Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Working as a barmaid at the Silver Star Saloon in Austin put Sidney Parker’s eidetic memory to good use. She could easily remember the drink orders for this table of twelve. With thumbs hooked in the belt loops of her thigh-high jean skirt, she faced the group of well-dressed young people who were still wearing their security badges from the state capitol.
“What’ll it be?” she asked.
They could have answered in one voice: beer. But the Silver Star was a designer brewery with products ranging from Amber Angel to Zoo Brew. Sidney mentally recorded the order and gave a nod.
“Wait a minute,” said a woman with platinum blond curls. “Change mine from Chantilly Lace to Raspberry Rocket.”
“Got it.”
“Are you sure? You didn’t write anything down.”
Sidney inhaled a breath and repeated their order. “We’re starting over here with two Pale Tigers, then a Blue Moon, a Lucky Ducky, Thor’s Hammer Lite...” She continued around the table and ended with the redhead. “And you’ll be having the Raspberry Rocket.”
The gang applauded, and she swept a bow before heading to the huge central bar to fill her tray.
Keeping her brain occupied wasn’t the greatest benefit of Sidney’s part-time night job. The country-and-western sound track, the conversation and general clamor at the Silver Star provided her with a much-needed distraction during those lonely hours before dawn when tears swamped her pillow.
Behind the bar, Celia Marshall ducked down so the customers couldn’t see her adjust the red gingham uniform shirt to better contain her cleavage. “I swear, I’m about to have a wardrobe malfunction.”
“That’s a problem I don’t have.” Sidney never needed to worry about her cup running over; her breasts were small and well behaved.
“I’d trade my chest in a minute for your mile-long legs.”
“No deal.” Sidney liked being tall. In her cowgirl boots, she was almost six feet. She gave her friend a closer look and noticed the puffiness around her eyes. “Something wrong?”
“Ray and I are fussing at each other again.” Celia shook her head and frowned. “I always feel like a class-A whiner talking to you about man problems. Nobody has worse luck than you.”
“It’s not a contest.” Sidney tucked a strand of her long, straight blond hair behind her ear. “And there’s nothing I can do about my situation. You have options.”
“Any word on Nick?”
“Not yet.” She couldn’t bear to think of Nick Corelli, her fiancé. The mere mention of his name conjured up a mental image of a tall, handsome marine with thick black hair and deep-set eyes the color of fine cognac. Her perfect memory filled in all the blanks as she recalled his wide grin, high cheekbones and strong jawline.
If she allowed herself to think about him, she’d be sobbing in a minute. So she pushed his image aside and asked, “What’s up with you and Ray?”
“It’s all about his stupid hunting plans.”
Sidney listened while she loaded her tray. It was going to take a couple of trips to serve her big table, and the domestic drama of Celia and Ray gave her something else to think about. They were both good people, understandable people with normal relationship issues. Not like her and Nick.
As she stood behind the bar, she spotted two men with impeccable posture and serious expressions enter the saloon. They weren’t in uniform, but they might as well have been marching shoulder to shoulder, wearing their marine dress blues.
She set her tray on the bar. “Celia, you’ll have to take over for me.”
After a quick explanation to the shift manager, she fell into step between the two marines. She knew the drill. They were here to escort her to an interview with a CIA agent or someone high up in Marine Intelligence. She’d taken part in sixteen of these interrogations during the past six months after her fiancé went missing in a South American dictatorship. She always hoped that her marine escorts would be bringing good news.
They never did.
* * *
IN A DULL beige room at the local CIA field offices, Sidney paced back and forth behind the table. The heels of her boots clunked on the tile floor. In her barmaid uniform with the short denim skirt and gingham top, she felt a little ridiculous but not intimidated.
The first time she’d been sequestered in a room like this, her anxiety level was off the charts. The shock of possibly losing Nick had been staggering, and she’d been desperate for information. She’d begged, wept and pleaded.
The only facts she’d been able to pry from the case officer, CIA Special Agent Sean Phillips, were that her fiancé was MIA in the South American country of Tiquanna, his body hadn’t been found and he was probably being held by the rebels. There had been no ransom demands.
That was in early May, six months and four days ago. Nothing much had changed in the details she’d been given, but her attitude had transformed. When she first came here, she was a nervous kitty cat. Now, a lioness.
She was half a tick away from going to Tiquanna herself, marching into the palace compound of dictator Tomas Hurtado and demanding an army to storm the rebel camps. She’d met Hurtado three years ago when he consulted with the oil company she worked for in the engineering department. Along with her boss at Texas Triton, she had actually traveled to the small country that was intent on developing its natural resources.
Sometimes, she wondered if that trip was the reason Nick had been selected for the assignment. When he told her that his platoon was being sent to Tiquanna, she’d given him all the inside information on Hurtado and his stunning wife, Elena.
The door opened and Special Agent Phillips entered. Sidney had heard that CIA agents liked to look anonymous so they could fade into crowds. If true, that meant Phillips was a CIA superstar. He was the most average-looking guy she’d ever met. With his thinning brown hair, brown eyes and average build, he was as plain as a prairie chicken.
“Why am I here?” she asked.
“Nice to see you, Sidney.”
“Do you have news?”
A second person entered the room. Special Agent Victoria Hawthorne was higher in rank than Phillips, always dressed in black and as thin as a greyhound. Her dark hair was slicked back in a tight bun. She pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the table and sat.
