Undercover Engagement by Samanthe Beck
Chapter Three
From her vantage point on the stage of the First Baptist Church in Richmond, Eden scanned the congregation of friends, family, and colleagues of the graduates of KDOCJ Basic Class 514. Like all of her classmates, she wore her starched and pressed uniform—in her case, a tan button-front shirt, bright brass badge, tan pants with navy blue stripes down the sides, and a stiff leather duty belt with all its custom snaps and flaps for various tools of the trade, not the least being her department-issued Smith & Wesson M&P 9, with the gold ported barrel Bluelick PD had sprung for to congratulate her on graduating number one in her class. Number one overall, as well as in firearms, patrol procedures, criminal law, vehicle operations, and traffic/DUI, for anyone keeping score.
Her eyes lighted on someone in the front pew who most definitely kept score. All six feet five, bald, brown, brawny inches of the Brick were hard to miss. Half Black, half Hawaiian, wholly badass, the man didn’t blend into a crowd. Beside him—equally attention-catching in her own way—sat slim, blond former prima ballerina Cecilia “CC” Brixton with her flawless alabaster complexion and twinkling blues eyes. Both beamed with pride, at the moment, and Eden automatically notched her spine a little straighter. Slouching on graduation day would not do them proud. Her dad would mention it, just as he’d mentioned her less-than-first-place finishes in physical training, defensive tactics, investigation procedures, and tactical responses to crisis situations. Yes, she’d been number two in each of those, but number two was “chorus,” not “lead,” as her mom frequently pointed out. Her parents loved her—a fact she never doubted—but they set a high bar for their only child. One she’d been jumping for twenty-three years. And their pride in her was equally undeniable, but in that moment, she suddenly had a vision of herself standing at attention for their approval at thirty…forty…fifty? They were never going to declare the challenge met. Was that up to her? Was the setting of one’s own bar a facet of independence she’d failed to realize, much less achieve?
A startling thought, that.
Commander Atwell chose the moment to conclude his remarks at the podium. The audience stood and applauded the graduates. With his congratulations ringing in her ears, she exited stage right, holding her leather-bound, embossed graduation certificate in both hands.
Her father reached her first. He yelled, “Cadet Brixton, report for inspection,” in a drill-sergeant voice before capturing her in his massive arms, lifting her off her feet, and spinning her around the same way he’d done since she was a toddler.
“Dad, stop.” Maybe the Brick didn’t care about making a scene in front of her classmates, instructors, and future employer—they were all underlings to him—but in a room that was already September-in-the-South hot, her cheeks burned as he reduced her from accomplished professional to Daddy’s little officer with one outsize gesture of affection. Swain was somewhere nearby, no doubt enjoying the show.
“Noah, you’re embarrassing her,” her mother scolded in a no less embarrassing effort to rescue her grown-ass, heretofore badass daughter from the grip of paternal pride.
Thankfully, her father set her on her feet. “What’s she got to be embarrassed about?” he questioned while she straightened her uniform. Lifting the leather-bound diploma from her hand, he flipped it open and pointed at the certificate inside. “First in her class! Damn near number one in every category.”
And, oh, there it was…the faintest whisper of where she’d fallen short. Despite her promise to herself not to give him the time of day, her gaze sought out the person who had bested her in just under half their classes. Marcus Swain was nowhere to be seen. He’d been onstage with the rest of the class to accept his honors, but now he’d poofed. Had family and friends already whisked him away? She hadn’t noticed him responding from the stage to anyone in the audience, but then again, when it came to Swain, she made a point of ignoring as much as possible.
Chief Buchanan stepped up to congratulate her and introduce his striking wife, Ginny. The attractive redhead with sharp green eyes and an easy smile also happened to be the mayor of Bluelick, as well as the owner of a local beauty salon. That pretty much covered things as far as introductions went, since before trading a career as a Navy SEAL for a leadership role in the Bluelick PD, Buchanan had served under her father. After a round of non-optional graduation photos with her family, they headed out for the equally non-optional graduation lunch.
As they made their way across the parking lot, she finally spotted Swain. He leaned against the driver’s side of the stripped, lifted black Bronco he’d habitually parked right beside her white Prius in the resident hall parking lot. Who else would drive such an impractical monument to testosterone, fuel inefficiency, and pointless off-roading capabilities?
She hated that kind of thing, almost as much as she hated the way her breath became a little harder to catch when taking in the sight of him in his dark blue dress uniform. In front of him stood an attractive couple who might have stepped out of a Tommy Bahama ad. Clothes, hair, tans, and the glint of sun sparkling off jewelry—everything about them suggested the kind of relaxed wealth that turned life into a permanent vacation.
They were too far away for her to hear actual conversation, but the body language spoke volumes. The man leaned in to give Swain a one-armed hug—one Swain endured with uncharacteristic stiffness—and then turned and presented the woman. She smiled, said something brief, and offered a hand, which he took in the most perfunctory of shakes. The man spoke again, extending an arm enthusiastically toward a silver Tesla Model X parked across the lot. Still talking, he aimed a key fob at the vehicle and popped the locks. The back doors slowly opened from above, so it looked like a giant, gleaming bird of prey. The man put one arm around the woman’s shoulders and gestured for Swain to come along. Swain settled back against his ride, folded his arms across his chest, and shook his head. In the process, he caught sight of her. He froze for a moment, then unhooked the reflective sunglasses dangling from his shirt pocket and slid them on.
