Undercover Engagement by Samanthe Beck
Chapter Five
Eden refused to take her temper out on twelve innocent red roses, even if they had come from the biggest, most arrogant…words failed her…cooyon to ever cross her path. She filled a tall vase she found in the cupboard under the kitchen sink with water and trimmed the stems using scissors from the Henckels block knife set she’d brought down from a storage bin in her parents’ garage. They were nice knives. Sharp. If worst came to worst, she could murder Swain with one and still have nine others to prepare meals with.
But that would be taking the easy way out. From the other side of the kitchen wall, the pipes moaned for a moment, and then the shower started. She sighed and arranged the velvety clichés into the kind of showy display a girl who thought beer and roses equaled the pinnacle of romance would favor. Then, because he might actually have a valid point about her car—not about denting it, but about doing a few things to make it look more lived-in—she went outside and moved it into the small, detached garage beside the house.
Swain was still showering when she returned. Since she didn’t want to picture him in that 1940s time capsule of a bathroom, with a hand braced against the seafoam tile, sipping a beer and letting a steady spray of warm water sluice over his face, shoulders, all those rippling muscles of his tapered torso… Nope. Since she wasn’t going to spend any time thinking of him, she made a beeline to the bedroom, opened the closet, and chose a “drinks at the pub” outfit.
From beyond the minimal buffer of interior walls, Swain started to sing. Loudly. Something drawly and achy and unquestionably country. She closed her eyes and prayed for patience. Not that he had a bad voice. He managed to stay on key. But it highlighted the fact that she’d never have a moment’s peace with him around.
How kind of him to unintentionally provide her with additional motivation to wrap this assignment up as quickly as possible and move on to serving and protecting proudly—and openly—as a member of the Bluelick PD. Which meant making tonight count. Doubly determined, she changed into a western-cut short-sleeved plaid blouse with pearloid snaps up the front and at the pocket flaps. The blouse wasn’t a style she’d normally keep in her wardrobe, but the department had given her a small stipend to purchase appropriate items for her cover. She tucked her skinny jeans into black cowboy boots she’d bought off her roommate at the academy when she’d learned about the assignment. Alvarez’s feet were a half-size smaller, so the boots were a little tight but nicely broken in. They struck her as appropriate for the circumstances, unlike the other item her roommate had gifted her—a lacy black bra-and-panty set Alvarez hadn’t bothered cutting the tags off because they’d been a present from a guy she’d broken up with after finding him banging her cousin on the back patio during the huge graduation dinner her parents had hosted.
Classy.
Swain’s rendition of “Tequila” by Dan + Shay pulled her back to the matter at hand. After adding a narrow, black leather belt she’d had since college, she stepped up to check her reflection in the long mirror some thoughtful inhabitant at least twenty-five years ago had affixed to the inside of the closet door. Everything worked, in her estimation. The ensemble fit the occasion. Nothing about her stuck out. Her eyes narrowed on the “engagement ring.” Except that. The shiny eyesore encircling her finger refracted light like a freaking disco ball. It screamed “Look at me!”
It was wrong. All wrong. Despite herself, she smiled. Now she could give Mr. Devil-in-the-Details a little critique of his own undercover instincts. Obviously, she wouldn’t wear it tonight. If anybody asked to see her ring, she’d say she was getting it sized. Then she’d take the ring issue up with Buchanan. She trusted his judgment. Maybe she got too deep into the enjoyment of imagining schooling her partner on his jewelry choice, because she never registered the sound of the shower stopping or even the end of the Stagecoach Festival Swain had performed, but all of a sudden, the bedroom door creaked. She turned to find him standing there, freshly showered, wearing nothing but a blue-and-white towel around his lower half. The blue in the towel made his eyes pop. The way it rode low on his hips made everything else pop. Frustrated at herself for noticing—and well aware he was flaunting his Magic Mike body for the express purpose of getting under her skin—she fired back at him with a terse, “This ring won’t work.”
He shook his head. “The ring is perfect. It’s the rest that has to change.”
Bullshit. “It’s too over-the-top. It attracts attention. Why don’t you remind me, Swain, what we learned in The Basics of Undercover about effective role identity?”
He propped his forearms along the sides of the doorframe and leaned in, seemingly unconcerned about the potential effects of gravity on the towel casually secured at his waist. “To be honest, choux, I don’t know what they covered. I didn’t give that course a lot of attention. But I’m guessing they said something like, ‘A good disguise allows the officer to blend in’?”
“Exactly. This ring sticks out like a whore in church.”
“And I’m telling you, it’s the church part of the picture that needs fixing.” He straightened and came fully into the room, his gaze carving her from the top of her head to the toes of her boots. “The only place what you’re wearing would blend in is at a Catholic youth group ice cream social. We’re headed to a local bar on a Friday night, so even if blending in was the goal—and I would argue it’s not—this”—he gestured at her outfit—“fails. Hell, forget the occasion, choux. It fails on the same grounds the Prius fails. It’s not the kind of thing my fiancée would wear.”
Temper burned her blood, nearly hot enough to vaporize the chill of panic beneath. Panic that he’d been right all along. Not about this. About her not being capable of holding up her end of the assignment. Turning fully toward him, keeping her chin high, and, please God, her voice level, she said, “If you take the church part away, that leaves the whore, Swain. That’s not what I signed up for.”
“Hey”—he lifted his hands, palms forward as if to placate—“those were your words, not mine. But you know what I’m getting at.”
She looked down at the shaggy tan carpet, then out the blind-slatted window above the bed…anywhere except at him. “Dressing like a honky-tonk pole dancer is not who I am.”
