In Bed with the Enemy (2 page)

“Of course. I wasn't born yesterday, Yardley.” She studied his handsome face. The fact that she found him even remotely attractive was as irritating as it was disconcerting. “Tomorrow I'll get court orders to seize the accounts of Ricky Mercado, his late uncle, Carmine Mercado, and the late Frank Del Brio. If there are any discrepancies, I'll find them.”

“Then what are you going to do?” he asked, look
ing deceptively relaxed. He was good at fishing for information. She'd give him that much.

But she knew better than to trust him. “Why don't you come right out and ask how I'm going to conduct my investigation, Yardley?”

He grinned. “Fair enough. How are you going to bring the Mercados down?”

“So far, neither the Bureau nor the ATF have been able to prove the connection between the guns leaving Texas and the ones being smuggled into Mezcaya,” she said, shrugging. “I intend to find the paper trail proving that the Mercados are the ones selling the guns, and if my instincts are right, they're using their trucking company to transport them into Mezcaya.”

“Good luck,” he said, leaning back in the chair.

She smiled. “Now it's your turn.”

“My turn?”

“Yes, your turn.” She narrowed her eyes. “You're going to tell me how you intend to prove the Mercados are behind this.”

“Sorry, Campbell,” he said, rising to his feet. “I don't reveal my moves before I make them. And I for damn sure don't work with women.”

“Oh, so that's the way it's going to be, huh?” Elise rose from the bed to stand toe-to-toe with him. Unfortunately, she was a good six inches shorter than he was and had to tilt her head back to look him squarely in the eye. “We're going to keep our discoveries about the investigation separate?”

“That's right, sweetheart.” His cocky grin made her want to punch him. “I work alone during this phase of a case.”

“Fair enough, Caveman,” she said, smiling.
“You've heard the last of the way I plan to conduct my investigation.” She walked over to the door connecting their two rooms. “And just so you're warned. My name is Elise or Campbell, not ‘sweetheart.' If you ever call me that again, I might not be so cautious about firing my gun the next time you come barging into my room.”

Shrugging, he started through the door, but turned back to cup her cheek with his palm. “I'll stop calling you sweetheart when you stop calling me Caveman.”

The heat from his hand spread down her neck to her torso and beyond. She took a deep breath. It wasn't a good feeling. It wasn't. Maybe if she keep repeating it, she'd start to believe that it was true.

“I want to thank you,
Caveman.
”

“For what,
sweetheart?
”

“I thought my day couldn't possibly get any worse than it was this afternoon.” She gave him a smile that she hoped set his teeth on edge. “But in the past hour and a half, you've proven how wrong I was, and just how
bad
it could get.”

Laughing, he had the audacity to wink at her before he dropped his hand and walked into his room.

Her anger close to the boiling point, Elise slammed the door on her side and barely resisted the urge to stomp her foot.

 

Cole walked over to turn on the television in the corner. Campbell's name was Elise. Surely he'd heard it when they worked the El Paso case two years ago. Why hadn't he remembered it?

Sitting on the end of the bed, he pulled off his boots, then stared off into space.

Elise. It was a soft, sweet-sounding name, and suited her perfectly. Her smooth skin beneath his palms had felt like fine satin when he'd caught her to keep her from falling, and when he'd cupped her cheek he'd been tempted to press his lips to hers to see if they tasted as sweet as they looked.

He cursed and shook his head. He must be losing it. This was Campbell, the FBI's “go-to” girl. The woman with a pain-in-the-ass attitude and a razor-sharp tongue.

But that was no excuse for the way he'd reacted to her. The way he'd always reacted to her.

He'd never been in the habit of baiting a woman the way he did whenever he was around her. On the contrary. He had the utmost respect for women. They were soft, gentle and deserved a man's consideration, as well as his protection. And it was a damn good thing his old man wasn't alive to hear about the exchange. Gunnery Sergeant Albert Yardley would kick Cole's butt from here to yonder for talking to a woman the way he had spoken to Campbell.

Thinking about his father, Cole smiled. Gunny had been a walking contradiction when it came to his views on the fairer sex.

From the time Cole had been old enough to listen, the man had lectured him about where a woman's place should be in the world. “Keep 'em barefoot and pregnant, boy, and you'll never have to worry about 'em bein' in the way when the spit hits the fan.” But at the same time, his father thought a man should place a woman on a pedestal and give her his undivided attention and complete respect. And Cole suspected if his mother hadn't died when he was
four, he'd have had a whole houseful of brothers and sisters.

