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were set up,” she began.

      “Big-time,” he replied. He glared at the headline. “If he wins the special election in May, we’re in for some hard times in law enforcement. I can’t prove it, but the prevailing theory is that Mr. Helm is in bed with Charro Mendez. Remember him?”

      She nodded. “The enforcer who worked for the late El Ladrón,” she said. “He was a cousin to the Fuentes brothers.”

      “The very same ones who used to run the distribution hub. He’s now head of the drug cartel over the border in Cotillo. In fact, he’s the mayor of that lovely little drug center.”

      “Oh, dear.”

      “I really wish somebody had furnished Carson with more than three hand grenades,” he muttered.

      “Shame!” she said.

      He chuckled. “Okay. I’ll get the purchase order filled out.” He leaned forward. “Hell of a thing, to have a politician like this in Washington.”

      “He’ll be a junior senator,” she pointed out. “He won’t have an important role in anything. He won’t chair any important committees and he won’t have powerful alliances.”

      “Yet.”

      “Surely, he won’t win the special election,” she ventured.

      He looked at her. “Carlie, remember what I just told you about his rivals for the appointment?”

      She whistled. “Oh, dear,” she said again.

      “Exactly.”

      The phone rang. She excused herself and went out to answer it.

      * * *

      CARSON WAS CONSPICUOUS by his absence for the next few days. Nobody said anything about him, but it was rumored that he was away on some job for Eb Scott. In the meantime, Carlie got her first look at the mysterious Rourke.

      He stopped by her office during her lunch hour one day. He was wearing khakis with a sheepskin coat. He grinned at her where she sat at her desk eating hot soup out of a foam cup.

      “Bad habit,” he said, with a trace of a South African accent. “Eating on the job. You should be having that out of fine china in some exotic restaurant.”

      She was staring at the attractive man wearing an eye patch, with her spoon suspended halfway between the cup and her mouth. “Excuse me?” she faltered.

      “An exotic restaurant,” he repeated.

      “Listen, the only exotic restaurant I know of is the Chinese place over on Madison, and I think their cook is from New York.”

      He chuckled. “It’s the sentiment, you know, that counts.”

      “I’ll take your word for it.” She put down the cup. “How can I help you?”

      “Is the boss in?” he asked.

      She shook her head. “Sorry. He’s at the exotic local café having a thick hamburger and fries with a beautiful ex-motion picture star.”

      “Ah, the lovely Tippy,” he chuckled. “Lucky man, to have a wife who’s both kind and beautiful. The combination is rare.”

      “I’ll say.”

      “So, okay if I leave a message?”

      She pushed a pad and pen across the desk and smiled. “Be my guest.”

      He scribbled a few words and signed with a flourish.

      She glanced at it. “You’re Rourke?”

      He nodded. His one pale brown eye twinkled. “I guess my reputation has preceded me?”

      “Something like that,” she said with a grin.

      “I hope you were told it by your boss and not Carson,” he said.

      She shook her head. “Nobody told me. I overheard my dad talking about you on the telephone.”

      “Your dad?”

      She nodded. “Reverend Jake Blair.”

      His face softened. “You’re his daughter, then.” He nodded. “It came as a shock to know he had a child, let me tell you. Not the sort of guy I ever associated with family.”

      “Why?” she asked, all innocence.

      He saw that innocence and his face closed up. “I spoke out of turn, there.”

      “I know he did other things before he came home,” she said. “I don’t know what they were.”

      “I see.”

      In that instant, his own past seemed to scroll across his hard face, leaving scars that were visible for a few seconds.

      “You need to go to one of those exotic restaurants and have something to cheer you up,” she pointed out.

      He stared at her for a moment and then chuckled. “How about going with me?” he teased.

      She shook her head. “Sorry. I’ve been warned about you.”

      “How so?” he asked, and seemed really interested in her answer.

      She grinned. “I’m not in your league, Mr. Rourke,” she said. “Small-town girl, never been anywhere, never dated much...” He looked puzzled. She gave him her best starstruck expression. “I want to get married and have lots of kids,” she said enthusiastically. “In fact, I’m free today after five...!”

      He glowered at her. “Damn! And I’ve got a meeting at five.” He snapped his fingers. “What a shame!”

      “Just my luck. There, there, I’m sure you’ll find someone else who can’t wait to marry you,” she added.

      “No plans to marry, I’m afraid,” he replied. Then he seemed to get it, all at once. His eyebrows arched. “Are you having me on?”

      She blinked. “Am I having you on what?”

      He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I can’t marry you,” he said. “It’s against my religion.”

      “Which religion would that be?”

      “I’m not sure,” he said. “I’ll have to find one that prohibits marriage...” He burst out laughing.

      She grinned.

      “I get it. I’m a bit slow today. Must stem from missing breakfast.” He shook his head. “Damned weird food you Yanks serve for breakfast, let me tell you. Grits? What the hell is a grit?”

      “If you have to ask, you shouldn’t eat one,” she returned, laughing.

      “I reckon.” He smiled. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Ms. Blair.”

      “Miss,” she said. “I don’t run a company and I’m not planning to start my own business.”

      He blinked. “Come again?”

      She frowned. “How can I come again if I haven’t left?”

      He moved closer to the desk. “Confound it, woman, I need a dictionary to figure out what you’re saying.”

      “You can pin a rose on that,” she agreed. “Are you from England?”

      He glared at her. “I’m South African.”

      “Oh! The Boer Wars. You had a very famous general named Christiaan de Wet. He was a genius at guerilla warfare and was never captured by the British, although his brother, Piet, was.”

      He gaped at her.

      She smiled shyly. “I collect famous generals. Sort of. I have books on famous campaigns. My favorites were American, of course, like General Francis Marion of South Carolina, the soldier they called the ‘Swamp Fox’ because he was so good at escaping

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