Undercover Engagement by Samanthe Beck

Chapter Six

“Progress, I think,” Marc said into his phone as he sat on the sectional and pulled on his battered brown Frye boots. Adjusting his jeans over the shafts, he added, “Eden made it in just fine and is hitting the ground running, since we’re joining Junior and Lou Ann Tillman at Rawley’s tonight.”

“Good,” Malone replied. “Rawley’s will be busy—Friday night, live music, drink specials. Earl Rawley owns the pub, but he’s getting up in years. Chances are his only son, Jeb, will be working the bar tonight. He’s been taking a more active role in the day-to-day running of the place over the last year and seems to have a knack for it.”

“Eden mentioned they had some trouble last month. Unidentified man attacked the girlfriend of one of Buchanan’s officers behind the pub?”

“Yeah. There’s detail about that in your packet, but to sum it up in a tough nutshell, Roxy Goodhart—she’s performing there tonight, by the way—went out back one Wednesday evening in late July to take a break, overheard some idjit beating a stray dog, and intervened. A scuffle ensued. She took a knock to the head and clocked out. The idjit hit the road before anyone even knew she was out there. Jeb found her a few minutes later, by our estimate, when he hauled a load of empties to the bin. She didn’t see much, and he saw nothing, but we included copies of their statements for your reading pleasure. All in all, though, that sort of thing is rare for Rawley’s. We deal with the occasional altercation between over-lubricated locals, but that’s about it. Earl sprang for better lights and a security camera, and there have been no further incidents.”

“Random?”

“Maybe,” Malone conceded. “Roxy was having some problems with an ex-manager at the time, so it could have been related to that, although Buchanan’s team says no. You and Eden stick together tonight, ’cause we have ourselves a known unknown when it comes to that incident. But spending some time at Rawley’s with Junior and Lou Ann should get you personally introduced to the livelier half of town.”

“That’s my thinking. We need to start circulating, because there is a whole lot of nothing happening on Tillman’s crew.” He walked over to the front door and looked out the fan-shaped decorative glass at eye level. Eden had moved her car. Good. “The guys punch in, do their work—good work—and punch out. If there’s a connection to be made there, I’m not finding it.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. Buchanan trusts Longfoot. Nobody associated with him is a person of interest at this time. Putting you on his crew just made for a convenient cover.”

“Hmm.” Convenient wasn’t a word he would have used. There was nothing convenient about being on a jobsite by seven in the morning or spending the better part of the day working like a dog, but whatever. He thought of Eden in the bathroom getting ready for tonight. They all had their crosses to bear on this op. “Out of that livelier half of town, anybody you think we should focus on?”

“That’s probably a better question for Buchanan, as he and his officers interact more with the Bluelick residents, but he did tell me earlier today that this week one of his cops handed a guy named Kenny Whelan his third misdemeanor possession charge as a consequence of a traffic stop. When Whelan opened the glove compartment of his vehicle to find proof of insurance, the goods rolled out into plain view. Specifically, onto the lap of Thomas ‘Dobie’ Dobbins, who occupied the passenger seat at the time. Mr. Dobbins has two misdemeanor possession charges on his record.”

He wandered back to the living room and shot a glance at the closed bathroom door. “History of violence for either?”

“None whatsoever. I do know these jerkoffs. They’re harmless. Bored, aimless potheads who could both use a kick in the pants, but not a mean bone or half a brain between them. Both live with their folks—law-abiding, if somewhat lax, parents—so they’re not growing their own. Those two are definitely buying from someone.”

“We’ll try to find out who,” Swain assured his boss.

Malone cleared his throat. “How are things going with Officer Brixton?”

The bathroom door swung open at the same moment. “Oh, we’re doin’ fine. We’ve established a foundation of mutual respect and”—he swallowed hard as she stepped into view—“admiration. Holy—”

Her eyes fired warning shots. “Not a smile. Not a smirk. Not a single laugh, or I will kick your misogynistic ass all the way back to the swamp it crawled out of.”

