked up, his countenance a mixture of determination and anger. He was tall, with dark hair and dark eyes—in the prime of his life. A stark contrast to the other occupant of the room who lay in the narrow bed, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow.

The unconscious man had once been slightly rotund. Now his body seemed to have shrunken and his thinning dark hair was plastered to his head.

As Alex stepped across the threshold, Conrad turned to face him squarely, the way he always faced what life threw at him. Yet he couldn’t hide the haunted look in his eyes.

Until a few months ago Conrad had been with the Colorado Confidential operation, run out of the Royal Flush Ranch by Colleen Wellesley. Then he’d been tapped to set up New Orleans Confidential, so he’d moved his wife and twin babies to the city.

One of the first agents recruited for the new branch, Alex was determined to keep Conrad from doing something he’d regret.

His new boss gave him a direct look. “What do you mean, this isn’t my fault?” Conrad gestured toward the unconscious man. “I’m the one who invited Wiley down to New Orleans. I’m the one who took him out for a night on the town. If I’d just left well enough alone, he’d be fine now.”

Keeping his voice even, Alex said, “You didn’t slip him the drug that put him in that hospital bed. Nobody could have anticipated that would happen.”

Conrad’s expression only became more self-accusatory. “I’m supposed to know what’s going on in this city.”

“You just moved back here. New Orleans Confidential isn’t even operational yet.”

The other man ignored him and plowed on. “Why the hell did I have to take him to Bourbon Street Libations, of all places?”

“Because you didn’t know the bartender was drugging the customers.”

It had all started so innocently, Alex thought. Wiley Longbottom, the man who lay in this hospital bed close to death, was the former director of the Colorado Department of Public Safety, aka Colorado Confidential. A heart condition had forced him into early retirement.

And Conrad Burke, who’d worked with Wiley at the secret government agency, had invited his old boss down to the Crescent City for a big, blowout going-away party.

The first few hours had been a blast—with the new agents like Alex listening to the old hands play “can you top this” as they exchanged stories about shoot-outs and undercover operations. Wiley and Philip Jones, one of the Confidential recruits who’d worked as a P.I. in the city for years, had everyone else convulsing with laughter at their escapades.

Unfortunately, the evening hadn’t turned out the way anyone expected—because good old Jack Smith, who tended bar at Bourbon Street Libations, had slipped something into the retired director’s drink.

Something very nasty and very potent. And not just one dose of the stuff. It was a drug they were now calling Category Five because it swept through the unsuspecting victim like a major hurricane. It had made straight-arrow Wiley horny as hell. When one of the prostitutes who frequented the bar came on to him, he leaped at the chance to leave with her. Everyone at the table thought he’d wake up in the morning with a hell of a hangover and an embarrassed grin on his face—until they checked his hotel room and found that he’d never come home that night.

After a frantic search, they’d found him in the intensive care unit of St. Charles General Hospital, suffering from a massive heart attack.

Conrad’s voice interrupted Alex’s dark thoughts. “We’re going to get the bastards that did this to Wiley. We’re going operational next week.”

Alex had expected something like that, although he knew they weren’t nearly ready. They’d just gotten their undercover operation—a trucking company called Crescent City Transports—in halfway working order.

“How do we justify jumping in two months early? I mean, what’s the official explanation?”

“I’ll come up with something.”

Privately, Alex didn’t like the setup. But he understood where Conrad was coming from. So all he said was, “Tell me what you need from me.”

Chapter One

“Hey, buddy, hurry up with that damn beer,” a sharp voice cut through the babble of voices and music blaring through Bourbon Street Libations.

“Coming right up,” Alex McMullin answered as he pulled back on the tap and filled a glass, then delivered the brew to an impatient tourist. Next, he wiped up a spill on the polished bar and pocketed a generous tip from a customer. Working undercover as a bartender had its advantages, although he sure hadn’t thought he’d end up dispensing booze when he’d joined New Orleans Confidential.

But this was the bar, Bourbon Street Libations, where Wiley Longbottom had been drugged. Which was why Alex was presently making a Singapore Sling for another boozy tourist—while keeping the small, wiry figure of the other bartender, Jack Smith, in his peripheral vision.

A noise coming from the direction of the door made Alex’s head jerk up. A big, muscular guy named Tony was supposed to be at the entrance, politely turning away anyone who was too plastered to whistle “Dixie.” But he’d gone on his break a few minutes ago, leaving the belligerent drunk who’d just staggered into the bar free to take a swing at another patron.

Alex looked at Jack, who shrugged and bent his balding head toward the drink he was mixing. Alex also glanced at Mason Bartley, the most unlikely member of the Confidential team, a forty-year-old loser with short brown hair and shifty blue eyes. At the moment he was acting true to form, looking down into his rum and Coke.

