Undercover Engagement by Samanthe Beck

Chapter Eleven

Eden sashayed to the table, crippling him all the more with the view of how well her ass filled out those cock-teasing cutoffs. He followed, then excused himself to hit the head because Eden had kept it so real, he now had to rid himself of his ruined boxers.

Commando but only marginally more comfortable, he returned to their booth to find Lou Ann and Junior gone. Kenny and Dobie sat across from each other, talking to Eden. She stood, hands braced on the table, bouncing her butt to the beat of the jukebox, oblivious to the attention that garnered from half the guys in the room. Meanwhile, their targets hung on her every word and the view down her shirt. All part of the plan, he knew, but just now, it pissed him off.

Maybe he needed to remind her they were, as he’d already pointed out, grown men, not puppy dogs. She ought to keep her guard up, because even puppies occasionally bit. Same went for the other fuckers in the bar—a bunch of Arlo types—sitting around enjoying the scenery she provided.

Grown-ass men coveting my fiancée.

Before he could check himself on that inappropriate thought, the primitive part of him that formed it imagined striding up, bending her over the table, ripping those shorts down, and fucking her in front of the whole damn bar until she came with cries of, “I’m yours, Swain. All yours. Always yours.” Which she wasn’t, and if he kept thinking those kinds of thoughts, he was going to ruin more than a pair of Jockeys.

Whether protective or territorial, he couldn’t stop himself from coming up behind her, hooking his arm around her middle, and pulling her to him. She stiffened, almost invisibly, before relaxing against him, but it let him guess she felt his hard-on wedged along the seam of her shorts. “Y’all ready to go?” Hell, even his voice was a gravelly rumble.

“Yeah. Let’s head.” Kenny slid out of the booth. “Jeb’s giving us the stink eye. Uh-oh. He’s coming over.”

Swain turned to confirm. Sure enough, the heir apparent to the Rawley’s empire ambled toward them.

“Hey, Jeb.” Dobie got out of the booth.

“Two nights in a row, guys? When did this suddenly become your favorite place?” Although the dark-haired man smiled casually enough, it didn’t reach his eyes. Swain picked up an undercurrent of “Move along” coming from the bartender.

“We were just leaving,” Dobie said. “We settled our tab with Callie.”

“Ah. Well, don’t let me keep you.” He turned his attention to them…well, to Eden…and his smile stretched to full-blown shit-eating. “How ’bout y’all? Can I get you another round?”

“Thanks, but no,” Eden replied. “We’re heading out, too.”

Swain couldn’t see her face, but he heard the smile in her voice. Jesus, he’d created a monster. He tightened his arm around her. Could she dial the flirt factor down a degree? Rawley was not their target.

“Hope you’ll come back soon,” Jeb said smoothly. “You’re new in town? I saw you here last night.”

“Yes.” Eden craned her neck around and looked up at him—yeah, there was the soft smile designed to bring a man to his knees—and then back to Jeb. “I just got here yesterday. I’m Eden, and this is—”

“Michael Swain,” he supplied and shook the other man’s hand, gripping a little tighter than strictly necessary. “Her fiancé.”

“Nice to meet you both,” he said, looking exclusively at Eden. The asshole gave her a long, slow once-over. “Really nice. Don’t be a stranger, okay? Every Tuesday is ladies’ night. Since you’re new to town, your first drink is on me.”

“Aw. That is so sweet of you. I swear, Swain, everyone here is so friendly.”

If the guy got any friendlier, Swain was going to punch him in the teeth. He shifted so he stood beside Eden, his arm around her waist, hand resting low on her hip. “You bring out the friendly in people, choux.” He could be sweet, too. “Nice to meet you, man,” he tossed to Jeb as he led Eden away. “C’mon, boys. Time to take this party down the road.”

In the parking lot, they spent a couple minutes on logistics, and then Kenny and Dobie peeled off and headed to Kenny’s car. They planned to make a pit stop before coming over to the house. He waited until Eden settled herself in the passenger seat before starting the Bronco. “That went really well,” she said.

“Hmm.” Her skin still glowed. Whatever she’d used caught the parking-lot lights and turned her to a shimmering, ethereal enticement.