On the other end of the line, Malone laughed. “Yeah. I hear the respect and admiration loud and clear. Good luck, Deputy Swain.”

Swain ended the call and searched for his voice. She looked…fucking amazing. The boots and skirt showcased her long legs. Her body turned his standard-issue tank top into a sexy proposition, and the lacy black bra clearly visible beneath the thin white cotton only added an exclamation point—or two, to be precise. Because it was a couple sizes too big for her, the tank cut away in interesting places, leaving black satin bra straps and smooth shoulders exposed. The neckline scooped low to reveal a little peek of black lace and a whole lot of cleavage. Overall, it was precisely the look he’d been aiming for. He just hadn’t been mentally prepared for the full effect. Who could blame him for getting a little caught up?

“Don’t just stand there staring at me, either.”

Eden, apparently. He pushed his mind past the thrill of seeing the flesh-and-blood embodiment of his fantasies and inspected her critically. “Better. Much better.” He walked closer and circled her. “Almost perfect.”

“Almost?” She whipped her head around to look at him and crossed her arms protectively over her body. “This is maximum exposure. I draw a hard line right here. If you reach for the scissors, I’m out.”

“No, the exposure level is good.” He continued around until he returned to where he’d started and took her in from the ground up. “Really, really good.”

“Then what?”

He lifted a hand to brush a lock of hair back from her face. She leaned out of his reach.

“Relax, choux.” Moving more slowly, he touched her hair—all those long, dark waves—and eased his fingers through it. “I just want to mess you up some.” She relaxed not a bit, but thanks to his handiwork, the once-smooth tresses now fell in a careless tumble. “Give people an idea of what we got up to this afternoon, before we decided to head out on the town. Do you have bigger earrings?” He trailed a finger over the simple pearl stud decorating her earlobe, and she stiffened.

Enough of that. It pissed him off, which wasn’t right, because, under normal circumstances, he respected personal boundaries. But things between him and Eden had never been normal, and right now the knee-jerk hands-off body language she used threatened their cover, which made it something to address. “I thought we’d resolved this on graduation day in the parking lot. You are gonna have to look like you enjoy my attention. It’s a job requirement. Same goes for giving me attention.”

Her brows slammed down. “When there are people around to see whether I’m enjoying it or not, I’ll look like I’m enjoying it.”

“Maybe you should practice, choux, ’cause right now? I’m just trying to do the job. Your job,” he added pointedly, because yeah, right or wrong, he was pissed.

“Maybe you should back off, cooyon. When we’re alone”—she took a step away and ran her palms over her upper arms—“I don’t expect to be mauled.”

“Mauled?” For real? Mauled? Fine. He wouldn’t lay a fucking hand on her when they were alone. “Okay, Officer Brixton, if pointing out your cover wouldn’t wear Mikimoto studs equals mauling, I formally apologize.” Now it was his turn to back off. He stalked to the kitchen and yanked open the fridge. “You handle it. Find some big hoops or something dangly.” He wrapped his fingers around the neck of a cold beer, straightened, and pushed the fridge shut with his elbow before striding toward the front door. “Something that says you’re not some guindée”—she could damn well look that one up—“who thinks a simple gesture constitutes getting ‘mauled.’ And then, officer, you find someone on your side of this op to help you with the details, ’cause I’m not here to be your fucking stylist.” With that, he walked out onto the porch and let the screen door slam behind him.

…

Eden sat in the passenger seat of Swain’s jacked-up Bronco, staring at the scenery zipping by. Tall pines played peek-a-boo with the setting sun. Golden fingers of light pried through their green boughs. By eight p.m. in Virginia, dusk would have settled, but September days lasted forever in this part of the country. Normally, Swain’s doorless, tarp-roofed death trap wouldn’t be her choice of vehicles, but tonight she appreciated the breeze rushing by and the growl of the engine. It saved her from making conversation. Or, more to the point, trying to fill the chilly void left by a complete lack of conversation.

