Enemy Infiltration. Carol EricsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
I can guarantee I know a lot more about the entire situation than you do from reading that redacted report they grudgingly shared with you.”
“You are up-to-date. What are we waiting for?” Her feet scrambled beneath her as she slid up the wall. “If you have any information about the attack in Nigeria, I want to hear it.”
“I thought you might.” He rose from the ground, towering over her petite frame. He pulled a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his leather jacket and waved it at her. “Take this.”
“Thank you.” She blew her nose and mopped her face, running a corner of the cloth beneath each eye to clean up her makeup. “I suppose you don’t want it back.”
“You can wash it for me and return it the next time we meet.”
That statement earned him a hard glance from those dark eyes, still sparkling with unshed tears, but he had every intention of seeing Lana Moreno again and again and however many times it took to pick her brain about why she believed there was more to the story than a bunch of Nigerian criminals deciding to attack an embassy outpost—a ridiculous cover story if he ever heard one.
About as ridiculous as the story of Major Rex Denver working with terrorists.
Her quest had to be motivated by more than grief over a brother. People didn’t stage stunts like she just did in front of a congressman’s office based on nothing.
“Sure, I’ll wash it.” Lana stuffed his handkerchief into the pocket of her suede jacket.
“My rental car’s parked around the corner.”
“That’s nice.” She shrugged her shoulders off the wall. “I’ll take my truck over and meet you at the restaurant.”
“Understood. You can’t be too careful…especially you.” Logan reached for his wallet. “Do you want to see my military ID before we go any further?”
She whipped around. “Why’d you say especially me? Come to think of it, why did you say the truth could get me killed?”
“I’ll explain over lunch.” He slipped his ID from his wallet and held it out to her, framed between his thumb at the bottom and two fingers at the top.
Her gaze bounced from the card to his face. “Your hair’s shorter in the picture.”
“Military cut.” He ran a hand over the top of his head, the ends no longer creating a bristle.
“And lighter.” She squinted at the photo on the card. “Almost blond.”
Logan felt that warm awakening in his belly again under Lana’s scrutiny. If this woman could turn him on just looking at his picture, he couldn’t imagine what her touch would do to him. He shivered.
“This—” he tapped the card “—was taken in the summer. My hair tends to get darker in the winter. Any other questions? Do you want me to shed my jacket so you can check out my…weight?”
Lana’s eyes widened for a second, and a pink blush touched her mocha skin. “I’m not questioning you. The ID matches the man. Do you like Mexican?”
He blinked. He liked this Mexican. A lot.
“Food. Do you like Mexican food?” She stomped the dirt from her boots like a filly ready to trot.
“I’m from Texas. What do you think?”
“I’ve eaten Mexican food in Texas before, and if you think that salsa is hot…you’re dreaming.”
His lips twitched into a smile. If California salsa was as hot as Lana Moreno, he’d love it and ask for more. “Then I’m in for a treat because I like it hot and spicy.”
Ignoring his innuendo, she turned her back on him and marched toward the street.
When they turned the corner and reached the front of the strip mall, someone in Congressman Cordova’s office flicked the blinds at the window. Was the congressman afraid Lana would come storming back in?
She hadn’t mentioned what she and Cordova discussed during their private conversation but judging from her tears after the meeting, it wasn’t what she’d wanted.
She must’ve noticed the blinds, as well. Squaring her shoulders, she tossed her head, her dark mane shimmering down her back. “The restaurant’s about ten minutes away.”
She gave him the name and address and then hopped into an old white pickup truck with a flick of her fingers.
Could she reach the pedals of that monster? As if to prove she could, she cranked on the engine and rattled past him.
Logan shook his head as he ducked into the small rental. He’d gotten more than he’d bargained for with Sergeant Gilbert Moreno’s sister. He just hoped they could help each other, and for that, he needed to stay on Ms. Moreno’s good side, which just might involve a little lying or at least some omission of the facts.
He plugged the restaurant’s address into his phone and followed the directions that led him several miles away from the congressman’s office. The buildings and streets on this side of town lacked the spiffy newness of the other area, but the restaurant stood out from the rest. It occupied a Spanish adobe building with a colorful sign out front and a small line at the door.
Logan parked his car and strode toward the entrance, his cowboy boots right at home with the ranchera music blaring from a bar two doors down from the restaurant.
Lana waved from the arched doorway of the restaurant, and he wove through the line of people waiting for a table.
“How long is the wait?”
“I already have a table in the back.”
Logan raised his eyebrows. “Are you a regular here?”
“You could say that.” She turned her head over her shoulder as she led him to their table, a small one that looked like an afterthought, tucked in next to the bar.
Logan reached past her to pull out a chair.
Putting a hand on the back of the chair, she said, “I’m going to wash my hands first.”
“Probably not a bad idea.” He turned his hands over and rubbed a thumb on his dirty palm.
“This way.” She pointed down a short hallway behind the bar, and he followed her to the restrooms, his gaze slipping to her rounded derriere in her tight jeans.
Several minutes later, he made it back to the table, where two glasses of water waited for them, before she did.
Lana strolled from the kitchen, chatting with one of the waitresses, and Logan had a second chance to pull out her chair.
Lana thanked him as she took her seat. “Iced tea for me, Gabby.”
“And for you?”
“Water is fine.” Logan tapped the water glass on the table.
As soon as the waitress left, a busboy showed up with a basket of chips and a small bowl of salsa.
“Is the service always this good, or is it just you?”
“The service is always good here. It’s one of the oldest Mexican restaurants in Greenvale, and one of the most popular—at least with the locals.”
“And you’re a local? Have you always lived in Greenvale?”
“My grandfather was a bracero in the Central Valley, worked the fields on a seasonal basis and then brought over my grandmother and their ten children. My father was third to the youngest.”
“So, you have a big family here.”
“Not here… Salinas. Most of them are still in Salinas. My father came to Greenvale to work with horses on a ranch. When the work became too much for him, he started cooking—here.”
“Is he