Star-Spangled Bride

ONE

"It's too dangerous." Evan's gaze slid away from Ronnie's face. "Eve changed my mind."

"The hell you have." Ronnie Dalton smothered the spark of panic her father's words ignited within her and kept her expression blank. She knew Evan would pounce on any show of weakness on her part as an excuse to abandon the plan. He would respond only to absolute determination. "No way, Evan."

"Falkner's too hot to handle. You'll get us both killed."

"You're not even going to be there. You make the final payoff and then head for the border."

"That doesn't mean they won't come after me if they suspect I was in on it. These terrorists are not ones to fool around with." He frowned. "I don't even know why I let you talk me into this."

"For Lord's sake, we're Falkner's last hope," she said, exasperated. "The discussions have broken down and they'll kill him if we don't get him out of there."

Evan shook his head. "Falkner's too important for them to waste. The Red December would have everyone from the CIA to the Associated Press breathing down their necks."

"They've had them breathing down their necks for over a year and it hasn't bothered them. The Red December are fanatics. Who should know that better than you?"

"The government will start negotiations again. You told me yourself that everyone in the media is in an uproar about his kidnapping. Politicians can't take that kind of heat without caving in to pressure."

"It will be too late. The terrorists have already lost face. Those idiots in Washington have blown it."

"What if they have? Why should I care?" he burst out. "It's not my responsibility. You may have a king-size case of hero worship for the man, but he's nothing to me."

"He is your responsibility."

"You're talking as if I personally kidnappedthe bastard," he said sulkily. "You're not my conscience, Ronnie. I'd have thought you would have learned that by now. You can't change me and I won't march to your drummer."

She had learned that a long time ago, she thought wearily, but this time she couldn't let him wander away without his cleaning up his mess. "He's an extraordinary man. He deserves to live, Evan." His expression didn't change and she added in desperation, "I promise I won't ask your help again."

He gazed at her a moment and then a sudden boyish grin lit his heavy features. "The hell you won't. Whenever you decide you can use me to get a story, you'll be right there trailing behind me just like you did when you were a kid."

She smiled. "Well, maybe…" She pushed on quickly, heartened by the sign of softening. "But you've got to do this. There's practically no risk for you."

"Why are you being so damn stubborn? You don't even know the man." He tilted his head and gazed at her curiously. "Or do you?"

"What do you mean?" she asked warily. "I already told you I didn't."

"Falkner has a pretty hot reputation with the ladies," he said slyly. "I thought he might haveshown you sex is more fun than taking pictures."

"Maybe for you," she retorted, then went on quickly, "Gabe Falkner is a legend. I don't have to know him to know the news business would be a lot worse without him. What other boss would trade himself to a bunch of fanatical idiots like the Red December to free two of his reporters?"

He stared at her in astonishment. "Good God, I believe I was right about your case of hero worship. I thought I'd brought you up with more sense."

"No such thing," she countered. "That was just a comment. I'm only after the story. Any photojournalist in the world would risk their necks to film Falkner's escape."

"Film?" He snorted in disgust. "You never mentioned filming. I suppose I should have known. You'll be lucky to get away without being blown to bits, and you're thinking of taking pictures?"

"Only if it's convenient," she said.

"There's nothing convenient about this crazi-ness. Falkner's ankles will be chained so that he'll barely be able to shuffle. He's been beaten and starved, so that he'll scarcely be able to function much less react quickly enough to give you any help."

"You underestimate him. He's hard as nails."

Evan thought for a moment before acceding. "Maybe you're right. Mohammed says he's one tough bastard."

He was more than tough, Ronnie thought. He was larger than life in every sense of the word. After spending five years as a foreign correspondent, Gabe Falkner had taken a small Texas radio station he had inherited from his father and built it into a worldwide news network, comprised of newspapers, magazines, and a cable news network that was currently giving CNN a run for its money.

Though he strode ruthlessly over anyone who stood in his way, Falkner was known to be absolutely fair in his business practices and to battle tooth and nail to protect his employees. In a world where newsmen were evaluated and discarded by computer polls, Falkner exhibited an old-fashioned paternalism. He chose excellent people, paid them excellent money, and then gave them unlimited protection. In return he inspired a loyalty unprecedented among the media.