She wasn’t sorry for telling him to back off. Well, okay, she was sorry for saying it the way she had. She should have just said “back off” and left it at that. But truthfully, she wasn’t used to being handled constantly, and it rattled her. The combination of her height, her personality—nobody would call her a playful flirt—and her competitive nature discouraged most people from seeking casual physical intimacies. But not Swain. Oh, no. Even at the academy, he’d been the guy to stand in her personal space when cadets gathered to observe a training exercise, or to take her arm to get her attention instead of just saying “Excuse me” like a normal person. He’d done it in part to dick with her, she knew, because he’d picked up on her preference to maintain her distance and couldn’t resist challenging it. But also because he was what anyone would call a playful flirt. She was honest enough to admit most people liked his easy manner, but she didn’t…except in those disturbing moments when she liked it too much.

Frustrated, she shifted in her seat and crossed her legs. Marcus Swain looked good—in a uniform, in dirty work clothes, in a towel—and he knew it. He looked good right now, in a black T-shirt and well-worn jeans, with his Saints cap turned backward and silver-rimmed aviators shielding his eyes. Under all her goals and ambitions beat the heart of a flesh-and-blood woman. She liked men, and while she wasn’t indiscriminate about it, she liked sex. She was not immune to his kind of appeal. And because it had been a while since the last man—and the last sex—maybe she was extra susceptible. Seeing him next to naked every time she turned around took a toll.

If he sensed her attention, he didn’t show it. Simply stared at the road, his focus fixed on the meandering curves. She was also not an idiot. He liked the world to think he was a playful flirt and let that impression distract from the fact that he was dangerously smart, had truly amazing instincts, and hid a ruthless calculation beneath the “Sleaziana” charm. He called himself a bullshit artist, and she didn’t doubt it for a second. He was a reliable officer, yes, but on some fundamental level, she didn’t trust him.

And in less than five minutes, she needed to do her part to convince a bar full of people that they were madly in love—or madly in lust—instead of just mad at each other and irritatingly in lust. Suppressing a sigh, she turned to him.

“Uptight. Prissy.”

His lips twitched, but his attention remained on the road. “Somebody’s got 5G.”

“I googled it. Could have been worse, I guess. My earrings weren’t too insulted.”

His grin flashed for a second.

“How about these earrings?” She shook her head to put the dangling crystal tassels in motion. “Do they say guindée?”

“Doesn’t matter, choux.”

“Really? I thought the devil was in the details.”

“Nah. I had myself an epiphany on the porch.”

When he reverted to silence, irritation prickled her skin. Why not just say the earrings were fine and let them get back on solid ground? She’d spent her sulking time talking to Buchanan and had the names and descriptions of a couple guys to target—one Kenton “Kenny” Whelan, a twenty-two-year-old Caucasian male, five-eleven, one hundred and sixty-five pounds, black hair, brown eyes, and his constant companion, Thomas “Dobie” Dobbins, also a twenty-two-year-old Caucasian male, five-seven, one hundred and fifty pounds, light brown hair, hazel eyes. Syncing up on that seemed like a valuable use of this drive. “Care to share? Or should we skip to the job at hand and strategize about our approach tonight?”

“My epiphany kinda covers both, actually.”

“Wow.” She crossed her arms. “Let’s hear it, then.”

“We don’t need to sweat the details.” He rolled his shoulders as if shrugging off a burden. “We don’t need to strategize our approach.” He pulled into Rawley’s parking lot. “We can just go with the flow. Whatever you wear, I’ll make it work. Whatever you say or do, I’ll make it look right.” After steering the Bronco into a space, he tossed his hat in the backseat and hung his sunglasses on the visor. Then he looked over at her. “I’m so damn good at this shit, you can’t possibly fuck us up.”

What an ass. She unlocked her clenched molars long enough to ground out, “Is that so?”

“Guaranteed. In fact, by the time we walk out of this place tonight, even you won’t remember I’m running a con.”