Undercover Engagement (Private Pleasures 5)

Whoa, Swain. Don’t get way over your skis. Just because she’s sleeping with you doesn’t mean she’s in for the long haul. Do you really see well-raised, Vanderbilt, number-one-in-class Eden Brixton settling for a swamp rat with a sketchy past, a dirtbag daddy, and a long history of manipulating others for gain?

No, he didn’t. Even if the manipulation happened on the right side of the law nowadays, it just didn’t mesh with the kind of person she was. In the long list of things about him she didn’t respect, she definitely didn’t respect that particular expertise. She didn’t trust it. Or him. Eden wouldn’t be with a man, long haul, unless he won her trust.

Winning people’s trust is your strong suit, right? So fucking win her trust.

A smile stretched his lips again. Could be this thing—whatever it was—was solidly in his wheelhouse. He looked at her. She caught him looking and returned his smile.

“Hungry, choux?”

She nodded. “I am, but I’m a wreck. I don’t feel like going anywhere.”

“That’s why God i

nvented the drive-through. Pick your poison. We’ve got the Golden Arches, Frisch’s…uh, Sonic?”

They settled on burgers from Frisch’s and ate them in the car on the way home while she filled him in on the details of her near-death-by-beer-truck experience. Feeling lucky he still had her, he burned in a memory of Eden savoring a French fry, her face tilted toward the wind and corkscrew ringlets blowing back from her forehead. Right then, driving into the breeze with her happy beside him, it felt like a life. A good life. A real life.

Until he pulled into the driveway and hit the brake to avoid slamming into a black Honda.

“Are you okay?” He turned to Eden, concerned about the effects of the sudden stop on her wrist.

“I’m fine,” she replied quickly, touching her hand to his arm. “I’m good. This is good.”

Not by his estimate, he silently complained as he walked to the passenger side and helped her down from the Bronco. His plans for tonight involved getting a couple painkillers in her, helping her change into nightclothes, and coaxing her to sleep by any means necessary—no jostling allowed. His plans did not involve a visit from Numb and Numb-er.

But there they were, relaxing in the porch chairs, smoking—cigarettes, based on the smell—and sucking down sixteen-ounce cans of Monster. Briefly, he considered chasing them off, but Eden was right. An opportunity was an opportunity, and their job was to make the most of whatever came their way, not squander one because he wasn’t in the mood for work. With an arm draped around her, he took the steps. “Hey, guys. make yourselves at home.”

“Dude”—Dobie looked at them, round-eyed—“we heard what happened. It, like, freaked us out. We hauled ass over here to make sure our girl was still in one piece.”

Before he could growl “She’s not your girl,” Eden said, “I’m okay. You guys are the best friends a person could ask for, to come all this way just to check on me. You want to trade up to Blue Moon? I think we’ve got some in the fridge.”

“I’ll get it.” God knows he needed a beer. He held the screen door open with a shoulder and unlocked the front door, then waited, expecting Eden to come through, as she no doubt wanted to change out of her road-stained clothes, but instead she carefully lowered herself into one of the chairs around the firepit. He caught her small wince when her hip connected with the seat and nearly reconsidered his decision not to chase them off. But she smoothed her expression into a smile and aimed it his way. “Thanks, sweetie.”

“Yeah,” Kenny interjected. “Thanks, sweetie.”

He rolled his eyes and let the screen door slam behind him but left the solid door open so he could listen in while he got Advil and water for Eden, plus three beers. She regaled them with an abridged version of the incident, and the boys responded with suitable shock and awe.

By the time he banged back out onto the porch like some kind of cross between a barmaid and a nurse, Dobie was staring at Eden with his lovestruck expression, saying, “Wow. You’re, like, a real hero.”

He passed Kenny and Dobie beers, put one on the armrest of his own chair, and then put the water bottle on Eden’s armrest and knelt beside her. He opened his palm to reveal two painkillers. “Yeah.” He brushed a hand over her forehead. “A hero with a broken wing.”

She smiled her thanks and downed the tablets. Satisfied for the moment, he slid into his chair, stretched out his legs, and downed a serious swallow of beer. Then he reached across the space between their chairs and took Eden’s uninjured hand. “Unfortunately, choux, heroism comes at a cost.

Chapter Eighteen

God, Marc Swain never missed a trick. He really was good at the con, which didn’t surprise her. But he was also really good at taking care of her, which kind of had surprised her, because his careful attention, tenderness, and concern today couldn’t be written off as part of their cover. Too much of it had happened one-on-one. Maybe they were both going to have to accept that he was just really good, all around. As much as that realization made her want to smile, Eden pulled her lips into a frown. “You mean a sprained wrist and a few bruises? That’s a small price to pay for keeping a little one safe from harm.”

“Nah, baby.” His blue eyes narrowed in a flinch. “I mean the doctor’s bill. What all’d she do?” He counted off items. “X-ray, exam, bandages, wrist brace, plus her time. It’s going to set us back a grand, at least. Maybe more when you figure in the follow-up visit. That has to come out of the wedding budget ’cause we don’t have insurance yet. The plan through my work won’t kick in until I’ve been on the payroll ninety days.”

“What are you saying?” She pulled her hand out of his for effect.

Swain shot the guys a here we go glance, then turned his attention to her. “I’m saying we’re going to have to cut back some on those wedding plans you have your heart set on.”

“Cut back how, Swain?” She dredged up anger over something that seemed even more stupid after the day’s events. “Should I get married in jeans and a T-shirt? Is that what you mean?”

“I mean, choux, a thousand dollars is a lot of money to spend on a dress you’re only gonna wear once. A thousand dollars is a lot to spend on a photographer when you know your daddy is handy with a camera.”

She shot out of her chair in a show of temper, hissing a little as very real pain radiated from her bruised hip. “You want my father to take pictures at our wedding like he’s some kind of hired hand? And hey, I should be satisfied with a selfie of Daddy walking me down the aisle and a phone-captured video of our father-daughter dance. Maybe my mom can prepare and serve all the food? Jesus, Swain, most men would be proud of their fiancée for doing a good deed, but not you. You turn it into an excuse to be cheap.”