She’d never realized how effectively a single, brusque shake of a head could convey absolute refusal. The set of his jaw only underscored the message. But despite being much closer, the man didn’t seem to pick up on it. He just kept talking. Talking and grinning. A familiar grin. Familiar enough to snap things into place for Eden.
The man was obviously a Swain. Probably Marc’s father, although he didn’t look old enough to have a son graduating from high school, much less the academy. The woman was obviously not his mother, going by the introduction and subsequent interaction. He obviously hadn’t expected them to attend the graduation ceremony. And the most obvious thing of all? Their surprise appearance was not a welcome one for Swain.
Judging strictly by the visible evidence, Daddy Swain did pretty well. Maybe Marc didn’t want people knowing he came from money? Whatever the reason, it was clear from every rigid line of his body that his answer to the unexpected invitation remained a hard no. He wanted them gone as quickly and quietly as possible. It was equally clear to Eden that, much like her own father, Swain Sr. wasn’t used to taking no for an answer and didn’t do quick and quiet unless it suited him.
Perhaps compassion for what she perceived as a shared personal burden got the better of her, but without stopping to think, she peeled away from her group and waved to Swain. “Hey. There you are.” The sun bounced off the dark lenses of his glasses as he turned his head her way. His expression remained unreadable. Still, she’d decided to throw him a lifeline. He could take it or leave it. “We’re about to head out. Are you ready?”
For a good five seconds, he simply stood there, staring at her, or past her, or through her. It was hard to tell with the glasses. Then his lips curved into a ghost of a smile. “Almost. Give me one sec.”
“Is this one of your classmates?” the older man asked, coming closer. Eden heard a New Orleans clip in his southern accent.
“I’m one of her classmates,” Swain said without a hint of irony. “Cadet Brixton set the curve. The rest of us just tried to keep up.”
“Really?” He raised his brows as if impressed. “Congratulations. I gotta say, law enforcement officers have gotten a lot prettier since the last time I had me a ticket.”
“Gosh, thanks. Were it not for the personal presentation portion of the training, who knows how I would have made the grade?” Extending her hand, she added, “You must be Marc’s father.”
Beside her, Swain laughed in a way that acknowledged the insult. “Eden Brixton, Gerome Swain.”
“Romy,” his father corrected, shaking her hand. “Pleasure to meet you. This lovely lady”—he turned to the willowy brunette with artful blond highlights—“is my fiancée, Suzannah.”
At close range, Eden could see that the woman, though meticulously maintained, was closer to sixty than thirty. The paraffin-soft hand she shook boasted a sapphire cocktail ring large enough to choke a horse, plus at least three carats, total weight, in stacked diamond bands. They exchanged “Nice to meet you”s before Romy explained, “Suzie and I came off an absolutely amazing trip to this fantastic place she keeps in Positano, and I find out my only child is graduating from the police academy. Naturally, we jumped in the car and hightailed it up here to congratulate him. I promised my betrothed lunch at Cardinal Hill,” he went on, naming one of the area’s most exclusive country clubs. “Now I’m working on convincing Marc to let us make it a party. Maybe you’d join us as well, Eden?”
“I’d love to, but I can’t. Neither of us can, actually.” She glanced at Swain, then over to where her parents stood in the shade of a red maple, chatting with Shaun and Ginny. “We have a prior commitment. It was really nice to meet you, though.”
“Same,” Romy responded smoothly and offered up a faster, slicker version of the smile he’d passed along to his son. To Marc, he said, “Call me when you get settled.” He eased his arm around his fiancée’s shoulders again. “Suzie and I are about to close on a gorgeous little cottage just off Lakeshore Drive. We’ll have you down for a long weekend, so we can spend some time together before the wedding. I’m sure we can find you a comfy spot in one of the eight bedrooms.”
Marc made a very noncommittal sound. “The County Sheriff’s Department has dibs on my time for the next little while. Good luck with the close. Y’all should have a good real estate lawyer look the deal over. My criminal investigations class detailed all kinds of fraud a lowlife scum can commit under the guise of a legitimate transaction.”
Suzie nudged Romy. “That’s exactly what Annabeth said! And she knows a thing or two about real estate.”
Romy shot his son an odd look before turning Suzie toward their car. As they walked away, he leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Honey, Annabeth is a tired old busybody, fresh off a bitter divorce, mad about having to cut back on her lifestyle. You’re younger, prettier, and all around smarter with your assets. She’s so jealous of you right now, she can’t see straight.”
Suzie giggled. “Hush, you. I’m liable to get a swelled head. Nobody’s ever called me smart. Not even Myron, God rest his soul.”
Eden glanced over at Swain, who continued staring straight ahead. “So, that’s your dad and your new mommy?”
“Hush, you,” he parroted but turned and offered her a pained smile. “Thanks.” As the Tesla pulled out of the lot, he added, “I owe you one.”
