Susan May Warren: Undercover Pursuit

Now, what was that supposed to mean?

She stood up before he could ask. “Listen, I am really sorry about messing things up here. Take me back to the island and I’ll get out of your hair. You can track down your real contact and get back to your mission.”

“Uh…Scarlett, I really don’t know how to tell you this but, see, you went through security with me. You might not be my contact, but you are my fiancée. At least for the next three days. I absolutely cannot let you walk out of here.”

is a RITA ®Award-winning, bestselling novelist of more than twenty-five novels. She has won an Inspirational Readers Choice Award, an ACFW Book of the Year award and has been a Christy Award finalist. Her compelling plots and unforgettable characters have won her acclaim with readers and reviewers alike. She and her husband of twenty years and their four children live in a small town on Minnesota’s beautiful Lake Superior shore, where they are active in their local church. You can find her online at www.susanmaywarren.com.

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Forgetting the past and looking forward to

what lies ahead, I press on to reach the end of the race

and receive the heavenly prize for which God

through Jesus Christ is calling us.

—Philippians 3:13, 14

For Your glory, Lord

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

LETTER TO READER

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

How could she have lost her sister’s wedding dress?

Scarlett Hanson closed her eyes, willing herself not to leap across the customer service counter of AirMexico airlines and throttle the petite brunette airline representative in her cute light blue uniform and pigtails, typing a description of Scarlett’s lost “suitcase” into her computer.

“It’s not in a suitcase,” Scarlett repeated. “It’s a black, zippered hanging bag, with a pink ribbon on the handle, and please, please, my sister will kill me if you can’t find it.” Scarlett spread her sweaty hands on the cool smooth counter, aware of the line forming behind her. The rest of the passengers on Flight 2137 had already cleared customs, the officers at the customs desks now resuming conversations with their colleagues while the next bunch of tourists from the icy north herded through passport control. Beyond the glass doors, she spotted palm trees and cabbies in Hawaiian shirts, shorts and flip-flops, peddling freedom.

“Contents?”

“It’s a wedding dress!” Oh, she hadn’t meant to yell, but that’s what sixteen hours of travel on nothing more than a bag of peanuts and a Diet Coke did. It didn’t help that she’d had about six hours’ notice before that to block out vacation time at her temp agency, pack, pick up her sister’s dress—as well as her maid-of-honor dress—from a Nicollet Mall boutique in Minneapolis and catch her flight.

She just needed to calm down. Everything was going to be just fine. Hadn’t her flight made it out before the storms across the nation had grounded other flights? If that wasn’t divine providence—allowing her to make it onto the overbooked connection in Houston—then she didn’t know what was.

See, just because she felt as if God had forgotten her didn’t mean it was true. He did care about her, and she didn’t have to be a high-maintenance, high-stress, center-of-the-world diva like Bridgett to prove it.

Although, having her sister’s dress suddenly appear might prove God’s attention to the details.

“Are you sure the bag isn’t listed on the manifest?” She wanted to bang her head on the counter. Why hadn’t she carried her sister’s dress on the plane instead of checking it?

Or better, why hadn’t Scarlett just let her sister’s frantic phone call go to voice mail two days ago?

Maybe because, after the fiasco at the engagement party, she just wanted to make things right.

Scarlett’s feet had begun to sweat in her Uggs. She should have left her ski jacket in the parking garage at the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport. Please let her have remembered her swimsuit—although knowing Bridgett, the bride wouldn’t have scheduled beach time. Just lots of it’s-all-about-Bridgett time.

Scarlett shed the jacket and shoved it into the expandable pocket of her carry-on bag.

“Oh, I found it!” Pigtails peered at the screen, squinting. “It’s—oh, no…”

Scarlett gripped the counter, leaning forward, hoping for a glimpse of the screen. “What’s ‘oh, no’?”

“It’s in…Detroit.”

Detroit. Of course it was.

Maybe it wasn’t too late to catch a return flight back to the States.

“We can have it here by tomorrow, probably, Saturday at the latest.”

“She’s getting married Saturday morning.”

Pigtails smiled, white teeth against her beautifully tanned skin. “If you leave the name of your hotel, we can send it out to you when it arrives.”

Perfect. Scarlett dug out her cell phone and scrolled down to the notes. “The Lost Breezes Hotel.”

“You know that isn’t actually in Cancun, right? You have to take a ferry out to the island.” The woman glanced behind her at the clock. “Oh, you’d better hurry. The last ferry to the island leaves in thirty minutes.”

Of course it did. Scarlett grabbed one of the business cards on the counter. “I’ll call you when I get to the resort.”

“We hope you enjoy your stay in Cancun,” Pigtails said, her eyes already tracking to the complainer behind her.

At this point, Scarlett had her doubts.

She practiced some deep breathing, not glancing at the clock as she lined up to go through customs.

The agent seemed to pity her—or perhaps he just recognized a woman fraying as he released her and her carry-on bag into the country.

Welcome to Mexico. She passed the sign and entered a corridor, bordered by all manner of tourist services—tropical-colored signs advertising tours of lost coves and white-sand beaches, luxury golf packages, deep-sea fishing charters. She trolleyed her bag, the one with the chipped wheel that made a clipping sound as she walked, ignoring the calls of eager agents hoping to sell her a chance to swim with dolphins, learn to scuba dive or cook Mexican cuisine.

Thanks, but she was here for one reason: erase that horrid moment at the engagement party when she’d accused Bridgett of stealing Duncan, the groom.

Stealing—had she really used that word? That was the last time she drank champagne. Ever. One glass and her mouth stopped listening to her brain.