But he hadn't had that. He'd been raised by a crusty, career marine gunnery sergeant, and learned early on not to get too attached to people or places. An unusual sense of loneliness filled his chest.

Cole shook off the feeling as he rose to pull off his T-shirt and jeans. “It's no wonder you're screwed up, Yardley.”

But long after he'd taken his shower and climbed into bed, Cole stared at the ceiling, thinking about his exchange with his auburn-haired rival. He'd never met a woman he enjoyed verbally sparring with as much as he did with Campbell. She was one of the most intelligent, quick-witted women he'd ever met, and the sparkle of anger in her emerald eyes when she was reading him the riot act had been too tempting to resist.

Her spirit, and drive to be the best, were admirable traits in a male agent. But not in a female operative. Those were the very qualities about her that made her volatile.

Cole punched his pillow and rolled over to his side. Campbell wasn't the type to run from trouble. If anything, she would be the first to sink her teeth into a dangerous investigation and exhaust all possibilities before she let go.

He knew because he recognized it all too well. It was the same way he carried out his own job.

T
he next afternoon, as Cole got out of his rented SUV, Ricky Mercado walked out onto his front porch, leaned his shoulder against one of the support posts and crossed his booted feet at the ankles. His relaxed stance didn't fool Cole one damn bit. He was the last person Mercado wanted to see.

“Back again, Yardley?”

“Yep.” Cole grinned. He had a feeling that under different circumstances, he and Mercado could have been friends. But given the nature of his job and Ricky's background, it was unlikely now. “Just thought I'd let you know I'm still around.”

Mercado laughed, but the spark of irritation in his dark brown eyes hinted at his true feelings about seeing Cole again. “Like you'll let me forget.”

“How do you like your new place?”

“It'll do. I've got an old raccoon living under the back porch that doesn't care much for my moving here, but he can hiss and spit all he wants. I'm here to stay.” Mercado uncrossed his feet and straightened to his full six foot three inch height. “Why don't you cut to the chase, Yardley.”

Cole nodded. That was one thing he and Mercado had in common. Neither one of them minced words. “Fair enough. You've been going to the country club a lot lately.”

“I paid a chunk of money for that membership. I figure on getting my money's worth.”

“You know about the guns being found in one of the maintenance sheds?” Cole asked, watching for any sign that Mercado might be hiding something.

Mercado gave nothing away. “I'd have to be blind, deaf and dumb as hell not to have heard the news. You can't swing a dead armadillo in Mission Creek without hitting somebody who isn't talking about it.”

“Do you have any idea who might have stashed them there?”

“Nope.”

“Would you tell me if you did?”

“Sure.”

Cole didn't believe him for a minute. “Do you think Valente is involved?”

A muscle jerked along Mercado's jaw and Cole could tell he'd touched a nerve. “You'll have to ask the SOB yourself. I have no idea what's going on inside. And I don't care.” His expression hard, Mercado added, “I've told you before. I quit. I'm not associated with the family anymore, and I don't know what they're up to.”

“That's what you keep telling me.”

“If you're smart, you'll start to believe me and turn your investigation where it will do some good.”

Cole wasn't surprised when Mercado became defensive about his involvement with his infamous family. They'd played out this scenario before.

“If you hear anything—”

“Yeah. I know. You'd appreciate me letting you know.” With that, Mercado turned, walked back into the old house he was renovating, and slammed the door.

Cole checked his watch, got back into the SUV and headed into Mission Creek. He had roughly thirty minutes to get across town to the Lone Star Country Club for his meeting with Phillip Westin.

Westin had been Ricky Mercado's commanding officer and knew as much about him as the other marines who'd served with Mercado in the 14th Unit. Several of them lived in and around Mission Creek, and some of them even grew up with him. Yet, most of them had their doubts that Mercado had severed all ties with his family. Some had even gone so far as to say they believed Mercado's insistence that he'd gone legit was a cover-up for some kind of illegal activity. Only his brother-in-law, Luke Callaghan, and Phillip Westin had professed to believe that Mercado was on the up-and-up—that he was trying to get his life together and go straight.

But there were several things about Ricky Mercado and his story that bothered Cole. A lot.