“You owe me several, starting with when I didn’t drop-kick your ass for tossing out that ridiculous nickname.” She started walking across the lot. Swain fell into step beside her.
“Everyone gets a nickname, and nobody picks their own, so that doesn’t count. Nor does anything else you’re thinking of,” he said before she could mention the pat-down exercise or the way he’d tried to cut her out of the joint undercover operation in the commander’s office two weeks ago. “Take your one, choux, and let’s not argue.”
“Fine.” She stopped in the middle of the lot, turned to look at him, and crossed her arms. “Back out of the joint op. You don’t think it will work with both of us, so withdraw and let me do it on my own.”
“Choose something else. That one’s beyond my control. I’ve already tried.”
That stung. It stung to realize he disliked their chances of success so much he’d gone to Malone on his own and asked for a pass. “You know what, Swain? I grew up on a steady diet of military tactics. I graduated summa cum laude from Vanderbilt with a degree in criminology, and…oh yeah…I did pretty well here at the academy. Practically everyone who knows me thinks I was born to be a cop. Except you. Why?”
Despite the shield of the sunglasses, he looked genuinely surprised. “I never said you wouldn’t make a great cop. I’m sure they’ll be pinning commendations on you repeatedly as you rise all the way up the chain of command. You’ll serve with honor and dedication. You’ll be an asset to any department you join.”
Now it was her turn to be surprised. “Well, thanks. I guess. But if you really feel that way, why don’t you think I can hold up my end of this joint assignment?”
He took his sunglasses off and hung them from his shirt pocket. The distracting grin made an encore appearance, but his eyes remained serious. “You don’t have a deceptive bone in that first-class body of yours. You say what you think, but even when you hold your tongue, your feelings show. Your cheeks turn the prettiest shade of pink when you’re sparked up. Those big, hazel eyes go to green. And your mouth? Your lips do that thing they’re doing right now. I bet you think pressing them together like that says ‘Don’t fuck with me,’ but I’ll tell you a little secret, choux.” He leaned so close she felt his breath on her ear. Tiny hairs along her neck stood at attention. “It makes me want to fuck with you. Badly.”
He backed off so abruptly she nearly jolted. “I’d play poker against you any day, but no, you wouldn’t have been my first choice of partner to go into a situation where success hinges on our ability to deceive people.” The corner of his mouth tipped up another notch—a red flag for her temper. “Lucky for you, I’ve come ’round to realizing I’m a skilled enough bullshit artist to cover for both of us.”
“What you are, Swain, is full of shit.” Wasn’t he? When the job required playing a role, she would play it convincingly. “Just because I didn’t pretend to like you during training doesn’t mean I can’t pretend to like you, cooyon. I can pretend just fine, when the need arises.”
His lips stretched into the full grin. The cocky-ass grin that worked her last nerve and a few too many of her hormones. Her temper slid out of her control like a nylon rope through a sweaty fist. With a little grrr of warning, she gripped the front of his shirt, yanked him toward her, lifted onto her toes, and sealed her lips to his.
He groaned—a short, reactive sound of shock she found insanely satisfying. Then he groaned again—longer and rawer. The sound vibrated over her lips and reverberated inside her, working down to a place perilously low in her stomach. Instinct overran temper and caution. She opened her mouth to the sensations, delved with her tongue to chase them. Her fingers sank into the short hair at the nape of his neck and held fast.
The move provoked a low growl from him. A big hand splayed across her back. A strong arm hauled her up against a solid expanse of chest. Though she braced for an onslaught, he drew her in with unnerving gentleness, his tongue seducing hers with luxurious strokes, his lips exerting mind-melting suction to coax her deeper. She held onto his biceps for balance and inched higher onto her toes as he slowly savored her tongue from base to tip. Warm breath mingled with hers when their mouths slid apart. She opened her eyes and stared into blue so intense it deepened to black at the perimeter of his irises.
From somewhere far away, she heard the sound of applause and catcalls. Their classmates and instructors, eyewitnesses to her little demonstration of deceptive abilities. Swain kept his arm locked around her, holding her close, his eyes searching her face. Suddenly afraid of what they might see, she brought her chin up. “I think I proved my point.”
He took his time releasing her. She let him because she refused to look anxious. “That was a damn good point, choux. Any time you want to prove it some more, I’m available.”
“You couldn’t handle it, Swain.” With that, she pivoted and walked across the lot toward—Jeezus, Eden—her parents. Oh, and her boss. Outwardly, she kept her strides even and her demeanor calm. But inside? Inside she knew the real lesson learned had been on her part. She still distrusted smug, self-satisfied Marcus Swain, but he was 100 percent correct about her acting ability. It wasn’t that good. The chemistry that exploded whenever her mouth met his was real. All too real.
“Ready?” she asked when she reached the rented Chrysler Pacifica where her parents waited to drive them to the restaurant Shaun and Ginny had recommended for their celebratory lunch.
Her father cocked one dark eyebrow at her from over the roof of the vehicle. “Sure you don’t want to invite your friend to join us?”
She stepped up into the open rear seating area of the Pacifica and pressed the button to slide the door shut.
“I’m sure.”