She looked over at him. “What’s hmm?”

He held his tongue until they were on the road. “You might want to hold back a bit on the friendly.”

Her laugh sounded intimate in the dark car. “Was I too friendly with you, Swain?”

“Not with me.” Even he heard the irritation in the quick words. He took a stabilizing breath. “Be as friendly as you like with me. You’re supposed to be friendly with me. We’re engaged. Stop being so damn friendly with every other man in the place. You don’t need to flash your tits and shake your ass at the whole bar. Especially if I’m not close by.”

He heard her shift in her seat and felt, without even looking over, the heat of her stare searing his profile. “Swain, I have tits. I have an ass. Thanks to this cover Buchanan and Malone cooked up, I get to dress like some kind of…of…Hazzard County hooker, so they’re pretty well on display no matter what I do. And that’s the whole point of this”—she gestured at herself—“isn’t it? According to you, I’m”—she used her fingers to put air quotes around the words—“‘the bait,’ right?”

All valid arguments, but as a guy, he knew what he was talking about. “I’m just saying…”

“Right?” she prompted again.

“Yes. Okay, fine.” Thank God it was dark, because he felt heat creeping up his neck. “You’re the bait, but—”

“But nothing.” She slashed a hand through the space between them. “You were right about the wardrobe. I concede that. You were right. I was wrong. I apologize for being a guindée about it. I’m supposed to attract attention. These clothes and the tits and ass they’re semi-covering help accomplish that. Am I leaning into it some? Yes. Of course I am. I’m supposed to come across as the kind of girl who doesn’t want her fiancée to feel too comfortable about his chances of closing the deal. I’m supposed to be making you work for it—the dress, the wedding, the honeymoon in Jamaica.”

Shit. He had to backpedal before he made a bigger fool of himself than he’d already managed. “We’re honeymooning in Jamaica?”

“I mentioned it to Lou Ann and Junior. I thought it was a good choice because it’s expensive, and also…” She mimed smoking a joint. “Jamaica.”

“It’s perfect. Look”—he glanced at her, relieved to see she wasn’t staring at him like he’d lost his mind—“you did an amazing job tonight, but just keep in mind that you’re in a pub. People are getting their drink on all around. Maybe I go to the bar, or to the bathroom, or to shoot pool, and some cowboy with a few too many beers in him gets the idea you’re sending him a message with the smile, the laugh, and yeah, the tits and the ass. He might decide to take you up on it. I can’t protect you if I’m not close by.”

There. Point made. She just needed to be a little more—

“Protect me? In case you’ve forgotten, cooyon, I’m a fully trained law enforcement officer. If some cowboy with a few too many beers in him gets the idea I’m sending him a message and decides to take me up on it, I will drop him like a bag of cement. I don’t need your protection.”

Dammit. He’d walked into that one. “I know you’re fully trained, choux, but—”

“No. No buts, or you’re going to get a personal demonstration of how fully trained I am the minute you step out of this car.”

“Hey, I’m not saying you’re not capable of defending yourself, but can we agree it would be better if it didn’t come to that?”

“Agreed. Same goes for you, though.”

He nodded. “I’ve talked my way out of more tight fixes than I’ve fought my way out of, and I’d just as soon keep that going. Can we also agree that, as partners, whatever moves we make, we should be making together?”

“Ideally, yes.”

Foot heavy on the gas, he sent the Bronco scrambling up the driveway. It pitched to a stop by the porch. “Great. So, here’s what I think I’m asking”—not saying, asking, because he really didn’t want to get his ass kicked tonight—“when one of us isn’t around, the other should be in, like, a holding pattern. Not doing any fancy solo flying, just kind of keeping things level.”

“That sounds reasonable.”

“Well, choux”—he tried a grin on her—“I’m nothing if not reasonable.”

She laughed. “Swain, you are many things, but reasonable isn’t even in the top five.”

With that, she swung out of the Bronco and walked to the porch. He hung back, watching her long legs take the steps, watching the porch light turn her skimpy top into a shadow sheet and the body beneath into a silhouette of mouthwatering perfection. The show ended when she stepped through the door, and his lungs emptied on a slow, resigned breath.

