Undercover Engagement (Private Pleasures 5)

Buchanan nodded. “Exactly. Right now, we have a rare opportunity to conduct a joint sting. We get one or both of you in there, then take the whole web down, and all the spiders with it.”

His stomach sank, but Eden sat up a little straighter. “What do you need me to do?”

“Nothing,” he said before Malone or Buchanan could respond. Maybe she didn’t yet see where this was leading, but he did—a place she would definitely not like and would probably result in failure for both of them. Pointing at her, he added, “Y’all don’t need the A team for this.”

Her mouth dropped open. Before she could argue, he clarified, “You don’t need two people,” and topped it off with a “nothing personal” shrug, although the heart of it was personal, plain and simple. “It’s a relatively straightforward undercover job. Not dissimilar to what I did in Afghanistan, mostly without a partner. Set me up with a cover. I’ll get in, gain trust. I’ll get it done.”

His boss shook his head. “This isn’t the Marines. On my team, you’re a rookie. But even if you were both seasoned officers, I’d still go with a two-person team. However, as it happens, this is bigger than a simple drug sting. We want to demonstrate to the greater community that there is no bad blood between the Bluelick PD and the Sheriff’s Department. We want a joint effort.” Malone lowered his chin and skewered him with a hard look. “A successful joint effort.”

“So, you’re thinking we set up house. Married? Engaged? Young couple who like to party, like to live a little beyond our means. We could use some extra cash to pay for the…what? Maybe turns out we have a baby on the way?”

Now Eden shot out of the chair, scattering pen and notebook, and faced Malone. “You want me to go undercover as a pregnant party girl, and he’s the baby daddy?”

Malone put up his hands. “I didn’t say that, although a financially challenged couple on the verge of a wedding or a baby would create a credible need for a fast, free-flowing income stream. I personally like the engaged option. Our department will provide cover IDs. Buchanan assures me we can get Swain crewed up with a local contractor and situate you as the light of his life. You circulate in town. Shop like you’re feathering the nest. Spend a little more than he makes and tell anyone who will listen how you have your heart set on a big wedding—white dress, fancy flowers, custom cake, and champagne toasts. Get the right people to give a damn, and one of Swain’s new friends, or one of yours, will mention how you can earn extra cash, quick and easy. You guys take the meeting. One of you wears a wire.” Malone snapped his fingers. “And bam. We’ve got ’em.”

Swain cleared his throat. “It won’t work. She can’t sell her end of it.”

Now she spun fully to him. “What is your problem?”

“Nobody’s going to believe you like me, choux, much less want to spend the rest of your life with me.” He threw the nickname in just to nudge her past pissed to righteously pissed. “You’re not that good an actress. Need me to prove it?”

Her chin came up. Her eyes flashed green. With a voice that could freeze a man’s balls off from fifty feet, she issued a challenge. “I’d like to see you try.”

Resisting Cadet Eden Brixton was a full-time occupation under normal circumstances, but when she went stone-cold bitch on him, he was a goner. Two steps closed the distance between them. He cupped the back of her head, tilted her face up, and covered her mouth with his. For one glorious moment, she stood stock-still, offering the soft, heady heat of those lips that had played a starring role in his jack-off fantasies for damn near twenty weeks. Then she tore them away, cocked an arm back, and threw a punch that landed hard enough to spin his head around.

Be still my aching heart.

Luckily, his heart was a lost cause, pretty much from birth, but he slowly straightened and worked the ache out of his jaw. When he was sure it wasn’t dislocated, he addressed the room

in general. “See?”

Malone raised his bushy eyebrows. “See what? Looks like true love to me.”

Buchanan stood. “Okay, people, here’s the bottom line. We want a joint op, and we need two new faces to pull it off. That makes you not just our best possible candidates but our only possible candidates. You’re our team. Make it work.”

