Excerpt of Captive in His Bed by Sandra Marton

Cartagena, Colombia, two weeks earlier:

MATTHEW KNIGHT sat at a table outside the Café Esmerelda, drinking a bottle of Colombian cerveza and wondering what in hell he was doing in Cartagena.

Years ago, in what he sometimes thought of as a different life, he'd left here and vowed he'd never return.

He'd even been in this café before, at this table, probably in the same goddamned chair, his back to the wall and his eyes sweeping the busy square, trying to spot trouble before it bit him in the butt.

Old habits died hard. So did memories that drove you from sleep in the middle of the night.

Better not to think about that now.

It was hot but then, it had always been hot in Cartagena. You came down to it, nothing had changed. The smells, the traffic. Even the crowd jamming the square. Soldados and policia, touristas loaded down with enough jewelry, wallets and cell phones to keep the pickpockets happy...

A man had to watch his ass in Cartagena.

He'd known that the first time. He'd thought he was pretty good at it, too, but if he had been good at it — if he had been —

Damn it, he wasn't going there. The past was dead. So was Alita. Matthew drained the last cold drop of beer from the bottle.

He was here now as a civilian, not as an operative of an agency where black was white and white was black and nothing was ever meant to be what it seemed.

And, at thirty-one, he had the world by the balls. He was in his prime, a hard-bodied six-foot-four-inches with the chiseled bone-structure of his half-Comanche mother and the emerald-green eyes of his Texan father. A razor-thin scar angled across one high cheekbone, a souvenir of a winter night in Moscow when a Chechnyian insurgent had tried to kill him.

Women went crazy for that scar. "It makes you look so dangerous," a little blonde had whispered to him just a few nights ago, and he'd rolled her beneath him and, to her delight, showed her just how dangerous he could be.

And he was rich.

Fantastically rich, and not a penny of it had come from his old man. When your father had spent years ignoring you — except for the times he told you that you'd never amount to anything — that was one hell of a fine achievement.

What had made Matthew rich was Knight, Knight and Knight: Risk Management Specialists, the company he'd founded with his brothers. A year apart in age, they shared the same tough history.

A mother who'd died when they were young. A power-hungry father. Teenage rebellion, a few semesters of college followed by Special Forces and the Agency. Life became one long adrenaline rush. Danger and beautiful women became Matthew's drugs of choice, though the women never lasted.

A warrior never let his emotions control him. "¿Otra cerveza, señor?"

Matthew looked up and nodded. The beer was the only thing he still liked about Cartagena.

Five years ago, the Agency had partnered him with an undercover DEA agent and sent them here to infiltrate a drug cartel. Their cover was that they were lovers, looking for some money to set themselves up. They weren't, but Alita liked to tease him and say if she ever got into men, Matthew would be at the top of the list. And he'd say, yeah, yeah, promises, promises...

Somebody sold them out.

Four armed men snatched them off the street and drove them to a falling-down shack in the jungle. They beat Matthew until he lost consciousness. When he came to, he and Alita were tied to chairs.

Now you will learn how a man gives a woman pleasure, gringo, one of their abductors said, sending all four into gales of laughter.

Alita showed the courage of a lioness. Matthew fought the ropes that bound him but he was helpless to stop what happened.

When it was over, two of the killers dragged Alita's body outside. The third went with them, saying he needed to take a piss after such hard work. One man remained to guard Matt. He grinned, showed a mouthful of brown teeth and said he was going to prepare for the next round of fun.

He was bent over two lines of white powder just as Matthew finally freed his wrists. "Hey, amigo," he said softly.

The man turned and came toward him. In an instant, Matthew had his hand over the man's mouth and his arm around his neck. One quick twist and he was dead.

He killed two of the others with the dead man's weapon but only wounded the fourth. The guy ran into the jungle. Fine, Matthew thought coldly. A jaguar would make a feast of his flesh before the day ended.

He had other things to do.

Like burying Alita.

It was tough, not because it was difficult to scratch a grave in the fecund soil but because his eyes kept blurring with tears.

Standing over her grave, he vowed to avenge her. He drove their abductors'car back to Cartagena, then to Bogotá. The embassy spook-in-residence debriefed him, expressed regret...and told him there would be no search for the killer who'd gotten away. When Matt demanded answers, his boss ordered him back to Washington.

Sheer luck had Cam and Alex in D.C., too. Over a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue, the brothers shared their disillusionment with the Agency.

Risk Management Specialists was born. Based in Dallas, the Knights provided their clients with solutions to difficult problems — solutions that were always moral if not exactly legal.