Nope. When it came to Eden Brixton, reasonable wasn’t anywhere near the top five.

…

Eden stepped out onto the porch, barefoot, when she heard the Honda come up the driveway. She left the door open behind her so the music from the TV could carry but let the screen door slam shut to keep out the bugs. Swain looked up from where he crouched, getting a fire going in the round, iron pit. “Partners,” she said by way of explanation and put a bucket full of ice and longnecks on the cement between two of the four low-slung Adirondack chairs around the pit before taking a seat. She reached into the bucket, then reached over and handed him a beer before taking one for herself. “I wouldn’t want you to have to maintain a holding pattern while you wait for me.”

“Partners,” he echoed and tapped his beer to hers before the dual slams of the Honda doors disturbed the quiet night.

She didn’t know exactly what had gotten into him with the whole ‘no flying solo’ business, but she sensed they’d reached equilibrium finally. Or equal footing, given that it applied to both of them. They were working together. They were on the same page. It felt like a victory. Silently toasting herself with a sip of beer, she watched Kenny and Dobie approach.

“Hey, boys.” Swain stood and held his arms wide to encompass the porch, with its vine-twined posts and leafy overhang. “Welcome to the garden of Eden. Grab a beer and take a seat.

Dobie sat in the chair to her left. “Hey.” He settled in and looked around. “This is nice.”

Swain took the chair opposite her. The flickering fire between them dappled copper over his skin and into his hair. “See, choux? I told you. It’s nice.”

Kenny took the chair to her right. She handed him a beer from the bucket. “Not nice enough for our wedding.”

“Ah, Jesus. Are we back to that?” Swain thumped Dobie’s shoulder. “We have guests. What would you like to discuss, man? Sports. Current events?”

“Uh…” He pointed at Kenny. “His mom is in charge of events at the Riverview Inn. She can probably work you a deal on the reception. Kenny can mention we owe you a favor.”

Swain stared at Dobie, then grinned and wagged a finger in her direction. “She got to you, didn’t she?”

Dobie nodded. “Yep.”

“Oh, please.” She wet her fingers in the ice bucket and flicked drops at Swain. “I asked him to mention it. That’s all. Just think about it, okay?”

He rolled his eyes. “Okay.”

She smiled at him. Batted her eyes. “And maybe sometime next week we could go look at the Inn?”

That earned her a sigh. “Okay.”

“And while we’re there, maybe we could talk to Ms. Whelan?”

Swain got up, stepped around Kenny, and leaned down to cover her mouth with his. His hand slid into her hair. After a thorough kiss, he eased back. “Okay, ma chouchoute.”

Her lips tingled. Maybe her body meant it as a warning, but duty called. She pushed her luck. “And see how much—”

He pressed his mouth to hers again, quick and firm. “Okay.” And again. “Okay.” And again. “Okay.” The guys started laughing at his method of shutting her up.

She shoved him away but didn’t bother hiding her smile. “Get off me, cooyon. We have guests.” Surely the future Mrs. Swain could take a joke, even when it was on her? Plus, she’d gotten what she wanted. For Kenny, she brightened her smile and said, “If you could mention to your mother that we’ll be coming by to see her next Wednesday around four, I’d really appreciate it.”

“No problem. She’ll take good care of you.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Yeah. Thanks, man,” Swain said, sounding not at all thankful.

Dobie cleared his throat. “I know all this wedding stuff stresses people out, so Kenny and I brought along a little guaranteed stress reliever.” He reached into the front pocket of his loose jeans and pulled out a baggie containing a tightly rolled joint. “If you’re interested?”

“Oh, dude.” Swain hung his head. “She hates when I partake. Can’t stand the smell.”

What? Where was that on their page? But she went with it, sort of. “He makes me sound like such a buzzkill. I’m allergic to the smoke. But if you guys want to—”

“Not here,” Swain interrupted. “She’s downplaying things, ’cause you guys have been cool to us, but I’ll have to listen to her complain all night if it smells like a skunk died under our porch.” He winked at Dobie. “There’s other things I’d like her to do with her mouth tonight, instead of chew my ass.”