“Newsflash, Eden. I’m not a dumb, broke, day laborer.” He got in her face, but his voice held compassion despite his frustration. “I don’t like waking at the crack of dawn, dragging on work boots, and heading to a jobsite so I can sweat my ass off for eight hours. I sure as hell don’t like tearing up roof shingles. But I know how to do it. I can pull it off.” He took a long, calming breath. “Somewhere in The Basics of Undercover, they must have mentioned leveraging your strengths?”
She let out a weak laugh. “Looking trashy is my strength? My parents would be so proud.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face the mirror. “Being so fuck-hot it makes a man want to box up his balls and offer them to you as a plaything is your natural strength.”
She met his stare in the mirror. “Shut up. Seriously.”
“Listen, choux, I’m not trying to flatter you. Or insult you. I’m just stating simple truths. You are a tall, light-eyed, brown-skinned goddess. You’re always going to turn heads, no matter what you do to downplay your champagne-room body and the kind of face that fuels fantasies. But now is not the time to downplay shit, because statistically speaking, we’re looking for—”
“Cornbread Mafia.”
“Exactly.” The hands on her shoulders gave a squeeze. “On a less sophisticated scale, but still. A Caucasian male, or a small ring of Caucasian males, between the ages of twenty-five and fifty. Our job, in this particular case, is to draw them in, get them to like us. Make them buy what we’re selling, so to speak. While I may have gotten here first, I’m not the star of this show. That’s you. You’re the bait. But you gotta present yourself like bait to lure them to us.”
The tension headache behind her eye started to throb. She pressed the heel of her hand to her eyebrow and sighed. “Okay. I know I’m going to regret this, but what do you suggest I wear tonight?”
He gave her a nudge to get her to face him. Once she turned, his bare chest and body heat reminded her they were standing close and he wore a towel. Barely. His pupils expanded, darkening the blue of his irises to a hypnotic indigo. “Is that a makeup bag I saw on the bathroom counter?” His gaze slowly roamed her features, tactile as a touch.
“Um. Uh-huh.”
“I don’t know what it entails, but can you make your eyes big and dark, like you just woke up from a sexy dream? And your lips”—his eyes locked on her mouth, and she felt her lips tingle—“kind of naked and glossy?”
“Like I kissed a pork chop?” Humor. She needed humor to break this spell—or air. Maybe both.
It worked. He grinned and stepped back. “Wear your hair down. I’ll figure out the wardrobe and bring it to you.”
Five minutes of privacy in the bathroom leveled her out a bit. Her looks were a double-edged sword, in her experience. While proud to see her mother’s Nordic bone structure and her father’s full features, dark hair, and bronze skin staring back at her when she looked in the mirror, her parents always stressed that such genetic gifts were not to be relied on. Certainly not counted as a measure of her worth. Hard work counted. Character counted. Achievements counted. Presenting herself in a way that didn’t detract from her accomplishments counted.
She applied a smoky shadow trio, then added dark liner and enough mascara to give her lashes their own zip code. Leaning close to the mirror, she examined the results and deemed them acceptable. Even if she didn’t routinely choose to spend a great deal of time and energy playing up her appearance, she knew her way around a makeup bag. She’d been party to a seduction or two in her twenty-three years. After slicking ruby gloss on her lips, she pressed them together and let them pop open. Very successful seductions, if she did say so herself. Similar to Swain with his construction experience, she had some know-how in this particular area, even if her previous efforts had been mostly one-on-one, behind closed doors rather than paraded out in the open for anyone and everyone. There was a time and place for sexy, in her mind, but she could dial it up for a broader audience when needed. Like now, apparently. Retrieving her wide-toothed brush from the narrow drawer by the sink, she ran it through her hair until it flowed in smooth waves past her shoulders.
A knock startled her. Although still fully dressed, she opened it a crack. She didn’t want to submit to his inspection until she finished her transformation. Swain stuck an arm through, holding a jumble of clothes. She took the bundle and placed it on the counter. “Hey.” Holding up the topmost item—a thin, white wifebeater—she frowned and passed it through the door. “This isn’t mine.”
“It’s mine.” He shoved it back to her. “It’s clean. I just took it out of the dryer. Nothing you brought shows off enough skin.”
“This is going to show off more than skin.”
“That’s kind of the idea.”
“Fine.” She tossed it on the counter and picked up the next item. At least this one she recognized—her black denim skirt. Except… “What did you do to my skirt?”
“Cut the hem off.”
And about half a foot of fabric. “I thought we weren’t going for whore. This outfit risks landing me in court.”
“This outfit is going to get every man at the bar to sit up and take notice. To paraphrase a classic, they’re gonna wanna know your name, and they’re gonna be glad you came.”
“I’m supposed to be off the market.”
“The outfit lets everyone know I better bust my ass to keep you that way. You’re not going to put up with me resting on my laurels—or my big, shiny engagement ring.”
Men were strange creatures. She glanced down at the last two items. “Oh my God.” The lacy black bra-and-panty set her roommate had pawned off on her sat there in tawdry glory. “You went through my underwear?”
“It’s practically outerwear in this case, which makes it one of those devilish details. Keep the boots you were wearing. They’re okay. Best we can do right now.”
The bastard was laughing. She heard it in his voice. “This is not fun—”
“Here.” His hand appeared through the door again, holding an open bottle of beer so cold a thin curl of vapor floated from the mouth.
She took it and managed a perfunctory “Thanks” before sucking down half the bottle.
“It’s just a costume, Eden. A character you’re playing. We both know it’s not who you are. Come on out when you’re decent.”
Eying the clothes, she grimaced. “That would be never, in this getup.”
His chuckle faded as he walked away from the door.