With no one else prepared to keep order, Alex rounded the bar and headed for the drunk, who immediately tried to pop him one.

“No, you don’t,” he growled. Spinning the guy around, he propelled him toward the door.

Instead of going quietly, the guy made a furtive motion toward his boot, and a knife that could gut a pig materialized in his hand. Only, he wasn’t after pork this evening. With a curse, he made a vicious slash at Alex’s midsection.

Acting instinctively, Alex aimed a kick at the guy’s arm, sending him sprawling on the barroom floor and the knife flying.

The jerk was stupid enough to lunge for the weapon again. Alex kicked it out of the way, wondering if he was going to have to do some serious damage.

Someone in the back must have alerted Tony because he came rushing into the fray and scooped up the pork sticker. Of course, by this time, the little altercation was attracting a crowd, from both inside and outside the bar. Tony must have figured Alex could take care of the intruder, because he turned his own attention to settling down the rest of the patrons.

As a former police detective, Alex’s instinct was to call the boys in blue and let them haul this guy’s ass away. But Bourbon Street Libations had a pretty strict no-cops policy. Unless somebody got killed, you kept the law out of it.

So he frog-marched the drunk onto the street where they were instantly enveloped by the heat and humidity of the night.

“Need some help?” a voice from the crowd asked. Alex looked up to see Rich Stewart—dressed in a nicely authentic biker outfit—ambling toward him. A former navy SEAL who still kept his dark blond hair in a short military cut, he was another of the Confidential agents. With a grin, he helped Alex propel the inebriated jerk several paces down the block.

When Alex turned, he saw Tony stepping onto the street. “Thanks,” he muttered. “Sorry, I was in the can when the excitement broke loose.”

“No problem,” Alex answered. Actually he’d been enjoying the action. Standing behind a bar didn’t give him much opportunity for aerobic activity—unless you counted wielding a cocktail shaker.

Now that he was away from his post, he allowed himself a few minutes of relaxation. Dragging in a breath of the humid air, he watch the boisterous crowd parading up and down the most famous street in the French Quarter, past bars, strip joints, boutiques selling cheap souvenirs and voodoo hexes, and, of course, the all-essential condom shop up the way.

Music blared from the bars and jazz clubs, mingling with the raunchy conversation of the crowd. Bourbon Street at night was a party animal’s playground. Or a trap for the unwary.

The doctor had told Conrad that the hospital had seen several older men come in under circumstances similar to Wiley Longbottom’s. They’d all ingested an unidentified drug that stimulated the libido but had the dangerous side effect of elevating the heart rate to the extreme. Demanding answers, Conrad had contacted Police Chief Henri Courville, who’d immediately gone into defensive mode, claiming that his department was putting all the resources it could spare into tracking the source of the new designer drug.

After some initial finger-pointing, Conrad and the police chief had calmed down enough to play ball with each other. Which was why New Orleans Confidential was now running a joint operation with the P.D.

The arrangement didn’t exactly thrill Alex.

His last couple of years as a police detective had been marred by red tape and departmental screwups. The final straw had come after he’d busted his butt to get the evidence for a capital murder case—and the conviction had been thrown out due to a legal loophole.

After that, the job simply hadn’t been the same. He’d taken a leave of absence from the force, done some freelance investigative work and spent a lot of time fixing up the house he’d bought, wondering if he could support himself as a private eye. Then Conrad Burke had tracked him down and made him an offer, and he’d jumped at the chance to work for a man he respected.

Unfortunately now he was stuck having to make both Conrad Burke and Henri Courville happy.

Down the street, a man was leaning over one of the wrought-iron balconies and tossing newly minted faux “doubloons” and cheap necklaces to a rowdy crowd. Once such activity had been strictly a feature of Mardi Gras. Now you saw it all the time down here. He eyed some of the girls down below, wondering if one of them would take off her T-shirt and bra to get some loot thrown her way. When all the ladies kept their shirts on, he went back into the bar.

Jack gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Nice of you to join us. We’re pretty busy in here.”

Alex shrugged. He and Jack had a pretty prickly relationship. “The next time we get a guy with a knife, you can take care of him.”

“Not my job.”

Alex didn’t bother to answer. He already knew that Jack was pretty busy—mixing drinks and pushing drugs. A dangerous combination. It was only a matter of time before the little squirt got himself into serious trouble.

They stayed out of each other’s way for the next half hour. Then a group of five overdressed older businessmen, looking like they were out slumming, came into the bar and took a table on the right. After the scantily clad cocktail waitress wrote down their drink requests, she headed for Alex. But Jack signaled her to come to him instead.

