Undercover Engagement by Samanthe Beck

Chapter Four

“Not a bad first week’s work, noob.”

Swain tossed another armload of old roof shingles toward the dumpster below. As debris rained into the metal bin, he straightened and clapped dust off his work gloves. Dirty, sweaty, back-breaking work was what it was, but he offered his foreman, Junior Tillman, a laugh before lifting the brim of his battered Saints ball cap and letting the stingy breeze cool his brow. Junior, mildly sunburned across his short nose and wide cheeks, lifted his Century Construction cap in a similar attempt to catch the breeze. “Noob? I’ve been tearing off roofs and putting ’em on since I was fifteen.” His work experience would support that, if Tillman opted to check the references he’d furnished as part of his cover identity. Twenty-six-year-old Michael Swain had spent his summers working construction before joining the few and proud of the United States Marine Corps. Only the founder of Century Construction, Tyler Longfoot, was privy to his real identity and true purpose for joining their crew. As far as anyone else knew, he was distant kin to Longfoot, looking for a steady job closer to his fiancée’s family in Ohio.

“You’re new to us,” Junior replied and slapped him on the back with the affable vigor of someone who didn’t think twice about the fact that the recipient of his friendly abuse stood next to a twenty-foot drop. Thankfully, Junior topped out at five-ten, and, though built like a bull, he had neither the height nor intention to take the new guy down. Instead, he walked to the extension ladder and swiveled onto it with the innate grace of a man who performed such a move as regularly as he got in and out of bed. “Come on down, and I’ll write out your first paycheck. You got plans tonight with that girl you can’t stop talking about?”

Swain shoved his work gloves into the back pocket of his jeans and followed the other man down. “She’s my fiancée, Junior. Pretty sure I’d get my balls cut off if I talked about other girls.”

The foreman laughed as he led the way to the brown portable site office. “You got a point, there, I reckon. She made it in okay?”

He nodded and stepped to the side to give Junior room to get around to the business side of the small, cluttered desk angled into a corner of the narrow office. “Yep. She made it from her sister’s place in Cleveland just before noon and has already claimed the entire bedroom closet as her own.” All basically true. Due to administrative differences between their respective agencies around start dates and pay periods, he’d come on board a week before Eden. Consensus had been he should go ahead and get set up. Eden had driven in earlier today from her parents’ place in Virginia rather than the home of a nonexistent sister in Cleveland. According to the text she’d sent, she had claimed only half the closet, and he’d bet his first paycheck her half would be measured down to the millimeter and marked accordingly.

Their semi-furnished cottage dressed in weathered white paint in a decidedly blue-collar section of town boasted a small eat-in kitchen, one bedroom, one basic bath decked out in light green tile, a tiny upstairs room the landlord called a nursery and they’d be calling an office, and a front porch draped in morning glory, decently sized for drinking with a few friends. It fit the bill for their profile as a young, social, financially limited couple, and it wasn’t going to cost the departments much in the way of a shared expense, but ideal as it was, he wished he could have been there to see Eden’s face when she’d bounced up the rutted dirt driveway to their “love nest.” Something told him Ms. Eden Brixton, summa cum laude from Vanderbilt, hadn’t spent much time on the wrong side of the tracks. Unlike himself, who had ridden drastic highs and lows in living conditions throughout his formative years, tied mostly to Romy’s uneven success executing various scams and avoiding legal or other fallout therefrom.

Junior finished writing out the check and handed it across the desk. “I’m thinking you two will be busy tonight making up for lost time, but if you get an itch to spend some of that paycheck in a social way, head over to Rawley’s Pub. They have live music on Friday nights, and that draws a good crowd. A little drinkin’, a little dancin’. Me and my better half, Lou Ann, like to get down there and blow off steam after a long week.”

“Thanks.” First opening he’d had, so they’d definitely be taking it. He folded the check and gave it a quick kiss before he tucked it into the pocket of his jeans. “Might as well kiss it goodbye now, ’cause my girl likes to run through it just as fast as I can earn it.”

Junior laughed like a truck horn. “Boy, I feel that. Take it easy, Swain.”

“Yeah. Maybe we’ll see you at the pub. Later, boss.”