The Agency, and Colombia, became a memory... Until now. Until Matthew's father asked him to meet an old friend with a problem. As a favor, he said.

Avery, asking a favor? Cam's recent brush with death had changed things. Matthew didn't entirely trust the change. Still, he'd agreed to the meeting. He'd listen to the guy's problem, maybe offer some advice. No way was he going to take on something that would keep him —

A man was coming toward him. Matthew took in the salient features. North American. Early forties. Good physical shape. Undoubtedly military, though he was in civvies.

"Matthew Knight?"

Matthew rose to his feet and held out his hand. "Yes."

"Douglas Hamilton. Sorry I'm late."

"No problem, Mr. Hamilton."

"It's Colonel." Hamilton's hand was soft, but his grip was strong. "I'm with the army." A quick flash of very white teeth. "The United States army. Didn't your father tell you?"

Matt motioned Hamilton into a chair, then signaled the waiter for two more beers.

"My father didn't tell me much of anything except that you and he are old pals."

Another flash of those white teeth. Matthew had seen sharks with similar smiles.

"Actually the friendship was between your father and mine." The waiter put down two icy bottles. Hamilton ignored his. "How is Avery?"

"Fine," Matt said politely, and wondered why he disliked Hamilton on the spot.

"I want to thank you for coming down here so quickly, Mr. Knight."

Matthew didn't answer. You learned more by letting silences grow than by hurrying to fill them.

"Trading on friendship is presumptuous but I needed a way to get to you." Hamilton paused. "You and your company have quite a reputation."

"You could have phoned. We're in the book."

Hamilton shook his head. "I couldn't discuss this on a telephone."

"Discuss what?"

"Straight to business. I like that." Hamilton's smile faded. "It's my fiancée. I'm afraid she's committed an, ah, an indiscretion."

Matthew sighed. Every now and then, somebody figured Knight, Knight and Knight for a detective agency.

"Colonel," he said politely, "I'm afraid you misunderstand what our company does. I'm not a private investigator. I don't deal in personal issues."

"I know that." Hamilton lowered his voice. "What I'm about to tell you must be kept in strictest confidence."

Hamilton's fiancée had slept with another man. That would surely be the so-called "indiscretion." Did Hamilton think he could hire a hit man? A couple of people had come to Risk Management with similar requests, but murder wasn't on their list of services.

"My fiancée became involved in — in something."

"An affair with another man?" The colonel gave a harsh laugh. "I wish it were that simple." He hesitated, leaned closer. "She smuggled drugs."

Matthew blinked. "She smuggled —"

"Cocaine. As you know, diplomatic mail isn't subject to customs searches. Mia used my embassy privileges to send cocaine to the States."

Matthew stared at the man. It was a lot to take in. "Is she an addict?"

"Not as far as I know."

"Then, why did she do it?"

"For the money, I suppose. A lot of money."

"What happened when she was caught?"

"She wasn't. Not by the authorities. Someone tipped me off to what she'd done."

"Someone who owed you."

Hamilton smiled tightly. "You can put it that way, if you like. The point is, I took care of it."

Meaning, the colonel had used his considerable clout to bury the incident.

"I told Mia. I thought she'd be grateful. Instead, she was terrified. She said the people who owned the cocaine would think she'd cheated them and come after her."

"Well, she's probably right."

"I told her she'd be safe under my protection, but she didn't believe me. This was four days ago." Hamilton took a deep breath. "Yesterday, she disappeared."

The word made the hair rise on the nape of Matthew's neck. "Kidnapped?"

"Maybe. Or maybe she ran away. Either way, she's in terrible danger."

Matthew didn't bother disagreeing. "You've gone to the authorities," he said, even though he knew the answer.

"I can't. I'd have to tell them the whole story. Implicate Mia —"

"Implicate yourself."

The colonel didn't respond. He didn't have to. After a minute, Matthew nodded.

"I see your problem, colonel, but I don't understand how you think I can help."

"You can find her."

"That's out of the question."

"You know this country."

Matthew narrowed his eyes. "And you seem to know a lot about me."

Instead of answering, Hamilton took a photograph from his breast pocket and pushed it across the table.

"This is Mia."

Reluctantly Matthew picked up the photo and looked at it. He'd expected the colonel's fiancée to be attractive. A man like this wouldn't have a woman who wasn't, but Mia Palmieri had the kind of face and body that inspired painters and sculptors.

The picture had been taken on the beach on a day windy enough to have tossed her dark curls into a sexy mane and plastered her tank top to her high, rounded breasts. She wore shorts that showed off a pair of endless legs. Her eyes were wide and dark, her cheekbones sharp enough to etch glass, and her mouth...