Sandra Orchard: Deep Cover

Rick took her face in his hands. “I only care about keeping you safe.”

His soft words turned Ginny inside out. His intense drive to protect her was one of the things she’d loved most about him, because all her life she’d been the one doing the protecting.

It had felt good to lean on someone else.

Then he’d left, and the dove hanging from her rearview mirror became her reminder that she needed to lean on God alone. Except, Rick had come back and wanted to be her protector.

Unspoken regrets shadowed his eyes. “I honestly don’t know whether some psychotic protestor or one of your uncle’s enemies or one of mine has targeted you. But I promise you I’ll figure it out and put a stop to him.”

“ l? Uh-uh. Whether you like it or not, we’re in this together. No more secrets.”

He hesitated, then with assurance in his eyes, said, “I like the sound of that.”

Dear Reader,

I’m thrilled that you chose to spend a few hours reading my novel. Thank you.

Between my research for this series and struggling alongside my hero as he wrestled with the need to lie to protect his cover, my respect for law enforcement officers has heightened immeasurably. I can’t wait to share more of their stories in this Undercover Cop series.

I love reading romantic suspense, especially inspirationals, because watching characters work through problems often gives me fresh insights into Scripture, and empathy for others in similar circumstances. I hope this story has similarly inspired you.

Thank you again for reading DEEP COVER. I’d love to hear your thoughts. Contact me at SandraOrchard@ymail.com or c/o Harlequin Books, Love Inspired Suspense, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279. To learn about my next Love Inspired Suspense, visit me online at www.SandraOrchard.com. Look for Kim’s story, Shades of Truth, in March 2012.

Wishing you abundant blessings,

Sandra Orchard

Deep Cover

Sandra Orchard

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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In loving memory of my mom and dad.

Forever in my heart.

THANKS TO:

My husband, Michael, for believing in my dream. My children, Christine, Paul and Jennifer, for quietly taking up the slack around the house when my writing overtakes my days, for cheering me on, praying for me, listening, critiquing and even typing!

My agent, Joyce Hart, and editor, Tina James, for believing in me. My mentors Margaret Daley and Susan May Warren for teaching me so much, and for enthusiastic encouragement.

My critiquers, Wenda Dottridge and Vicki Talley McCollum, for their selfless investment of time, and invaluable suggestions. My writing buddies, Laurie Benner and Kate Weichelt, for inspiring brainstorming sessions and chocolate celebrations!

My first readers, Betti Mace and Tina Tarling, for their timely feedback. My friend Nancy Miller for her endless support in too many ways to name. My prayer warriors, Angie Breidenbach, Lisa Jamieson and Patti Jo Moore.

The numerous police officers who shared their expertise with me.

And most important, thanks to my Lord Jesus for the greatest love of all.

There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known.

—Luke 12:2

Stop now, or else.

Rick Gray strode toward the spray-painted warning inside the half-framed building. The sawdust-strewn floor groaned under his weight, then suddenly gave way, dropping him ten feet onto his back in basement mud. His hard hat cracked against a rock and the air rushed from his lungs. Pain streaked through his body. He tried to suck in a breath, but his chest seized.

He willed his muscles to relax and tried again. This time a gasp squeaked through.

He squinted past the flashes of color dancing in front of his eyes and focused on the floor joists that dangled over his head. He might be an undercover cop just posing as the foreman on this group-home project, but he didn’t have to be the real thing to spot the clean saw lines bisecting three of the struts.

Fury blazed through his veins. If the basement slab had been poured yesterday as planned, he’d be a dead man.

Holding his breath against the throbbing pain, Rick crawled up the ladder to the main floor. Last night’s rain had turned the Southern Ontario sandy loam into a soupy mess, and the late winter chill layering the air around Miller’s Bay bit through his damp jeans. Bit like the suspicion nipping at his thoughts that this wasn’t the handiwork of another disgruntled neighbor.

The warning to stop construction on the controversial home for the mentally challenged might be from an angry Not-In-My-Backyarder, but if his “boss” had figured out why Rick really took this job, staging an accident that looked like the work of local protesters was an inspired way to take him out.

Two shiny leather shoes, enveloped in thin rubber sole guards, met his nose at the top of the ladder. Rick shot out his hand and dug his fingers into the floorboards, bracing himself for the push that would send the ladder, and him, toppling back to the ground.

Emile Laud’s well-manicured hand reached for Rick’s free arm and hoisted him up the last three rungs. In a three-piece suit and Burberry overcoat, his boss clearly hadn’t planned on picking his way across a construction site. “What happened?”

“Sabotage,” Rick grunted, his suspicion of Laud masked by his struggle to pull in a full breath.

The panic that flashed in Laud’s eyes wasn’t the response of a man who’d just tried to kill off his foreman. His gaze traveled across the splintered wood, up Rick’s mud-caked pants and paused on the cracked hard hat clutched in Rick’s fist. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll live.” Rick watched Laud’s reaction, but nothing in his expression suggested he hoped otherwise. So who was their saboteur? And what did he really want?

Laud pried a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and wiped the mud from his hands. “Those crazy radicals have gone too far this time. I’ve got my new PR girl stopping by this morning. We’ll have her take pictures and write a news article to rally public opinion to our side.”

Rick kneaded the muscles in the back of his neck. Here to nail Laud for the arson murder of two—maybe more—people, Rick couldn’t afford to have an innocent get in his way. And that’s exactly what would happen if this new PR person acted on Laud’s suggestion. She’d become the face and voice of this project, and far too enticing a target for their saboteur.

A beat-up green Impala crested the hill beyond the site.

“Here she comes now,” Laud said, motioning toward the car.

Rick’s heart slammed into his aching ribs. He’d know that car—and its driver—anywhere. Ginny Bryson. The one person who could blow his cover wide open.

She may not know what he really was, but she knew he was no construction foreman. Rick braced his hand on the nearest stud and razored a breath into his lungs. His ex-girlfriend couldn’t have picked a worse time to careen back into his life. How was he supposed to keep her safe this time?