“HEY, SWEETIE, WOULD you like a drink?”

      Rip blinked up at the waitress standing beside him with a tray in her hands. For a full thirty seconds he couldn’t remember where he was. He’d done it again. The shrinks he’d seen in the past had said part of post-traumatic stress disorder was flashbacks to events that had an indelible impact on him.

      “Excuse me?” he said, buying time for his mind to reconnect with his surroundings.

      “Would you like a drink?” the waitress repeated.

      He shook his head. “No, thank you.”

      The woman moved away to the next customer in the casino.

      Rip stared around at row after row of brightly lit slot machines, pinging, ringing or plinking in the darkness. For a long moment he wondered how the hell he’d gone from a hot, humid, bug-and snake-infested jungle to an upscale casino in Mississippi.

      Then he remembered all the events that had led up to this meeting. All that had happened since getting back from Honduras.

      He stared around the dimly lit room.

       What’s keeping him?

      The past six weeks since their failed mission had been a blur. Rip had been back on duty with his team, while covertly researching the odd medallion the DEA agent had shoved into his hand.

      The medallion had been a clever disguise for an electronic storage device on which were stored hundreds of photos of the terrorist training camp and crates of American-made weapons and ammunition disguised as World Health Organization donations.

      And based on the botched mission in Honduras, someone higher up didn’t want the agent or anyone else exposing who was providing the weapons from the States. How else could a sniper have known exactly when and where they would be unless someone had tipped them off?

      Rip had pilfered a copy of the after-action report, developed the pictures and was in the process of piecing things together when an assassin started stalking him. He’d found out that details of their mission had been leaked. Not only after its failure, but before it had even been launched.

      Someone, possibly in a high-ranking political position, wanted that agent dead and had sent the SEALs in to get him out of the village and into the open so a sniper could take him out. It was the only answer he could come up with given the limited information he had.

      Rip was in hiding, officially missing and presumed dead. The Navy still thought he’d been swallowed by the Pearl River after being shot during a live-fire training mission with Navy SEALs Special Boat Team 22. If not for the help of former SEAL James “Cowboy” Monahan and Rip’s old friend FBI Agent Melissa Bradley, Rip might not still be alive. The two had persevered, and searched the river until they found him holed up in a shack in the Mississippi bayou.

      Lucky me. Rip snorted.

      Now, after spending the past three weeks recovering from his gunshot wound, Rip was finally able to pursue his self-appointed mission.

      He’d gotten his commander and the few members of his team who’d been involved in his rescue to keep his survival on the down low until he could find the persons responsible for the death of the undercover DEA agent.

      He couldn’t engage his team in this mission without disclosing to the world and to whoever was responsible for the assassination of the agent that the Navy’s Chief Petty Officer Cord Schafer was alive and well. In order to keep from becoming a target again, it was best if he remained “dead” until he resolved the situation.

      Only, he knew he couldn’t do it on his own. He needed a partner, a cover and fake passports to get him down to Honduras without raising red flags to the terrorist organization or the traitorous Americans supplying them with weapons.

      Sitting in a crowded casino in Biloxi, Mississippi, with a baseball cap pulled low over his brow, he waited for his contact, not knowing who he was or what he looked like, only that Cowboy’s new boss, billionaire Hank Derringer, was sending one of his operatives from Covert Cowboys, Inc.

      Rip glanced up every time a man slowed near the slot machine he was only halfheartedly playing. He looked for a man in a cowboy hat and boots, but most of the men in the place were hatless, gray-haired and wearing comfortable loafers.

      Glancing at his watch once again, he started getting nervous. He hadn’t been out in public since the mercenary had shot him. Feeling exposed, he sat at the designated position in the selected casino, at the exact time he was supposed to meet his contact.

      Where the hell was his cowboy?

      Shoving another token into the machine, he punched the spin button without caring what pictures he’d land on. He was surprised when three cherries lined up on the screen and tokens plinked into the tray below.

      Soft, slender hands slid over his shoulders and down the front of his chest, and a sultry voice whispered in his ear, “Getting lucky, sweetheart?”

      Nerves stretched to the breaking point, Rip fought the urge to grab the arm, spin around and slam the person to the floor. Instead, he spun on the stool in such a way he had the woman sitting across his lap before she knew his intentions.

      Her eyes widened briefly and then narrowed. “Wanna take your winnings and buy me a drink?” She had long dark brown hair, green eyes and a lean, athletic figure dressed in a red cotton sundress that screamed tourist.

      Though he gave the appearance of being happy to see her, his hand on her wrist was tight. She wouldn’t get away easily or without raising a ruckus. He smiled at her and, through his teeth, he demanded, “Who the hell are you?”

      She smiled back at him, cupped his face with her other hand and patted his cheek, not so gently. “I’m your contact, so play nice and pretend you’re happy to see me.”

      For a brief moment he frowned.

      She laughed out loud. “If that’s happy, you’re a terrible actor. Make like we’re a couple.”

      “Since I didn’t get the memo, I’m a little slow on the uptake. Let me set the stage.” Getting past the shock of his contact’s gender, Rip had to admit she was a lot prettier than any cowboy he might have expected. He wrapped his arm around her waist, then slid his hand up into her dark brown hair and pressed the back of her neck, angling her face toward his.

      “What are you doing?” she said, her eyes widening.

      “I would think it was obvious. I’m showing you how happy I am to see you.” Then he captured her mouth in a deep, lip-crushing kiss.

      Apparently she was so shocked that her mouth opened. Rip slid his tongue in and caressed the length of hers.

      At first her hands, trapped between them, pressed against his chest. But after a moment or two, her fingers curled into his shirt and she kissed him back.

      When