"Even if Falkner can help," Evan said, "even if everything goes right, it will be a miracle if you can get him away and into hiding. If you get in a jam, you can't rely on the Said Ababa government. They'll just look the other way. They give lip service to Washington, but they're too afraid of the Red December to interfere."

"I know that," Ronnie muttered impatiently. "Why are you rehashing old news? Nothing is going to go wrong; we've got everything covered."

"We could wait another day," Evan coaxed. "Maybe Washington will come through."

"And maybe those murderers will decide to shoot Falkner in the head tonight." She shook her head. "And if they didn't, you might not be able to find where they'll take him tomorrow night. They never keep him in any one place more than twenty-four hours." She stood up, jammed her hands into the pockets of her leather flight jacket, and said belligerently, "Now stop arguing with me. You agreed to do it and we're going to do it tonight. I'll be in that alcove on the Street of the Camels at eleven tonight. If you don't send the help you promised, they'll catch me and have two newspeople to execute." A sudden mischievous smile lit her face. "And then you'd have to go to my funeral and you know how you hate that kind of hoopla."

"What makes you think I'd go?"

"Because you know I'd haunt you if you didn't."

"You'd do it too." He scowled and with reluctance said, "All right. We'll go on with it, but don't expect anything else of me. I'll make die payment to Mohammed and Fatima and then I'm on my way."

Her relief was immeasurable. "That's all I ask." Then after a moment's hesitation, she added, "You're sure Mohammed is a good enough shot?"

Evan nodded. "It will be close range." He smiled crookedly. "I'm surprised you sanctioned shooting the guards. Isn't your heart bleeding for them?"

"I don't like it, but there's no other way." A shadow crossed her face. "And their hearts didn't bleed when they blew up that busload of schoolchildren last month." So much violence, so many tears in the world. No matter how often she was forced to face it, she never got used to it.

She impulsively bent down and brushed a light kiss on her father's forehead. "Thanks, Evan."

He stiffened at the gesture. "You must be more worried about this than I thought, if you're getting mushy on me."

"I'm never mushy. I just thought…" Sheturned on her heel and headed for the front door. "Oh, what the hell."

"Be careful."

She glanced over her shoulder in surprise. "That sounds a bit mushy too."

He shook his head. "Purely selfish. I just hate funerals."

Funerals, sentiment, and every other convention, including the responsibilities of fatherhood, she thought with a tiny pang. She quickly dismissed both the thought and the accompanying hurt. What was wrong with her today? She had no more need of a father now at twenty-four than she had when she was ten. She had been brought up to be completely independent of Evan and everyone else. That was how Evan liked it and that was the way she liked it too.

She saluted him jauntily. "I'll try not to inconvenience you. See you next time."

She didn't wait for an answer but quickly left the hotel room, cursing herself for the affectionate gesture that had embarrassed both Evan and herself. She couldn't remember the last time she had kissed her father. El Salvador? Probably not. Beneath that easygoing facade he was completely self-centered and found physical demonstrations unappealing.

Well, so did she. She didn't need any affection from anyone. She was just as self-centered and tough as Evan and she had reached out to him only because she was a little frightened about tonight.

Who was she kidding? She was terrified. Every argument Evan had used had hit dead center. If she was smart, she would abandon the plan, turn her back on Falkner, and get the hell out of Said Ababa.

The latest picture the Red December had released of Gabe Falkner rushed back to her. His broad face was thinner than before his capture, the flesh bruised, one eye blackened, his dark hair tousled. Yet despite the obvious mistreatment he conveyed the impression of boundless strength. He was staring into the camera with intimidating coldness and a recklessness that had caught her imagination. She had replayed the news tape dozens of times, and each time she saw it, maternal ferocity had surged through her. Blast it, a man like that didn't deserve to be used as a punching bag by those creeps. Even if Evan hadn't been involved, even if the opportunity for an Emmy hadn't beckoned, she would probably still be here.

