Cathryn Parry - The Undercover Affair

Feeling wary—always wary—he met Andy at the door. Wordlessly, still sleepy, Andy handed over the large insulated coffee carafe, followed by the empty plastic cooler that John filled with lemonade for them each working morning.

“Gonna be a nice day, even with those clouds,” Andy remarked.

“Yeah. Summer’s coming.” But no sooner had John let the words out, then a familiar black Audi pulled off the coast road and into their little lot. The hot blonde driving made her habitual, tight, three-point turn, then backed her two-seater into an equally tight space between Andy’s van and the restaurant’s front door.

John closed his eyes briefly and groaned silently.

“Look who’s back,” Andy said cheerfully. “The congressman must’ve liked Lyn’s designs.” He winked at John. “Go. Talk to her. Give her a chance.”

While Andy headed inside the restaurant, whistling loudly, John folded his arms, kept silent, and watched. Andy was wrong about her, he felt it. Something was definitely off—something suspicious—and if she was an investigator of some sort, then that was trouble his family didn’t need.

He stepped outside the restaurant and approached her car. Planted his feet.

Lyn Francis—or whatever her name was—had hopped out of the Audi.

John caught a quick glimpse of the sleek leather interior before she shut the door. The shelf where the back seat would have been was stuffed with fabric samples and paint-chip wheels. Could be part of a cover story. He felt his nails dig into his palms. When she finished locking the door and turned, noticing him standing there, she smiled. But her gaze lingered on his face, and her smile died.

Yeah, he was irritated—mainly that he needed to even do this in the first place, that his brother’s criminal behavior had put him in this position. He was aware that his mood likely showed all over his face. He’d been told he had a look, a scowl that he used on enemies as if shooting at them in a firefight, and yes, he was pretty sure he was giving her that exact look now.

She swallowed, as if surprised that he was angry with her. But he gave her credit; she didn’t wilt under his scrutiny. Instead, she lifted up her rib cage, stiffening her back as she stared him down.

His gaze dropped. A bump showed at her waist, beneath her shirt. A gun. She was carrying a concealed sidearm—he was positive of that.

“Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed today?” Lyn gave him a saucy smile, oblivious to his thoughts.

He didn’t trust her. After what Patrick had put him through, John didn’t trust anybody on their word, not without his own verification.

He planted his feet wider and kept his gaze directly on her eyes. Pretty, soft blue eyes. But even pretty girls with soft blue eyes could be deceitful.

“You’re a cop,” John said roughly. “Aren’t you?”

CHAPTER THREE

IN THE SPLIT second when Lyndsay had first seen John standing before her with the sun behind him, outlining his erect stance and muscular arms, something within her had lifted. It may have been crazy of her, but she’d been genuinely interested in seeing him again.

What a mistake that was. Because now her systems were screaming in alarm. She was doing everything she could to face him as an actress would. A very good actress.

“You’re a cop,” he repeated.

Her vision swam, and the earth seemed to move beneath her feet, even hearing the accusation for the second time. But she managed to school her face into something resembling disbelief.

Talk him out of it! her mind screamed at her. Deflect him!

Keeping as steady as she could, she leaned against the hood of her car, splaying her palms flat on the metal, still warm from her drive.

It wouldn’t be hard to act flabbergasted over what he’d just said, because honestly, he’d thrown her off balance from the moment he’d peered into her car window that day in the parking lot.

“Why would you possibly think I’m a cop?” she asked, trying to sound incredulous.

And while he scowled at her, she gazed into his gray-blue eyes. The pupils were enlarged, making his eyes seem dark and hard.

She crossed her arms, shivering. She’d worn a thin sweater under her short woolen pea coat, but it wasn’t warming her.

“You’re not denying it.” He crossed his arms, too.

“Because you’re joking, right?”

“I never joke. You’re a cop.”

“I’m not a cop,” she spit, suddenly angry. She wasn’t going to let anyone stop her from doing her job. It felt good to be angry about that. “How can you say something so weird to me? You haven’t spoken to me before, not once, not even a ‘hello’ greeting, and I’ve been coming to your restaurant for almost a week now.”

He exhaled, and his breath made a small puff in the cool air. Briefly he glanced away. But then he was back, glaring at her again. “I’ve been watching you.”

“Yes, so I’ve noticed.”

“Because I have situational-awareness training. I was in the military. And you appear to have that training, too.”

“I haven’t had military training,” she said as calmly as she could.

“Cop training, then.” He cocked his head. “It shows.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” She met his gaze.

“It means that as much as you act friendly and chatty to everyone here, you’re always aware. You’re always looking around.” He pointed at her. “Last Thursday you couldn’t even talk on the phone without constantly looking around the parking lot.”

“So? Isn’t that painting it with a broad brush?” She jumped on his mistake. “Is everyone who is aware while they’re speaking on the phone—which, by the way, is a good thing—a cop?”

He snorted, not backing off. “I’ve watched you for days. Every time you’re here, you sit in the corner in the same seat, exactly the same seat that I would sit in,” he pointed out, completely changing the subject. “You sit in the power seat. The seat where you can come out with guns blazing if you have to.”

“Guns blazing?”

“You know exactly what I mean,” he said quietly.

She knew her mouth was hanging open. She’d already known he’d been in the Marines, but who was this guy?

Ironically, every ounce of her law enforcement training was telling her to keep the upper hand in the situation. She needed to be in charge.

But now, all she could seem to do was gape and stare at him, as if she was outside her own body looking in. Her hot, shocked body.

“But the real clue is the sidearm at your waist.” He nodded toward it. “You’re wearing a concealed holster, aren’t you? There’s an imprint of a small handgun. Right here.”

He reached to point at the outline of her Glock, and this time her training did kick in. Deftly, she reached out and blocked him before he could touch her pistol.

Her hand clasped his, inches from her weapon.

They both stared at each other, breathing hard. Her adrenaline was pumping. He was a danger. To her, to her mission.

She didn’t let go of his hand.

He blinked at her, at the surprise he must have felt, because he stared in confusion.

Stop this, she told herself. Let him go.

She dropped his hand, knowing she’d just outed herself by her actions. The fact that she’d grabbed his hand aggressively, as a police officer would, rather than just swatting his hand away, didn’t look good.

He opened and closed his fingers, shaking them. “Okay,” he said finally, speaking quietly again, “forget the handgun. I’m open-minded about that, and it’s best not mentioned anyway. But you can’t deny to me that you’ve had military-type training.”

No, she could not. Particularly after the way she’d just crushed his fingers.