Morgan's Rescue (6 page)

     
Hector shrugged. "He will be given the same."

     
Alarm became panic. "What of my family?"
What of Rane?

     
"All the usual information."

     
Her heart plummeted. Would Culver know? Would he suspect? He couldn't. He just couldn't. Pilar tried to focus on her legs, willing strength into her wobbly knees. "Very well, Hector, I'm going to go home."

     
"Good," he said, getting up. He came around the desk and threw his arm around her shoulders briefly. "Be careful,
Pilar
. I know you are an excellent agent. And you have much to live for. You've got that beautiful daughter. . . ."

     
Tears flooded her eyes as she hugged the older man affectionately. "I'll be very careful," she whispered. "Just knowing you're behind me, Hector, gives me hope."

     
He released her and looked at her worriedly. "This is one mission we cannot fail. I know the walls have ears. I pray to God I have taken every possible precaution to ensure the safety of you and your family."

     
Pilar nodded, sniffed and turned away. If she didn't leave, she was going to cry in earnest.
For herself.
For the fear she felt about the mission. As she walked to the door to let herself out, she knew she had to tell her grandparents what was happening. Even though the mission was classified, she had to get Rane to the safety only they could provide.

     
As she walked down the long, polished hallway, Pilar hoped Hector had already provided those outlets on her behalf. He knew how much family meant to her. She'd already lost her mother and the two men in her life she'd loved with a fierceness that defied description. Her father had passed away.
And Culver?
He'd probably thought she was dead. Or wished she was. She knew he would never forgive her. Not even after eight years.

     
Her hands felt damp and cold as she stood waiting for the elevator that would take her to the first-floor lobby. It was January, the beginning of summer in
South America
. Although
Lima
was the country's largest city, and its capital, it wasn't nearly as large as
New York
or
Buenos Aires
. Still, people in impeccably tailored business suits traversed the halls as she stepped from the elevator and headed toward the revolving glass-and-brass doors. Pilar hated the city. It was her Indian blood, she knew. To her, cities meant congestion, chaos, pollution and stress—people hurrying and scurrying everywhere.

     
Catching a taxi outside the complex, she directed the driver to take her to the train station, from where she would head south, out of the city. Rancho Verde was a mere hour away from all this craziness, but right now, Pilar longed as never before for its peace and open spaces. She felt suffocated in the cab, even though the windows were down, allowing the warm salt air of the Pacific to waft through,
lifting
strands of her shoulder-length hair.

     
What was she going to do? How would Culver react to her? She tipped her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. She could almost feel his hatred.
His anger.
Could she blame him? No. But then, he never would have understood, either. He could be stubborn, immovable and highly opinionated. He had walked into her life like a tank blasting away, and she had been soft and malleable in response. And then things had gotten out of hand.
Completely.

     
Sighing, Pilar pressed her hand against her brow. What was she going to do? She had signed a contract she had to fulfill. And she
wanted
to fulfill it, because Morgan deserved her help. But how was she going to do it with Culver at her side? She would be terribly distracted, she knew. And distraction could get her killed. Rane would be in danger, too. What if Ramirez found out the truth of her identity? Her precious daughter's life would be on the line as much as her own—as would
her
grandparents'.
What was she going to do?
And how, with Culver's glowering, menacing
presence,
was she going to hold herself together long enough to rescue Morgan?

    
C
ulver is coming. Culver is coming.
The words echoed through Pilar's thoughts with each beat of her thoroughbred mare's galloping hooves. Desperate to do something—anything—to quell her growing anxiety, she had placed a jump saddle on Honey, a lovely, seventeen-hand-high chestnut, her favorite mount at Rancho Verde. But as she and Honey circled the largest of the horse farm's pipe-enclosed training arenas, Pilar's mind refused to stray from the coming meeting.

     
The day was warm and slightly damp, with the tang of salt in the air. The
Pacific Ocean
was less than a mile away, and humidity tended to settle in the lower elevations. Rancho Verde was a dream come true—the largest horse farm in
Peru
, immaculately kept by the Antonio and Cecelia Navarro family—and
Pilar
longed to find her usual peace of mind through work. But it was three o'clock, and she couldn't escape the knowledge that Culver would even now be landing at the
Jorge
Chavez
Airport
in
Lima
. Hector would be meeting and briefing him, then, according to her orders, she was to meet him at seven tonight at Hotel of the Andes, one of
Lima
's finest four-star palaces.

     
Honey snorted as she cantered slowly, guided by Pilar's sensitive, gloved hands. Riding brought Pilar a sense of freedom she otherwise never seemed able to achieve—except in visits to her grandparents' village. A black, velvet-covered hard hat protected her head in case of falls as she put Honey through her paces over the two-to-three-foot jumps. But Honey was so steady that Pilar never worried about that possibility. The arena was quiet, for the afternoon and early evening here were considered siesta time, and no one worked. Only Pilar couldn't rest. She hadn't slept well last night, either, her dreams entwining with haunting nightmares from her shameful past.

     
The sky was cerulean blue, with a few white wisps that reminded Pilar of Honey's flowing flaxen mane as they cantered about the enclosure. Tall trees, grown scraggly from the frequent winds off the ocean, hugged the arena, and a cooling breeze chased away the worst of the early summer heat. The hacienda itself, constructed of pale yellow stucco with a red, Spanish-tile roof, was situated below the training grounds in a small vale. From their higher position, the various arenas for the jumpers overlooked the surrounding, tree-covered hills and Pilar could see the sparkling deep blue of the Pacific in the distance.

