Hot Intent. Cindy Dees

pretended to sleep. Why hadn’t CIA satellites picked up anything at all on the shooter at his condo yesterday? He’d been on the phone no more than two minutes after the shooting and André had promised the agency would take a look at its live security telemetry of the nation’s capital.

      The day had been sunny and clear. They should have seen something. A car, a figure moving away from the area on foot, a flash off a gun scope, anything. He’d given André detailed descriptions of all three of the perches a sniper could possibly use to hit that planter on his terrace. How hard could it have been to check out three lousy hides?

      His gut churned alarmingly. Something was wrong. What wasn’t André telling him? His instincts warned that the agency’s analysts had seen something but elected not to share it with him. What? And why were they hiding it from him?

      And now they were sending him to Cuba, a known swarm of Russian intelligence activity, on a flimsy excuse. Why? What did they think Peter was up to? Or were they just using his father’s name as a hot button to get Alex to jump into Cuba?

      André had been cagey when he pushed his boss for details. Fortinay had flatly refused to divulge why he and Katie specifically had to go to Cuba and what exactly they were supposed to be looking for when they got there. No way was this a random aid mission. The CIA was up to something. But André steadfastly avoided revealing even a hint of what was up.

      As if that wasn’t bad enough, Alex really didn’t like the fact that D.U. was determined to send Katie with him. He’d tried to talk André out of it, but had failed spectacularly. He got that they wanted someone watching him, but he resented the idea that they thought they could use his civilian girlfriend that way.

      This whole business of being a good guy, of playing along with their damned rules, was starting to grate on his nerves. He was half tempted to go back to the good old days when everybody hated him and he lived on the edge, tiptoeing between his enemies to stay alive.

      Katie’s head landed lightly on his shoulder and he shifted to make it into a more comfortable pillow for her. She gave him a purpose in life, but God, the cost of being with her and Dawn was daunting at times. He so wasn’t an inside-the-box kind of guy.

      And it wasn’t as if he had any right to ask her to live outside the box with him in his shadow world. If Dawn weren’t in the picture, maybe he would ask it of her. But the two of them had committed to raising the orphaned child, and he wasn’t about to back out of that commitment any more than Katie was.

      It was hard enough for him to straddle the world of espionage and the bright, shiny world where people fell in love and had families, and he had a lifetime’s experience doing it. No way could Katie handle both. If only he could offer her and Dawn some kind of security for the long term.

      Miami International Airport was as huge and chaotic as he remembered it. The plan was to wait out Hurricane Giselle in Florida, and then make their way to Cuba after it passed. André’s contact in Cuba had flatly refused to let Alex bring any of his own equipment or supplies into the country.

      The unnamed Cuban had apparently assured D.U. that plenty of emergency medical supplies were in place on the island. Riiight. Alex smelled a whole bunch of meatball medicine under horrendous conditions forthcoming.

      He glanced over at Katie, who smiled excitedly at him, and he just shook his head. The girl had an adventurous streak a mile wide. It had gotten her in trouble before, and he had no doubt it would get her in trouble again. He was beginning to suspect it would turn out to be his fate in life to protect her from herself.

      They collected their bags and found a shuttle to take them to their hotel. He had to give D.U. credit for springing for upscale lodgings. Most of the time, D.U. staffers lived in miserable field conditions—crude tents with no running water or electricity among refugees and the destitute, treating injuries and disease under grueling pressure. He had faith Cuba wouldn’t be any better when they got there in the aftermath of a major hurricane.

      Speaking of which, the sky overhead looked ominous. By the time they reached the hotel, the first fat drops of rain were starting to fall and the wind was picking up. Miami was forecast to get hit by peripheral rain bands but not much more.

      They checked into their room with no trouble. He was amused that André had booked them one room with a king-size bed. Keeping the watcher and the watched close, much?

      “How bad is the weather supposed to get here?” Katie asked as rain pounded at the big windows.

      He flipped on the TV to check the latest updates. The weather channels were still showing a direct hit on Cuba. Giselle, a small but strong category-four storm and intensifying, was expected to run, literally, the length of the island. “Nothing to write home about here in Miami. But Cuba’s going to get clobbered.”

      “Where will D.U. send us?”

      “East end of the island. The mountains down its spine will weaken the storm significantly, and the west end won’t get hit nearly as bad.”

      “So, the category five will be down to a measly category three or so when it hits Havana?” she asked wryly.

      He shrugged. “They’re used to hurricanes. Havana will be fine. It’s the poor, isolated villages in the east that will be in trouble.”

      “Have you ever been to Cuba?” she asked curiously.

      “Not on our list of approved conversation topics,” he replied shortly.

      “We still have one of those?” she asked in dismay.

      “You thought having sex with me entitled you to all of my secrets?”

      “Well, yes.” She looked crestfallen.

      He grinned and shook his head. “I swear. You’re such a newb.”

      “If you won’t tell me all, then can we at least have sex?” she asked hopefully.

      His grin widened. God, she was good for his soul. He took a step toward her, but his phone rang, and he swore under his breath.

      “Alex Peters,” he snapped.

      “Am I disturbing you?”

      His father’s unwelcome voice startled him, and he replied tersely, “What do you want?”

      “I hear you’re taking a little trip. Is there anything I can do for you while you’re there? I have a few contacts who might prove useful.”

      Alex’s jaw dropped. How in the hell did Peter know about their secret trip to Cuba? Obviously not so secret a trip, dammit.

      Christ. Who else knew about their supposedly secret infiltration onto the island? How dangerous was this trip to Cuba going to be, after all? He glanced over at Katie in alarm. And she was out here in the line of fire with him. On the one hand, he was glad to have her close by where he could personally ensure her safety. But on the other hand, he’d promised her she’d never be in life-threatening danger again if he could help it.

      Yeah, he’d bet his Russian spy father had plenty of contacts in flipping Cuba.

      Why did the man feel obliged to let his son know that he was aware of this planned junket? What was his father’s ploy? Was Peter worried about Alex’s safety and genuinely warning him that his mission was on the Russians’ radar? Or was the man putting him on notice that his every move would be watched? Or was it merely part of their long-standing pissing contest to show that FSB intelligence sources were better than the CIA’s?

      It was always like this with his father: circles within circles. Meanings hidden below layer upon layer of meaning. Sometimes, Alex got so damned tired of it all. Maybe that was why Katie’s directness appealed to him so strongly.

      Peter. How to answer Peter? He forced his mind back to the sparring at hand. His father had asked if there was anything he could do to help. Alex replied, “Actually, there is something you can do for me. I’m going to need medical supplies when I get there. Nothing fancy. Sterile needles and syringes. Clean surgical implements and antibiotics. Maybe an