Dobie and Kenny both laughed at that. Lovely. She stood. “Where are we going, then?”

Swain stood as well. “You stay here, choux. Keep those allergies under control.” Motioning to Kenny and Dobie, he said, “C’mon, boys. Follow me.”

She watched, too stunned to say a word, as Swain led them off the porch and around the back of the house by the glow of his cell phone flashlight.

God dammit. She stamped a bare foot on the concrete. Her so-called partner had fed her a pile of “no flying solo” bullshit to con her into thinking they were a team of equals, then maneuvered her right onto the sidelines while he flew off, solo, to pump their targets for key information.

“Michael Swain, don’t you dare take a single puff,” she shouted into the night, “or you can just sleep out there in the woods.”

Stuck with the housekeeping, she poured the ice onto the fire, gathered up the beers, and went inside. Fiddling around in the kitchen killed a little time, but her level of annoyance increased with every minute that ticked by without Swain returning. How long did it take to stand around while two guys shared a joint? More importantly, was this his idea of a partnership? She’d baited the damn hook in less than two days, but oh, she could practically hear him in her head. Nice job attracting the minnows, choux. Now sit tight, and I’ll reel in the big catch.

Her role was clearly over for the night. She stalked to the bathroom, soaked a cotton ball with cleanser, and removed a shit ton of makeup with brisk, jerky movements. If he thought he was going to do the meet with Kenny and Dobie’s source while she sat at home, he had another think coming.

But, whatever. It’s not like she shouldn’t have seen this coming. She spit toothpaste into the sink, followed up with a swish of mouthwash. He was a natural born con man, by his own admission. Spitting the mouthwash into the sink, she acknowledged he’d once again proved it.

Still no Swain. Since he was apparently deep into his solo op, she went to the bedroom and changed into one of the nighties Ginny had brought—a hot pink tank-and-short set covered with big white polka-dots—and threw the short white robe over it. She considered taking the bed but decided violating her own schedule basically gave a point to him. Instead, she grabbed a pillow and took herself out to the sectional to stare at the news on TV and stew. She couldn’t even text Buchanan an update on the evening, since she didn’t have all the information.

At twelve thirty, Swain swung through the screen door, stopped short when he saw her on the couch, and squinted at her. “Do you happen to have a sleeping bag, choux?”

“You guys are camping? Now?”

He shook his head and, to her surprise, swayed on his feet a bit. “Uh-uh. But I am fucked up beyond belief just from standing out there with them. No way am I letting them drive home.”

Fan-fucking-tastic. Three stoned men to deal with. She dragged a hand through her hair. “They can sleep in the little room upstairs. It’s hotter than hell, but—”

“No way am I letting them sleep inside this house.” He squinted at her again. “Not a chance. I keep an all-weather roll in the Bronco. D’ya have anything?”

On a long-suffering sigh, she stood. “Yeah, I keep a blanket in the Prius.” A couple steps brought her to the kitchen drawer where she stashed her keys. “I’ll get it.”

Despite his bloodshot eyes, quick fingers divested her of the keys. “I’ll get it, then get them squared away out back.” He leaned in, lost his bearings a little bit, and bumped her. “You don’t need to set foot outside looking like that.” The knuckles of the hand curled around her keys ran down the front of her robe. “Guess you already know this, ma chouchoute, but you are sexy as fuck.”

“Okay, smooth talker, give me my keys. I’m the less impaired one here. By a long shot,” she added, and braced a hand on his chest to back him up. “It would be better for you to let me handle it, as you’re not thinking straight. That makes you a little risky, right now, don’t you think?”

“Nah. Not as risky as this.” He touched a finger to the small, white satin bow at the scooped neckline of her sleep tank. For a suspended moment, she simply stared at his fingertip resting above her cleavage, moving with the rise and fall of her chest. Before she could think of a reply, he swung away and headed to the door. Once there, he paused. “That blanket of yours—it’s not from Vandy, or the academy, or anywhere else that would be hard to explain?”

Maybe he wasn’t so impaired, after all, but then again, neither was she. “It’s a plain, old blanket.”

“Awesome. Back in a flash.”