Mercado had been on the rescue team sent to get Westin out of the tiny Central American country of Mezcaya. A hotbed of corruption, and in serious dan
ger of being taken over by the terrorist group El Jefé, Mezcaya had suffered years of fighting and unrest. But after Mercado's mission to help save Westin, there had been a dramatic increase in the amount of automatic weapons and high-tech ordnance used by El Jefé. That alone was enough to raise a red flag the size of Rhode Island with the ATF's intelligence source.

But when a stash of M16s, along with grenades and handheld rocket launchers were discovered in one of the maintenance sheds on the grounds of the Lone Star Country Club, it had become a foregone conclusion that the Mercados were somehow involved. Several higher-ups in the family, including Ricky, had bought memberships in the exclusive club, giving them unlimited access to the grounds.

Coincidence? Not likely.

Cole turned the SUV onto the blacktop driveway leading up to the clubhouse, bypassed the valet parking at the entrance and pulled into the self-parking area at the side of the main building. With the stifling heat bouncing off the asphalt, he would have just as soon paid one of the valets to park the damn thing, but he could just imagine the shade of red his boss's face would turn if he handed the man a receipt for the ATF to pay for it.

Chuckling at the mental image, he steered the Explorer between a black Mercedes and a red Porsche, killed the engine, then opened the driver's-side door and came damn close to smacking Campbell right square in the face with it. Where the hell had she come from? She hadn't been standing there when he pulled into the parking space only moments ago.

When he slammed the door and locked it with the keyless remote, he turned to face her. Her trim black skirt, matching jacket and white blouse made her look ultraconservative, extremely professional and thoroughly unapproachable. Whether he was happy about it or not, he had to admit he liked the way she looked in shorts and a tank top a whole lot better.

She frowned. “I should have known it was you.”

“Good afternoon to you too, Campbell,” he said cheerfully.

She started to step around him, but with the cars parked so closely together, there wasn't enough room. “Will you please stand aside so I can get by, Yardley?”

“Sure,” he said, grinning as he flattened himself against the SUV's door.

In order for her to get past him, she had to turn sideways. “Why couldn't you have just walked out ahead of me?”

“That wouldn't have been the gentlemanly thing to do,” he answered as she squeezed by. The front of her body brushed against the front of his and a jolt of electricity as powerful as if he'd grabbed hold of a 220-volt wire coursed through him. He heard her sharp intake of breath, felt her go very still, indicating she'd felt it, too.

“Since when have you been worried about being a gentleman?” she asked, preceding him from between the vehicles. To his satisfaction, she sounded a little short of air.

“I'm always a gentleman.”

She started walking toward the clubhouse. “Yeah. Right.”

“Hey, where's the fire?” he asked when he had to hurry to catch up to her. “You have a hot lead you're following up on?”

“Like I'd tell you if I did.” She laughed as she walked swiftly across the parking lot toward the sidewalk leading up to the clubhouse. “You were the one who made it clear our investigations were going to be kept separate.”

“Yes, but—”

She stopped to look up at him. “But nothing, Yardley. You said, and I quote, ‘I work alone during this phase of a case.' Did you not?”

“That's true, but I'm not above listening if you've got something to share.”

The sparkle of anger in her pretty green eyes was back, along with a good amount of righteous indignation, and Cole found himself as fascinated by her today as he'd been last night. With her soft auburn curls stirring in the light breeze, he didn't think he'd seen her look more attractive either.

“You are without a doubt the most arrogant, infuriating man I've ever met,” she said, shaking her head.

“Yeah, I probably am.” Grinning, he shrugged. “But I look real good in a black ATF T-shirt and ball cap.”

“What does that have to do with—” She shook her head. “Never mind. It doesn't matter. I really don't care to hear your caveman reasoning.”

“There you go calling me a caveman again,
sweetheart.
”

“Don't call me that.”

“Don't call me Caveman.”

“I didn't. I referred to your reasoning as that of a caveman. There's a difference.” She grinned suddenly. “But I suppose in your case, it is only a matter of semantics.”

He felt as if he'd been punched in the gut at the sweet smile curving her lips. “You know, Campbell. With all your references to cavemen, if I didn't know better, I'd think you're trying to get me to throw you over my shoulder and haul you off to my den.”

Cole laughed out loud when she made a growling sound in the back of her throat, turned and marched into the building.