Not because of any mushy feelings of nobility, as Evan had charged, but out of respect for an extraordinary man, her own professional ambition, and a certain amount of gratitude. If those reasons had been powerful enough to bring her to this point, then they should be enough to make her go through with the escape plan.

If she could just get over this damned panic soaring through her.

The Jeep containing Falkner and his two guards stopped at the top of the Street of the Camels.

Ronnie drew a breath of relief. Ten minutes late. She had been afraid they had changed their plans.

She edged forward in the alcove and focused her camcorder on Falkner as he stepped out of the Jeep. The light from the street lamp played over him. Lord, he was big. Almost six foot five and built like Schwarzenegger. The jeans and cotton sweater he wore were soiled and ragged, but they revealed the enormous strength and power of his thighs and shoulders. His hawklike features reflected the same toughness. She couldn't see his eyes from where she was, but knew they were a pale icy blue.

The guards were evidently well aware of that power because his hands were manacled and his ankles chained so that he could walk with only a shuffling gait. One of the guards said something to Falkner and then pushed him to start him down the street. Falkner turned and looked at him. It was just a stare, but the guard faltered and then started to curse as he prodded Falkner with his automatic rifle.

Great stuff, Ronnie thought absently as she continued filming. She could almost hear the voice-over-Falkner, dominant even in captivity.

The three men were heading toward her, their destination the house at the end of the block. She was located at the halfway point. Reluctandy she turned off the camcorder and put it in her camera bag.

The men were now a hundred yards from where she stood.

Bracing herself, Ronnie reached behind her, silendy opened the door she had previously oiled, and took the smoke grenade from her jacket pocket.

Fifty yards.

She cast an anxious glance at the second-story window across the street. Mohammed had betterbe as good a shot as Evan had said. He would have to pick off both guards within a matter of seconds to keep them from turning on Falkner.

Five yards.

She pulled the pin from the smoke grenade with her teeth.

The first shot!

The guard on the far side of Falkner fell to the ground.

She hurled the smoke bomb down the street.

The sickening thunk of a bullet hitting flesh as Mohammed's second bullet struck the remaining guard.

Billows of smoke suddenly obscured everything in the narrow street.

She darted out of the alcove. Her hand grasped Falkner's arm. "Hurry!"

He didn't question her. "Right." He let her pull him into the alcove and through the open doorway.

She slammed the door, shot the bolt, and then moved down the corridor. "Follow me. We have two minutes before the men from the house will get here and another two minutes before the smoke clears enough for them to start a search. There's a trapdoor in the basement that leads to a fruit cellar. I've cut an exit out of the cellar thatleads to a storm drain." She fired the words as she hurried down a curving staircase, then into the basement. "Can you manage a ladder in those chains?"

"I could manage to climb Mount Everest if it meant getting away from these bastards," he said grimly, his gaze searching her blackened face. "Who are you? CIA?"

They had reached the fruit cellar, and she led him to the cut-out exit. She shook her head as she started down the ladder. "Later."

"What's your name?" he persisted.

"Ronnie. Ronnie Dalton." She waited for him at the bottom of the ladder and then played die flashlight on the drainage pipe. "You first."

He looked at the opening skeptically. "It looks pretty small."

"You'll fit. I measured it."

"Very efficient." He got down on his hands and knees and began to crawl through the pipe.

She waited until he was several yards ahead and then went in, shutting the camouflaged door behind her. "Hurry!" she whispered. "We have to be at the end of the pipe in four minutes."

"And where does it exit?"

"Two blocks north."

"You have a car waiting?"

"No."

"Why the hell not?"

"Stop questioning me and move!"

"I'll move, but I'll be damned if I'll stop questioning you. This is my life and I'm not risking it for any half-baked plan that-"

"It's the only hope you've got," she said in exasperation. "I've got it covered. Trust me."

"Under these kind of circumstances I don't trust anyone but myself."

"Well, maybe it's time you changed. You didn't do so well getting away from them on your own. It's not- Why are you stopping?"

"I've reached the end of the pipe." He moved cautiously out onto the street. "No one in sight."

"There will be soon. This entire area will be crawling with those scum once they radio for reinforcements."

He stood up and reached out a hand to pull her to her feet. "Then let's get out of here."