Chapter Three

From her vantage point on the stage of the First Baptist Church in Richmond, Eden scanned the congregation of friends, family, and colleagues of the graduates of KDOCJ Basic Class 514. Like all of her classmates, she wore her starched and pressed uniform—in her case, a tan button-front shirt, bright brass badge, tan pants with navy blue stripes down the sides, and a stiff leather duty belt with all its custom snaps and flaps for various tools of the trade, not the least being her department-issued Smith & Wesson M&P 9, with the gold ported barrel Bluelick PD had sprung for to congratulate her on graduating number one in her class. Number one overall, as well as in firearms, patrol procedures, criminal law, vehicle operations, and traffic/DUI, for anyone keeping score.

Her eyes lighted on someone in the front pew who most definitely kept score. All six feet five, bald, brown, brawny inches of the Brick were hard to miss. Half Black, half Hawaiian, wholly badass, the man didn’t blend into a crowd. Beside him—equally attention-catching in her own way—sat slim, blond former prima ballerina Cecilia “CC” Brixton with her flawless alabaster complexion and twinkling blues eyes. Both beamed with pride, at the moment, and Eden automatically notched her spine a little straighter. Slouching on graduation day would not do them proud. Her dad would mention it, just as he’d mentioned her less-than-first-place finishes in physical training, defensive tactics, investigation procedures, and tactical responses to crisis situations. Yes, she’d been number two in each of those, but number two was “chorus,” not “lead,” as her mom frequently pointed out. Her parents loved her—a fact she never doubted—but they set a high bar for their only child. One she’d been jumping for twenty-three years. And their pride in her was equally undeniable, but in that moment, she suddenly had a vision of herself standing at attention for their approval at thirty…forty…fifty? They were never going to declare the challenge met. Was that up to her? Was the setting of one’s own bar a facet of independence she’d failed to realize, much less achieve?

A startling thought, that.

Commander Atwell chose the moment to conclude his remarks at the podium. The audience stood and applauded the graduates. With his congratulations ringing in her ears, she exited stage right, holding her leather-bound, embossed graduation certificate in both hands.

Her father reached her first. He yelled, “Cadet Brixton, report for inspection,” in a drill-sergeant voice before capturing her in his massive arms, lifting her off her feet, and spinning her around the same way he’d done since she was a toddler.

“Dad, stop.” Maybe the Brick didn’t care about making a scene in front of her classmates, instructors, and future employer—they were all underlings to him—but in a room that was already September-in-the-South hot, her cheeks burned as he reduced her from accomplished professional to Daddy’s little officer with one outsize gesture of affection. Swain was somewhere nearby, no doubt enjoying the show.

“Noah, you’re embarrassing her,” her mother scolded in a no less embarrassing effort to rescue her grown-ass, heretofore badass daughter from the grip of paternal pride.

Thankfully, her father set her on her feet. “What’s she got to be embarrassed about?” he questioned while she straightened her uniform. Lifting the leather-bound diploma from her hand, he flipped it open and pointed at the certificate inside. “First in her class! Damn near number one in every category.”

And, oh, there it was…the faintest whisper of where she’d fallen short. Despite her promise to herself not to give him the time of day, her gaze sought out the person who had bested her in just under half their classes. Marcus Swain was nowhere to be seen. He’d been onstage with the rest of the class to accept his honors, but now he’d poofed. Had family and friends already whisked him away? She hadn’t noticed him responding from the stage to anyone in the audience, but then again, when it came to Swain, she made a point of ignoring as much as possible.

Chief Buchanan stepped up to congratulate her and introduce his striking wife, Ginny. The attractive redhead with sharp green eyes and an easy smile also happened to be the mayor of Bluelick, as well as the owner of a local beauty salon. That pretty much covered things as far as introductions went, since before trading a career as a Navy SEAL for a leadership role in the Bluelick PD, Buchanan had served under her father. After a round of non-optional graduation photos with her family, they headed out for the equally non-optional graduation lunch.

As they made their way across the parking lot, she finally spotted Swain. He leaned against the driver’s side of the stripped, lifted black Bronco he’d habitually parked right beside her white Prius in the resident hall parking lot. Who else would drive such an impractical monument to testosterone, fuel inefficiency, and pointless off-roading capabilities?