Rebecca Winters: Undercover Husband

With her ash-blond hair long enough to be pulled back in a medium-size ponytail, she looked about nineteen rather than twenty-six, and very attractive.

Putting the pictures aside, he began studying the information from the report taken by investigating Officer Green. It was sparse at best.

Glen Baird. White male, approximately six feet, medium build, medium-dark brown hair and brown eyes, resident of Madison, Wisconsin.

If the man’s hair were shaved off, the description could belong to hundreds of thousands of men in the U.S. The letters would tell Roman a great deal more.

Oftentimes it was during the initial perusal of evidence—when his brain seemed to be in free-association mode—that his creative side took over. As ideas sprang into his mind—ideas to be followed up on at a later date—he would make verbal notes into his pocket recorder.

The process of assessing, digesting, analyzing random bits of information generally revealed a pattern, sometimes a whole picture of a mind that didn’t function in the normal way.

He started to pull the recorder from his pocket when he heard his name called out in a familiar feminine voice with that slightly husky tone. He looked up to discover that his newest client was even more beautiful than the picture had revealed.

Those vibrant blue eyes and flawless young skin, all part of her classic features, would draw any man’s gaze. But combined with the full curves of her figure and long slender legs the blouse and skirt couldn’t camouflage, she would definitely be the star attraction anywhere, let alone on her tour bus.

“Ms. Langford.” Rising to his feet, he put out his hand for her to shake, then flashed her his credentials to identify himself.

The top of her head reached his chin. A subtle, flowery fragrance emanated from her.

As a rule, when Brit tried to match a face with a voice, she was totally off base and inevitably disappointed. For once in her life, the reality surpassed the image of the bodyguard-type she’d conjured in her mind.

His hazel eyes stared directly into hers. The attractive, dark-haired man stood at least six feet two, maybe three. He had a lean, powerful build and was probably in his midto late-thirties. With a name like that and his olive complexion, he was definitely of European or even Eastern European extraction. Yet he was as American as she was. The combination took her breath.

There weren’t any men of her acquaintance who looked remotely like him, not even a few of the striking foreign males she’d met on her tour.

Her gaze quickly reverted once more to his company credentials which contained his picture and description.

“Please. Sit down.”

“Thank you.”

He helped guide her to a chair before he sat opposite her. There was an air of unreality about the whole situation. What in heaven’s name was wrong with her?

“I appreciate your being willing to talk to me this afternoon, for making it possible for me to pay you in installments. I’m very grateful.” Damn. Her voice quivered.

“It’s my job,” he murmured with a quick smile. That, plus his attire of polo shirt and chinos, gave him a humanness lacking in the uniformed police officers she’d talked to thus far. Brit wished she could achieve the confidence and calm he exuded.

“From what Diana told me on the phone, you’ve never been in this kind of a situation before. A virtual stranger has invaded your life totally unsolicited. I don’t blame you for being frightened.”

“It’s horrible.” Her voice wobbled again. “Have you read the letters?”

“Not yet. I only arrived a few minutes before you did. Let me look through them first. I’ll be using a tape recorder, making verbal notes. Will that bother you?”

She’d been watching him, fascinated by his totally male aura and professional demeanor. “No. O-of course not,” she stammered.

“Good.”

Roman spent the next few minutes perusing the first of six letters written on lined paper a student would use.

Brittany—

Everyone on the tour called you Brit, but when I saw your full name on the address sheet most of the people signed, I realized that I preferred your full name and plan to call you that. It has a French origin. I know because I spent time in France several years ago.

I have lots of pictures of you, even from behind. I recognize your backpack. What was the name of that shampoo you use? I didn’t write it down. Was it, Swiss Formula? I ordered that polka tape from the library. I’m just getting over the flu. How’s Denise? Ask her to give me her address and phone number. I want yours, too, so I don’t have to sit down and write letters.

In regard to the stuff I’ve sent in this letter, the Salt Lake Youth Hostel was a supplemental accommodation which means it lacks one or more basic elements of a hostel. It was open when I came through Salt Lake before. It couldn’t be much more than eight miles from your place. Some of the hostels listed on the map I’ve enclosed are no longer open.

This is what’s new. I heard yesterday that my section at work is closed until there’s more funding which reading between the lines means I’ll probably be off work longer. Tuesdays are my rest days, so I will have enjoyed fifty-three days of happiness. Waiting for your letter.

Until later, much love,

Glen Baird

5972 Washington Court,

Madison, WI 53701

Roman read through the others and made a few brief comments into the mike, alternately appalled and fascinated by the disjointed, too intimate personal remarks interjected at random. Each letter became progressively angrier because it was obvious she hadn’t responded to anything.

Finally he lifted his head, focusing his gaze on her once more. Brit met his level glance. Since reading the letters, his eyes seemed to have darkened a fraction.

“You’re right. Considering that these letters are from a virtual stranger, they are terrifying.”

“But Lieutenant Parker said—”

“Forgive me for interrupting—” He lowered his voice. “The police get so many calls from people being harassed, it’s difficult for them to do a detailed investigation unless the situation warrants it, unless there’s an implicit threat to the victim.”

“And my case isn’t like that.”

“Let me finish looking at everything before I answer that question,” Roman murmured, applying himself once more to the task.

The papers smelled of lilies. He picked up a plastic bag containing two dilapidated-looking trumpet lilies.

“Those came in that Express Mail overnight letter this morning, along with the sympathy card. He obviously received my postcard.”

Roman’s head flew back in consternation. “What postcard? I see no mention of it in the report.”

“The one the investigating officer suggested I send to him, telling him I was getting married.”

“Are you?” he fired back.

“No. I don’t even have a boyfriend right now.”

With a woman as intelligent and attractive as she was, it seemed a little hard to believe.

“The officer thought a note like that might discourage him,” she continued to explain. “I picked a card with Sego Lilies on the front. They’re the state flower. I thought it would be impersonal, that he wouldn’t be able to read anything into it.”

Roman’s lips thinned. To some weirdos, that would send up a red flag like nothing else.

His reaction produced a moan from her. “It was the wrong thing to do, wasn’t it? I knew it.”

“Let’s not worry about that now.”

He picked up the sympathy card, which smelled heavily of the flowers.

Those we hold most dear, never truly leave us.

They live on in the kindness they showed, the comfort they shared,

And the love they brought into our lives.