She moved quickly ahead of him down the street, turned left and then right. She heard the jangle of his chains as he shuffled behind her. After the third block he muttered testily, "Are we supposed to walk all the way to die border?"

"If I say so." She turned left again, moved swiftly down the alley, threw open a door, and gestured for him to enter. "In here."

Fatima waited in the hall just inside the door. "You're late," she said sourly. "If you'd arrived two minutes later, you would have found the door locked. I told Evan I would take no unnecessary chances." She locked the door, then turned on her heel and walked quickly down the dimly lit corridor. "Come with me."

"What is this place?" Falkner asked.

"It's a bordello," Ronnie said. "We thought it would be safer for you to hide in plain sight. Here's the scenario. You're a customer and I'm one of Fatima's women."

Fatima threw open a door. "You'd better do it right," she told Ronnie grimly. "Or we'll all end up corpses."

"And that charming lady is the madam?" Falkner asked as the door closed behind Fatima.

Ronnie nodded. "Fatima al-Radir." She gestured toward the bed. "Sit down, I have to get those chains off."

"Gladly." He sat down, studying his rescuer. Not that there was much to study. Except for glittering wide-set hazel eyes and a slightly turned-up nose, he could discern little of her blackened face. Her thin body was dressed inblack trousers and shirt and a sock cap that completely covered her hair. "And how do you intend to get rid of these chains? Do you have a file tucked in your bag?"

"Better." She knelt at his feet, fumbled in her camera bag, and pulled out a tiny key. "You'll be out of these in a minute."

"How well prepared you are." His gaze narrowed on her blackened face. "How do you happen to have-"

"There!" she interrupted as the lock opened on his ankle manacles. "Now give me your wrists."

He extended his hands. "And how did you know where I'd be tonight?"

"I never reveal my sources," she said lightly. "Deepthroat would never forgive me."

"You're a reporter?"

She nodded as she took the manacles off his hands. "Photojournalist."

"One of my people?"

"My people," she repeated. "I heard you were possessive about your employees."

"Well, are you?"

She shook her head. "Free-lance."

"You're taking a hell of a risk to get a story."

"I'm after an Emmy," she said flippantly. "Go get in the shower. I'll have Fatima get rid of thesemanacles. Throw out your clothes and I'll get rid of those too." She reached into the bag and handed him a small case. "False beard and eyebrows, brown contact lenses. Those blue eyes are a dead giveaway." She grimaced. "Oops, wrong word."

"I find it very apt under the circumstances," he told her as he took the case. "Am I on a schedule for this too?"

She picked up the manacles and headed to the door. "Seven minutes. Your old friends should be here within ten to search the house."

"Let's hope they keep to your agenda and not their own." He moved toward the bathroom. "I trust you're going to wash off that black stuff and get into something more appropriate?"

"Of course. Don't be stupid."

"I'm not known to be stupid." He slammed the door and began peeling off his clothes. Dammit, he knew he should be grateful since the woman had saved his neck, but there was something about Ronnie Dalton that rubbed his nerves like high-grade sandpaper. Her air of crisp decisiveness and aggressiveness made him want to reach out and shake her.

He stepped beneath the shower and let the lukewarm water run over him. He wasn't usuallyso unfair. Women had the right to be just as aggressive as men in this world. Face it, he probably would have been antagonistic toward anyone whose hands held his life. He liked to be in control and he'd had a bellyful of pent-up frustration and helplessness during this last year. But that wasn't Ronnie Dalton's fault, and he would have to submerge his natural instincts and work with her if they were going to get out of this alive.

"Geez, can't you hurry up?" she called through the door.

He gritted his teeth. "You gave me seven minutes. It's only been five." Gratitude, he reminded himself as he turned off the shower. After donning his disguise and wrapping a towel around his waist, he stepped out of the bathroom.

He saw she was in bed, leaning back against a high oak headboard that was as scarred and chipped as the other meager furniture in the room.

He stopped in shock.

She looked not a day over sixteen. Her skin glowed with fresh scrubbing and seemed as rose-petal soft as a baby's. Her golden hair was short and curled riotously about her face. The sheet was pulled up to her shoulders, but she was obviously nude beneath the thin cover.