 

Elise plopped down in a plushly padded, wrought-iron chair at a table with a bright-yellow and white umbrella. Looking out over the rolling lawns of the golf course, she took several deep breaths in an effort to get herself under control before meeting with the head groundskeeper. She was so angry with herself for engaging in another battle of wits with Caveman Cole that she felt ready to scream. Why did she let him get to her? Why didn't she just ignore him?

Sighing, she leaned back in the chair and watched a group of golfers in the distance take their tee shots. If she was completely honest with herself, she'd have to admit that their verbal sparring wasn't what had her so upset. It was the sizzling awareness she'd felt for Cole Yardley as a man that frustrated her more than anything else. How could she possibly find anything about the man attractive? And why?

She didn't even like him. He was too arrogant, too sure of himself. And his attitude concerning female agents was not only antiquated, it was inexcusable. If
he had his way, the women's movement would be set back by a good fifty years. Maybe even a hundred.

But when she'd brushed past him in the parking lot, the feel of his strong, hard body against hers had made her knees go weak. Then, when he'd stopped her to inquire about her lead in the investigation, she'd noticed how handsome he was, how his engaging smile caused her stomach to flutter.

He'd looked good wearing the tan sports jacket, black T-shirt and jeans. In fact, that was part of the problem. He'd looked too good to her.

For some men, a sports jacket and jeans were casual, but she suspected it was about as formal as Yardley dressed. In fact, today was the first time she'd seen him wearing something other than a black ATF T-shirt, jeans and boots. She compared both images in her mind and decided he looked good in both, but in a different way.

The tan sports jacket had emphasized his wide shoulders and brought out the highlights in his dark-brown hair and hazel eyes. But it also hid a lot that his ATF shirt showed off. Last night when he'd caught her after they'd bumped heads, she'd noticed how his T-shirt fit him like a second skin, how the knit stretched over well-defined pectoral muscles and strong, well-developed biceps.

A shiver snaked up her spine. What was wrong with her? She wasn't in the least bit interested in ATF Agent Yardley. Aside from the fact that she had little tolerance for overly confident hotshots, she had a golden rule to never mix business with pleasure. She never dated anyone she worked with. Ever.

“I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Ms. Camp
bell,” a man of about fifty said as he walked up to the table. Dressed in a khaki work shirt and pants with grass stains on the knees, this had to be her two o'clock appointment. “I was called away to check a water hazard over by the thirteenth hole.” Offering his hand, he smiled. “I'm Carl Estrada, the head groundskeeper here at the Lone Star.”

Grateful the man had interrupted her disturbing thoughts about Caveman Cole, she shook his hand. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with me, Mr. Estrada.” She motioned to the chair across from her. “Please have a seat. I promise not to keep you too long.”

When he'd seated himself, he shook his head. “I'll be more than happy to answer any questions you have. But I'm not sure that I'll be able to tell you anything that I haven't already told Agent Yardley.”

Taking a pad of paper and pen from her shoulder bag, Elise nodded tersely. So, Caveman Cole had beat her to an interview with a witness. This would be the last time that happened.

“I understand, Mr. Estrada. But there might be something I ask that Agent Yardley didn't mention.” Reviewing her questions, she smiled in an effort to put the man at ease. “I've been told you were the one who found the weapons in one of the equipment sheds.”

“That's right.” He pointed across the lawn to a group of buildings several hundred yards away. “It had been empty for some time and I was checking to see if there would be room to store all the new gardening equipment I'd ordered.” He paused a moment,
then continued. “What I found was the entire building packed full of wooden gun crates.”

“Is there an access road leading to the sheds, Mr. Estrada?” Elise asked, praying she'd come up with something that Yardley hadn't.

“Yes, ma'am. But it's only used by employees and delivery trucks.”

“What kinds of deliveries?” Elise asked curiously, wondering if Caveman Cole had pursued this angle.

Carl Estrada shrugged. “Mainly items for the Pro Shop, gardening and lawn equipment, and occasionally, when something big is coming up like the summer festival in just a few days, we store the extra nonperishable supplies needed for the restaurants and bars.”

Elise perked up immediately. This just might be the lead she was looking for. “How are these deliveries made for the extra restaurant stock?”

“Usually they're trucked in by 18-wheelers,” he said, nodding toward the access road. “In fact, here comes another delivery now. Would you like to walk over there and check things out?”

“I'd like that very much,” she said, smiling. “Do you keep a log of incoming deliveries, Mr. Estrada?”