     
She guided Honey with her legs and a slight change of weight on the saddle as she took three jumps in a row. Each time the mare gathered and collected the energy in her hind legs, Pilar felt as if she were on a powerful, living spring. The big, easygoing mare trusted
Pilar
implicity, sailing effortlessly over another two-and-a-half-foot jump.

     
A combination jump, consisting of a pool of water and a four-foot barrier, was next, requiring Honey to stretch to her maximum length as well as jump "big." Just as Pilar steadied the mare for the exercise, the back of her neck prickled.
A red flag.
Why was she sensing danger? She had little time to assess the warning as she lifted upward, knees jammed tightly into the rolls of the saddle, riding easily on the horse's withers as they approached the combined jump. Honey's front legs rose and she soared like the Andean condors that floated over her grandparents' village. For a moment the mare seemed to have wings like Pegasus. As Honey landed solidly on the other side of the jump, Pilar gently pulled on the reins.

     
Squinting against the western sun, she looked toward the buildings that housed the tack and stables. Her hands were wet, the gloves slightly slippery on the double reins as the mare came to a halt. The animal's ears went instantly forward—toward the same area Pilar was studying. The prickling sensation at the back of her neck was a sure sign of trouble, Pilar knew. That internal warning system—which her mother had attributed to her spirit guardian, a jaguar—had saved her life a number of times when she'd worked undercover. So now she strained to see past the blinding sunlight to the stable area.

     
Nothing moved. As expected, the farm help were enjoying siesta. A few horses hung their heads out of their roomy box stalls and looked around, but none were snorting or appearing alarmed. One of the older dogs, a black-and-white mongrel Pilar had rescued from
Lima
long ago, moved with a limp down the breezeway between the stalls. Frowning, Pilar lifted her hand and touched the back of her neck. Rubbing it, she again swept her gaze along the long, rectangular barn area. She saw no one. But she felt someone watching.
Watching
her.

     
Compressing her lips, she gathered up the reins. Perhaps if she ignored the sensation, it would go away. Maybe it was merely anticipation over having to meet Culver tonight. Her stomach had been on edge ever since Hector had dropped his bombshell. And her heart…well, her heart felt as if Culver's own massive, powerful hand was relentlessly squeezing it. After all, what was she going to say to him? That she was sorry? It seemed such a lame, weak word at this point. Blowing out a breath of air in exasperation, Pilar tried to return her focus to Honey and the remaining jumps, but the sensation of being watched refused to go away. Danger was present—and it was very near.

     
Culver
Lachlan
stood just inside the breezeway of the stables, watching Pilar Martinez ride a magnificent chestnut jumper. He scowled as he eyed her, struggling to control those wild feelings that had first erupted in him when Jake had ordered him to take this mission. Pillar was like hot butter in a skillet, so effortlessly did she move in rhythm with her horse. It was obvious she loved to ride. And Culver remembered all too well seeing that same pure joy on her face a long time ago. A joy that he'd—
Stop it,
he ordered himself harshly.
Stop remembering. It won't do any good. She left you when you were down for the count.

     
But no matter how much he wanted to hate Pilar for what she'd done to him, Culver couldn't bring
himself
to feel it. The voice inside his head coldly announced that she had used him for her own means, gotten what she wanted and abandoned him.

     
Well, what the hell had he expected, anyway? She was a woman, and the women in his life had always been as unstable as C-4 explosives. He'd never had good luck with them. Still, Pilar had seemed different. His gaze never left her as she rode at a canter around the arena, taking the jumps with ease. Even at this distance, Culver could see that the twenty-two-year-old ingenue he'd fallen hopelessly in love with eight years ago had become a woman, blooming with the full-blown beauty of a mature rose compared to the sweeter, less-complex bud—and still able to take his breath away.

     
Was Pilar's ebony hair still long? He couldn't help but wonder. Were her eyes still those of the jaguar that roamed the Peruvian jungles? She had the most arresting eyes Culver had ever seen. Her Incan heritage made them almost black, but Culver had found out quickly that he could determine Pilar's emotions by watching for sparkles of real gold in their depths.

     
Over the three months they'd worked together, he'd learned to love watching those huge, luminous eyes, slightly tilted, again by her Incan heritage, shift from near black to a rich, golden brown. His heart twisted in his chest. How deeply his feelings ran—even now. It was stupid, he knew. He was thirty-three years old—old enough to know better.
Face it,
he reminded himself cruelly,
she was a young college girl out for a fling.
She hadn't wanted commitment. She'd wanted the high adventure and pulse-pounding sensuality of combining passion with life-and-death work.

     
Shifting his weight to his other booted
foot,
Culver rested his shoulder against a large, wooden support post and absorbed the sight of Pilar as she rode. Memories came flooding back—so many of them painful. Why had she run out on him in his darkest hour? All he'd wanted was Pilar at his side. He'd been scared, seeing his whole twenty-five years of life flash before his closed eyes. Yet as soon as they'd made it to the hospital, she'd disappeared. The last memory of Pilar he had was of her running alongside the gurney as the ambulance attendants raced with it toward an operating room. He'd been bleeding to death. Pilar had been crying, gripping his limp, nerveless hand. Her long, luxurious hair had been damp and twisted into strands, the expression on her face one of sheer terror, and those lips…Culver groaned. No one had a mouth quite like Pilar's. Full and almost heart-shaped, it had drawn him like a hummingbird to a rosy bloom filled with sweet nectar.