"You look-"

"I know, I know," she said impatiently. Like something from one of the old-time Gibson girl ads. I can't help it. Get into bed."

"I'm not sure I should," he said even as he slipped under the sheet and threw the towel aside. "How the hell old are you?"

"Twenty-four." She reached over to the bedside table and plucked a dark shining object from its surface, which proved to be a long black wig. After putting it on, she commenced to tuck her short blond curls underneath it. "This should make me look older."

"Wrong," he corrected. "Instead of looking like a Christmas-card angel, you've only turned into a nursery-school dropout."

"Really?" She frowned. "Well, it will have to do. Maybe they'll think you're one of those men who like young girls." She lifted the pillow to reveal a revolver. "A Magnum.357. We don't want to use it unless we have to, but it will blow a good-sized hole."

"Quite a good-sized hole. You're familiar with guns?"

"I grew up with them. When most kids were going to school, I was learning how to assemble an Uzi."

"Interesting."

"If I have to blow anyone away, head for the bathroom. That window opens onto the alley."

"You appear to have everything researched."

"I told you I wasn't stupid. I want to live as much as you do."

Her hand was opening and closing nervously on the sheet. "Now, when we hear them, you move over me and pretend we're doing it. Don't turn fully around, but it would be smart to let them get a glimpse of your beard."

"Misdirection." He stretched out and willed himself to relax. "I'll handle it."

"Do you speak Said Ababan? You should-"

"I said I'll handle it." He tried to keep the edge from his tone. "I assure you I learned to be very fluent in Said Ababan obscenities over the last year."

"You'll have to disguise your voice. They must be able to recognize it after all these months."

"For Lord's sake, I'm fully aware of-" He stopped as he noticed the rapid pounding of the pulse in her throat. She was frightened, he realized suddenly. Scared as hell and talking feverishly to keep from admitting it to him and to herself. The knowledge completely disarmedhim. Why, she was only a kid and about as tough as his six-year-old niece, Daisy. He felt a rush of protectiveness ripple through him. "I'll watch it," he said quietly. "Now relax. There's nothing to do but wait."

She drew a deep breath. "I hate waiting."

"So do I, but I've learned to cope with it." Her skin had a silky sheen like that usually seen only in very young children, and he suddenly felt an urge to reach out and touch her. He found an excuse. His index finger tapped a small scar on her right shoulder. "What's this?"

"Bullet wound." She moistened her lips. "El Salvador."

He felt an odd surge of anger. "Who the hell sent you into that hellhole?"

"I sent myself," she said absently, her gaze fixed on the door. "And I got the footage."

"Wonderful," he said, his voice caustic. "And you also got a bullet."

The rough edge to his words must have startled her, for she turned to look at him in bewilderment. "Why are you so angry? There were plenty of your reporters in El Salvador."

"But they weren't-" He stopped. He didn't know why he was so angry. She was right; he had sent many of his people into danger. Riskwas accepted as part of a reporter's life. Yet there was something so fragile and vulnerable about Ronnie Dalton despite her air of tough bravado that the thought of her in danger made him-

"It's my face, isn't it?" She grimaced. "I've had to fight this cherub's mug all my life. No one wants to take me seriously."

"You're still pretty young. It's not been a very long battle." He touched the scar again, his finger rubbing gently. "This isn't a fresh wound. How old were you when you got the scar?"

"Eighteen." She looked down at his finger. "I wish you wouldn't do that; it makes me feel… funny."

Touching her didn't make him feel funny, it made him horny as hell. He could feel himself hardening and was abruptly conscious of a lemony scent clinging to her, of her slight breasts thrusting beneath the thin sheet.

Crazy. He was probably only minutes away from another encounter with those Middle Eastern thugs and he wanted only to mount the woman and drive into her like a rutting stallion. Hell, maybe not so crazy. It was instinct for every species, when faced with death, to want to procreate. At least there was no doubt he wanted to.

"You're not-" She stopped when she heard the sound of raised voices in the hall. "They're here!"

He moved swiftly over her.