Elite Ops Complete Series Read online

  WILD CARD

  MAVERICK

  HEAT SEEKER

  BLACK JACK

  RENEGADE

  LIVE WIRE

  Lora Leigh

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  Contents

  WILD CARD

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE I

  PROLOGUE II

  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

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  MAVERICK

  COPYRIGHT

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  HEAT SEEKER

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  BLACK JACK

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  EPILOGUE

  RENEGADE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  EPILOGUE

  LIVE WIRE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  EPILOGUE

  PRAISE FOR BESTSELLING AUTHOR LORA LEIGH

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by Lora Leigh

  WILD CARD

  Lora Leigh

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  WILD CARD

  Copyright © 2008 by Lora Leigh.

  Cover photograph © Shirley Green

  All rights reserved.

  For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  ISBN: 0-312-94579-5

  EAN: 978-0-312-94579-4

  Printed in the United States of America

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / September 2008

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  eISBN 9781429960335

  I once knew a girl who claimed to be Irish. Whether the story she told me of Wild Irish Eyes is true or not (she wouldn’t admit either way ), it still in part inspired the idea for this book.

  So thanks to her and other Internet friends. Stories told, hours of laughter, What Ifs, and precious memories. The world is open to us now, as are stories true or imagined, and laughter with those across the seas, across the nation, or across the street is but a click away.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Special thanks to Natalie, Jennifer, Melissa, Kelli—the best sis a writer could have—Roni, Janine and Annmarie, Chris and Jess. For the hours of reading, your comments, and your suggestions. I couldn’t do it without you.

  And special thanks to my editor Monique. Who doesn’t mind to snap the whip, or listen to the ideas.

  And to my family. Who put up with me when I’m on tight deadlines. My husband Tony who makes certain I eat, my son Bret who makes my coffee, and my daughter Holly who listens to me gripe when I get behind.

  I couldn’t do it without you.

  PROLOGUE I

  Nathan sat beside his grandfather, Rory Malone, on the crude front porch of the shack he lived in. Nathan was only ten, but he knew exactly why Grandpop didn’t live with him and his parents. Because Nathan’s father, Grant, was ashamed of him.

  “He’s too fucking Irish,” Grant would rage for hours after visiting with his father. “He uses that brogue like it’s something to be proud of.”


  And God forbid that Nathan should let a hint of that brogue free, though he practiced it as often as he could away from his father.

  Nathan’s father didn’t like being Irish. He didn’t like people knowing he was Irish. If he could ship Grandpop off somewhere, then Nathan sometimes thought that his father would do it. But Grant Malone couldn’t make Rory Malone do anything. The old man was as wise as the mountains and the cliffs around them, and just as stubborn.

  “Nathan, my boy, look at that sunset.” Rory pointed out the majestic colors that washed over the mountains. “Almost as pretty as Ireland, she is. Almost.” And Nathan heard a whisper of homesickness in his grandpop’s voice.

  “Why don’t you go back?” Nathan asked. “Dad says you have enough money to live anywhere.”

  He looked at his grandfather’s weathered face. The bright blue eyes, just like Nathan’s, brighter than Nathan’s father’s and without the hints of green his father’s had.

  Grandpop smiled. A strange, sad little smile.

  “Because my Erin is here.” He pointed to the small graveyard.

  There, Nathan’s grandma, Erin Malone, was buried. On one side of her were buried the two sons they lost in Vietnam, his uncles, Riordan and Rory Jr., and the daughter that had died of a fever, Nathan’s aunt Edan.

  “Grandma wouldn’t want you to leave?” Nathan frowned. His grandma was dead, what would she care?

  “Oh, now my Erin, she’d smile down on me no matter where I walked.” Grandpop smiled that little smile again. “But I’d be separated from her, and I’d feel that separation in my soul, you see?”

  Nathan shook his head.

  Grandpop sighed. “You have the Irish eyes, boy. One of these days, you’ll see from eyes, not your own, feel with a heart outside your chest. Wild Irish eyes, Nathan. When you love, love well and love true, and take care, lad, because those Irish eyes are windows into not just your own soul, but the soul of the one you love.” Grandpop looked out at his Erin’s grave. “And when you lose that heart, you can’t leave the places where your memories are the best. And if I left her, I’d not be buried beside her.”

  Grandpop stared back at him then, and Nathan felt his chest grow tight at the thought of ever burying his grandpop in the hard, bleak soil.

  “Wild Irish eyes,” his grandpop murmured then. “My father gave me the same warning I give you now, boy. Don’t lose the one you love. You lose a part of your soul when you do. The legacy of those eyes will ensure it.”