“I owe you one,” he said to Alex as he scanned the order, then began making Hurricanes. Alex gave him a thumbs-up and went back to work on a batch of Margaritas for some wet-behind-the-ears college kids. But he kept tabs on Jack. The guy bent down below the level of the bar. When he came back up, it looked like the cuff of his long-sleeved shirt was bulging just a little. As he mixed one of the Hurricanes, a fine mist of white powder fell from underneath the cuff into the drink. Not powdered sugar, Alex thought as he watched the bartender stir the stuff into the drink.

He’d bet his nonexistent New Orleans P.D. pension that it was Category Five.

The prime targets for this deadly designer drug were older affluent men. It aroused them sexually—allowing prostitutes to prey on them—but if too much was contained they could die of heart attacks. The cop in him wanted to warn the businessmen. But, since Wiley’s heart attack, nobody else had ended up in the hospital. And giving out warnings would jeopardize the joint undercover NOC-PD operation.

So he watched the waitress swish her hips over to the table and chat with the guys while she distributed the drinks. He kept an eye on the men, seeing the symptoms develop in one of them, the same signs he’d seen in Wiley. The guy with the spiked drink got red in the face, shifted in his seat and began talking pretty loudly.

Obviously embarrassed, the others in his group tried to calm him down, but he wasn’t willing to be restrained. Over the next twenty minutes, he became increasingly obnoxious.

When a little working girl at a nearby table caught his eye, he left his friends and went over to sit with her. Probably they were glad to get rid of him.

Mentally taking notes, Alex watched the guy indiscreetly paw at her in public before they headed for the front door.

Alex wanted to find out where they were going. Since the crowd in the bar had thinned, he tossed an “I’ll be right back” in Jack’s direction.

Before the other bartender could object, he hurried down the hall toward the men’s room, then made for the back exit where he ducked into the alley, gagging at the smell of garbage bags waiting to be picked up in the morning. The couple had gone out the front door. He charged down the alley and through a passageway that led from a private garden back to the street. There he scanned the crowd. But his quarry had disappeared. He couldn’t take a chance on passing Tony at the door. His only option was to search in the opposite direction—toward the far end of Bourbon Street where the lights were lower and the crowds were thinner.

He thought he’d lost the pair. But his luck held and he caught a glimpse of the happy couple just turning the corner.

Probably the guy wouldn’t realize he was being followed. But the woman might catch on. Playing safe, Alex hung back, watching them make for a sprawling stucco building with Ionic columns holding up a small portico in front. When they disappeared inside, he hugged the shadows across the street and strolled past, looking at the name above the door. The McDonough Club.

He blinked, thinking he’d read it wrong. But the words stayed the same.

He’d heard of the place. It was an old and distinguished men’s club, named after one of the city’s benefactors. Could the working girl really be planning to take her date here?

Well, they’d gone inside. He’d report that at the morning meeting and check out the vital statistics on the club.

Meanwhile he’d better get back before he lost his job.

By sprinting all the way, he arrived at the alley door of the bar about ten minutes after he’d left. Ducking into the men’s room, he took a couple of deep breaths and washed his hands. When he glanced at his watch he saw that it was half past midnight. In a couple of hours he could go home and catch a little sleep. Then it was on to his other assignment—playing truck driver.

Jack gave him a dirty look when he returned. But he pretended to be oblivious.

He was hoping that the rest of the evening would be less eventful. But no such luck. Twenty minutes later, as he drew another draft of beer, his attention zinged to the front door when three dark Latino men swaggered into the bar. All of them were large and muscular, with slicked-down black hair, new jeans and dark T-shirts. Actually, Alex was surprised when Tony stepped aside and let them in, since they looked like trouble.

They took a table in the back, speaking Spanish and acting as though they owned the place. As he glanced at them from time to time, Alex began making connections. They looked as if they could be some of the Nilia rebels due to arrive in town.

The rebels were the reason the Department of Public Safety had opened this new branch of Confidential in New Orleans in the first place. Their leader, Ricardo Gonzalez, aka “Black Death,” was bent on overthrowing the government of a country that reminded Alex a lot of Venezuela. Gonzalez wanted to squelch the peaceful democracy that existed there and grab the considerable oil resources. And he was willing to use any means at his disposal, including wiping out whole villages to make an example of them.

CIA agents who had been in-country following his movements had discovered that a group of Gonzalez’s men was headed toward New Orleans.

Alex watched them without being obvious. He’d heard that everyone who worked for Gonzalez had a scorpion tattooed on his upper body. If he tore the shirt off one of them, would he find the mark?

He was pretty sure there wasn’t much chance of undressing any of them in here. He saw that Rich Stewart had drifted into the bar and was glad the other agent was keeping tabs on the action, since the newcomers’ behavior was definitely something to worry about. Looking up, he saw one of them deliberately bump his chair into that of another patron, apparently for the sheer pleasure of seeing if he could start a fight.