She returned to the sofa and settled into the lounge end. “A flash” turned out to be seven minutes, according to her phone, but at last he slammed into the house, held up two fingers at her, and staggered to the bathroom. A couple minutes later, he reappeared, stumbled over to the sectional, and dropped onto it, facedown, his head inches from her hip. He smelled of soap and toothpaste. “Fuck me. That stuff they’re smokin’ is not the same shit we smoked in high school.”

“We? Speak for yourself.” She dug the remote out of the cushion and clicked the TV off.

He raised his head to eye her. “Never snuck a toke between AP Calculus and Honors English?”

“Not even once.”

“Well”—he laid his head down on the sofa again, facing the back—“take my word. Their shit is strong. I have a contact high that won’t quit.”

“Learn anything?”

“Yeah. Their shit is strong. I feel like we’ve already had this conversation. I feel like we had it hours ago. Have we been talkin’ for hours, choux?”

She rolled her eyes. “Go to bed, Swain. Sleep it off.”

“Good right here,” he mumbled.

“It’s my night on the couch.”

He mumbled again—words that might have been, “Big-ass couch. Share.”

“Share? Not a chance, partner. I’m not even sure you know the meaning of the word.”

“Mmm.”

It was a big-ass couch, but she didn’t intend to share it with him. Especially not when she found something strangely appealing about big, cocky Marcus Swain crashed out on the cushions, all sleepy and slurry. That got her on her feet. Especially, especially not when she should be kicking his ass for acing her out of the action tonight. Although—she looked down at him—all things considered, maybe she’d been the lucky one. Sacrificing her pillow to the cause, she eased it under his head, then took another moment to slide his boots off his feet and put them under the end table.

“’Night, Swain,” she whispered as she clicked the table lamp off.

A soft snore served as his reply.

Conscience clear on taking an unscheduled night in the bed, she retreated to the bedroom, fully prepared to snooze like a baby on the one item of furniture in the house actually designed for sleep. Consequently, it came as a shock, hours later, when something pitched her out of a dream. Sitting up, staring around the dark bedroom, she listened. Her phone sat on the nightstand. A tap of her finger, and the screen read two thirty. The house sounded quiet as a tomb, but something—

A low moan carried from the living room.

Swain?

She crept out of bed, went toward the door, and halted as he moaned again. This time, it took the shape of a word. “Stop.”

Shit. Shit. Was someone in the house? As quickly as possible, she retreated to the closet and searched for the metal lockbox stowed on the top shelf. Another, louder moan came from the living room. “Can’t…”

Every instinct inside her urged her to hurry. Her hands shook as she entered the combination but steadied as she pulled out her 9 mm. The weight of it calmed her. Focused her. Quietly, quietly, she inserted a magazine, flicked off the safety, and edged her way into the hall.

Swain moaned from the other room. She hugged the wall, moving fast, blinking to adjust her eyes to the dark. She feinted around the corner, gun aimed at the couch, and froze. Swain lay there, alone, tossing restlessly as if in a fight with an invisible assailant. Moonlight filtering through the window gleamed like silver on his skin. Lots of skin. Sometime during the night, he’d shed his T-shirt and jeans. He’d shed…everything.

“Can’t breathe. Jesus. Fuckers.”

“Swain.” She said his name loudly as she approached the couch. “Swain,” she repeated and touched his shoulder.

He threw an arm wide, knocking her gun out of her hand. It hit the floor with a thud, and she endured a sickening nightmare of it discharging, shooting one or both of them, so they bled out in the dark. “Swain!”

This time, she bent over him and shook him by both shoulders. He bolted upright with the gasp of a man deprived of breath for too long and headbutted her. While stars exploded in front of her eyes, big fists grabbed her wrists in a crushing grip. The world spun out of orbit, and then she landed on her back on the sofa. Two hundred pounds of etched muscles and trembling fury held her down.

“It’s Eden. Marc.” She pried her eyes open, and his shadowed face swam into focus. His eyes glinted in the watery moonlight, open but not really seeing. Adrenaline shook his frame. “It’s Eden,” she said again. “You had a dream. A bad dream.”

One blink. Two. His body stilled.

“Eden?”