On his way to his truck, he texted Eden—like any man with the love of his life at home would do—and gave her his ETA. Although he wanted a shower and change of clothes the same way an orthodontist at a Vegas convention wanted a hooker, he factored in a stop at Boone’s Market to cash his check, then drop some of it on a six-pack and a bunch of flowers—like any fool hoping to get laid would do. In a town as small as Bluelick, curious eyes lurked everywhere, and optics mattered. But somewhere around the time his tires kicked up dust on the drive leading to their house, he admitted his anticipation to be home had little to do with a shower or clothes that didn’t reek of sweat and tar. He wanted to see Eden. In the ten days since she’d kissed him in the parking lot of the Baptist church after rescuing him from Romy and Romy’s latest mark, she’d taken up way too much of his headspace. Yes, part of his cover this week involved telling anyone who would listen all about his chouchoute—how her sexy laugh had grabbed him by the balls the first time he’d met her; how she hated the nickname, but he sometimes used it anyway because he liked the way temper brought out the green in her eyes; how she could shop circles around any woman he’d ever known. And other than the last part, of which he had no personal knowledge, the rest rang true. As was the fact that he’d missed her…well…fucking with her.

Careful, Swain.

Yeah. Yeah. Physical attraction, reluctant admiration—at least on his part—and gut-level disdain—at least on her part—added up to some powerful chemistry. The trick was to use it to their advantage during this assignment, then walk away with no literal or figurative scars when it ended.

Story of your life, cooyon. No need to worry ’bout a thing.

Right. A con man turned soldier and spy survived on wits, instincts, and the ability to play people without them knowing they were being manipulated—including Eden, if need be. He pulled the Bronco to a stop behind the pristine white Prius.

And started to worry at just that one, simple sight.

With a sigh, he opened the glove compartment and dug around for the small box he’d tossed in there days ago. Now it went in his pocket. His ball cap went to the backseat, sunglasses on the dash. Grabbing the beer and roses, he bounded up the porch steps, then banged through the screen door and into the empty living room. “Hey baby, welcome home,” he called loudly, just in case any of their not-especially-nearby neighbors had good ears, and nudged the front door shut with his foot. Via the pass-through, he put the beer and flowers on the white tiled kitchen counter. Eden strode out from the short hall that led to the back of the house, her sleek ponytail swinging, and his gut gave an immediate jump in response to what she did for a pale, yellow Polo shirt and skinny jeans, even as his mind filed away one more concern.

She gave him a long stare, then wrinkled her nose and stepped aside. “The shower’s all yours, Swain.”

“In a sec.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “About the Prius…”

“What? Did I park in your spot? Sorry. I wanted to be close to the door while I unloaded my things.”

“Where it’s parked is fine. Everything else about it is all wrong.”

Now she shot a hip out and propped her hand there. “What’s wrong with it?”

“My fiancée wouldn’t drive a car like that.”

“Jesus, Swain.” She rolled her eyes. “Assuming you ever find a woman with self-esteem so low she actually agrees to marry you, you can have her drive whatever you want. This is my car, and I don’t care if you like it.”

“Nah, choux. I didn’t say I didn’t like it. I said my fiancée wouldn’t drive it. You need to be driving the future Mrs. Eden Swain’s car, and that ain’t it. Details matter when creating a cover. The devil is, indeed, in them, and a car is a big fucking detail. It’s a rolling extension of personality. Care to remind me of your cover identity’s key personality traits?”

“Eden Braxton?” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Careless. Spendy. Social. Occasionally demanding.”

Though her voice remained brisk and businesslike, he heard a note of disapproval in there. Eden Brixton didn’t think much of Eden Braxton. “Okay, then, here’s the problem. Nothing about a new car says tight finances, but it’s too practical to be the kind of ride a girl who’s after the finer things in life would splurge on. To top all that off, it is way too clean and well taken care of. You might as well have parked a police cruiser out front.”

“Look.” She folded her arms. “This is all fascinating, but hey—I don’t have another car, so unless you plan to spring for a hick truck like the monstrosity you drive, it is what it is.” She pressed her lips into that stern line she wore like a challenge, and he battled an urge to kiss her until they were both senseless.

“We’ll make it work. Personalize it a bit to fit the profile.”

Now her eyes widened. “I don’t want you messing with my car.”

“Somebody’s got to. Nothing drastic, choux. Just add a charm or two to the rearview mirror, a girlie sticker on the back window, dirty it up some, inside and out. Maybe dent the front bumper—”

She jumped toward him with her index finger extended. “If you put a single scratch on my car, I will dent your dick. You got that, Swain?”

He smiled, knowing damn well it pushed her buttons. “I love it when you talk dirty.” With that, he pulled the small velvet box from his pocket and held it out to her.