  Nathan frowned. That didn’t make much sense, but maybe he’d ask his uncle Jordan about it later. Uncle Jordan still remembered his mother. He had been five when she died, just before Nathan’s birth. But Uncle Jordan was in Houston right now on summer break with Nathan’s older uncle Doran and his family.

  “So my eyes are bad?” Nathan finally asked.

  “Not bad.” His grandpop sighed. “Not bad at all, boy. You’ll see one of these days. One of these days, you’ll see. Wild Irish eyes see what they shouldn’t see, but even more.” His grandfather stared down at him sadly. “The one who holds your soul, who holds your heart.” He thumped Nathan’s chest. “They see through you as well.”

  “Dad doesn’t have Irish eyes then?” Grant’s eyes had flecks of green. He always frowned. He always growled.

  Worry flickered over Grandpop’s face. “Your dad is a good man.” He repeated what he always said.

  “Is he, Grandpop?” Nathan thought about the baby sleeping in the house. The tiny baby that Grandpop said was his brother. The baby Grant Malone denied. “Little Rory should have a dad too.”

  Grandpop touched his head gently and said softly, “Nothing is as we think, boy. There are always layers, and layers, shades of gray and shades of black or white. You gotta find why, not see what.”

  “Because he doesn’t love us,” Nathan whispered, accepting it as only a child can.

  And Grandpop shook his head. “Layers, son. Remember that. There’s always what you don’t know and what you don’t see. And love doesn’t always do what we think it should. Just remember that, and you’ll do fine.”

  And he grew. He looked for layers, he looked for shades of gray. Nathan Malone matured, became a SEAL, and the layers drifted from his mind. But they were there. Always shifting, always moving. Until the day he saw hell. And from the ashes of hell, he learned there were layers he never knew existed.

  PROLOGUE II

  Sixteen years later

  Nathan Malone sat at his desk in the office of the garage/service center he owned and watched the young woman talking to one of his mechanics.

  She didn’t look happy. She looked frustrated. Sun-streaked blond hair fell to her shoulders, a beautiful swath of waves that glistened in the sunlight. Nicely rounded, not too slender. She had a butt to die for beneath the black skirt she was wearing, and breasts that rose temptingly beneath a maroon blouse.

  Slender heels completed the outfit. He wondered if those were hose or stockings she was wearing. She looked like a stocking woman.

  Finally, she threw her hands up, looked around, and her gaze caught his. Her nostrils flared in determination and she moved quickly past the protesting mechanic to the door of his office.

  He watched as the most amazing vision stalked across the floor and planted her hands on his desk, glaring at him.

  “Look, all I need is a wrench,” she said forcefully. “Just loan me one. Sell me one. I don’t care. But if I have to go much farther in my car, I’m going to find myself hitchhiking. Do I look like I want to be hitchhiking today?” She spread her arms out from her body as she straightened, her pretty gray eyes cloudy, distressed, her pink lips tight as the mechanic moved in behind her.

  “No, ma’am, you don’t.” Nathan shook his head, his gaze moving over her appreciatively before he looked around her at the mechanic. “Is there a reason why we’re not looking at her car?” he asked the other man.

  Sammy’s eyes narrowed. “Garage bays are full, boss, I told her that.”

  “A wrench,” she ground out between her teeth. “Just loan me the blasted wrench.”

  She was frustrated. Perspiration clung to her forehead, glistened at her cheeks. Then her expression smoothed with obvious control.

  “Look, really.” Her voice softened and he was enchanted. Right there, to the sound of a sweet Southern belle, Nathan Malone lost his heart. “I really just need a little bit of help here. I swear. My job interview isn’t going to wait for me. I promise, I won’t take long.”

  She smiled, and he felt his world tilt on its axis. A sweet curve of her lips, a hint of nervousness, frustration, and worry lingered in the soft curve. But she smiled at him. Hell, he felt like a teenager again.

  He moved around the desk and held out his hand to the door. “Show me the car. We’ll get you back on the road.”

  “Boss, we’re packed,” Sammy protested.

  Nathan ignored him as the young woman turned and preceded him to the door. He was watching her ass as she walked and it was the damnedest view. His hands itched to touch her. Itched to cup those curves and feel them flex beneath his hands.

  “I’m Sabella.” She flashed him a smile over her shoulder. “I really appreciate this.”

  That Georgia accent was going to make him come in his jeans. No way was he going to hold it back if she kept talking to him.

  This one was his.

  “It’s going to cost you,” he drawled as he popped open the hood to her little sporty sedan.

  “It always does.” She sighed. “How much do you think?”

  She looked worried. She was definitely a woman with a goal and intent on getting there. Pretty polished nails, just enough makeup to highlight her features, and pretty soft lips.