Her eyes dropped to the box, then flicked back to his face. “What’s this?”

“Eden Braxton, would you do me the honor of becoming my bride?” Opening the box with his thumb, he extracted the fussy diamond ring crusted with baguettes from its pink satin nest and eased it onto the tip of the index finger she still pointed at him.

“That is the gaudiest thing I have ever seen.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

She stared at the ceiling and released a patience-tested breath before shifting the ring to the proper finger. “It fits.”

“Another one of those devilish details.” This close up, she smelled fresh as a field of daisies—another bedeviling detail they’d get to. After he’d cleaned up, because he definitely did not smell daisy fresh. “I’m hitting the shower. Get changed, choux. We’re going out for drinks at Rawley’s with Junior and Lou Ann Tillman.” He winked at her. “Wear somethin’ pretty.”

Her eyes found his. “Drinks at Rawley’s Pub with your boss and his wife?”

Someone had studied her information packet. “Yep.”

“You think he’s involved?”

“Do I think Junior Tillman deals drugs in his spare time?” He couldn’t hold back a laugh. “No. And I’d hazard he hasn’t gotten high since he was old enough to buy a drink.”

She sat on the long end of the dark blue L-shaped sectional that took up most of the space in the living room. “Then what’s the point of meeting them at the pub? Unless you think they know something? Jesus, who buys such a big-ass piece of furniture?” Abandoning it, she stood and started to pace.

“Hell, girl, the man is Bluelick born and raised, as is Lou Ann.” He detoured to the kitchen to get a beer. When he held a bottle up and raised a brow at her, she shook her head, so he put the rest in the fridge. “I think they know a whole lot of things and a whole lot of people. We spend a few hours at the local watering hole with them on a Friday night, and by last call, we’ll know a whole lot of people, too.”

“Maybe. At the very least, I guess it’s a chance to observe the clientele and see if there’s anything illicit going down at Rawley’s. Buchanan said one of his deputies’ girlfriends was attacked behind the pub last month by an unidentified man. It could be that she stumbled into a deal and somebody panicked.”

“Could be.” He eased past her on the way to the bedroom, stripping off his shirt as he went. A toss sent it through the open door of the small laundry room/mudroom at the end of the hall. It landed in the plastic basket sitting atop the boxy white washing machine. After a long draw from the beer, he bent at the waist, pulled his boots off, and left them against the wall opposite the machines. Popping the first two buttons of his jeans, he turned and…paused. Eden stared at him from the other end of the hallway, worrying her lower lip with her teeth.

“What?” He looked over his shoulder but saw nothing except the somewhat battle-scarred back door with the short, synthetic white curtain covering the window set in the upper half.

“It’s, ah, a small space. One bathroom, one bedroom. We should work out a schedule.” And then, with a reluctance even he felt, her gaze slid from his face to his shoulders and down his chest. It lingered at his half-open fly before she blinked and jerked her attention to the unadorned hallway wall.

Every part of him from the neck down went tight and hard. He forced a grin to his lips and pushed his voice past his dry throat. “What’s the matter, choux? Afraid you might see something about me you like?”

She tossed her head. “I’m not afraid of you at all, cooyon, but I don’t intend to share a bed or a shower. Our cover doesn’t go that deep.”

He tipped the bottle and took a long, very necessary swallow, then walked a slow step toward her. “You sure?”

She straightened but held her ground at the other end of the hall. “Positive.”

“Then there’s no issue. My work schedule kind of settles the shower situation, most days. That big-ass sectional out there”—he gestured to the living room—“is mine, and I’ve got no problem sleeping on it.”

“I’ll sleep on it every other night. Fair’s fair. And we can agree that whoever is on the couch gets first use of the bathroom at bedtime.”

“What if I want to stay up late and watch a ballgame on TV?” The only one in the house hung on the wall opposite the sectional.

“Then fine”—she flung her arms out—“you’ll take the sofa that night. I’m just trying to establish some basic order. The schedule doesn’t have to be etched in stone.”

He took another step along the hall, drawing even with the bathroom door. “You can be flexible from time to time?”

“Of course.”

“Right on.” He braced a shoulder on the doorframe. “Well, Eden, I’m gonna have me a shower now, if your schedule permits.”

“You’re an ass.” With that pronouncement, she turned on her heel and headed back to the front room.

He laughed. “An ass who brought you flowers. They’re in the kitchen. Do me a favor and put them in water like you would if they meant something to you.”

The impatient clip of her ballet flats on the time-worn hardwood served as her answer.