Lover Undercover (McCade Brothers 1)

Goodness. Ellie used her napkin to blot the sweat from her upper lip. Like what?

“What do you mean?” Ginny asked, her voice pregnant with curiosity.

Ellie flipped the page in her journal and feigned deep interest in an article about a recent drug trial for a female libido enhancer, of all things.

“He wanted me to—” Melody paused. Ellie peeked in the window and watched the blonde’s reflection glance around the diner, scanning the area for prying eyes and ears. Wise move. Sleepy little Bluelick, Kentucky, might be a mere speck on the map, but it boasted a grapevine of staggering efficiency.

Ellie shamefully included herself in the prying eyes and ears category, but the real irony was Melody’s choice of confidant. If the local gossips elected a president, Ginny would win by a landslide.

Apparently satisfied she had no unwanted listeners, Melody leaned toward Ginny and whispered. Ginny’s mouth dropped open. Ellie strained to hear, but it was no use.

The statuesque blonde leaned back in her chair and shuddered delicately. “I am not that kind of girl. I just won’t do those things. I mean, I like sex as much as the next woman, but Roger’s looking for a nymphomaniac. His ideal woman has a whole lot of experience and very few boundaries.” She sighed and shook her head. “I’ll always love him, as a friend, but really, it’s for the best.”

Hours later Ellie stared at the moonlight slanting through the window of her cozy bedroom and reviewed the conversation she’d overheard at the diner. Her conscience cringed at the rudeness of eavesdropping, not to mention coveting another woman’s freshly cast-off fiancé. Either transgression might explain why she was still tossing and turning at one thirty in the morning.

Let it go for the night, she told herself, but her stubborn mind refused to obey. Shadows played across the ceiling while she obsessed over how to turn her most cherished secret wish into reality. She’d had the dream, in one form or another, for as long as she could remember: Roger fell in love with her. They married, moved to one of the stately old houses overlooking the river, and lived happily ever after, preferably with a passel of blue-eyed, honey-haired mini-Rogers. Roger III first—they’d call him Trey—and then Michael, or Elizabeth, if they had a girl…

The low rumble of a motorcycle tore through the quiet of the warm June night, distracting her from her family planning. Abruptly, the noise ceased and silence reigned again, everywhere exce

pt between her ears.

Melody had headed the cheer squad in high school. She was beautiful, limber, and full of…pep. If Melody couldn’t satisfy Roger in the sack, what chance did academic-minded, unathletic, and comparatively inexperienced Ellie Swann stand?

So close, and yet so far. On one hand, their paths seemed perfectly aligned. She’d recently moved back to Bluelick to open her general practice and keep tabs on her father, who was facing, or more accurately ignoring, a type 2 diabetes diagnosis—not that he seemed particularly thrilled with her weekly check-ins. Roger had returned home to join his family’s law firm. They were both single young professionals looking for love. On the other hand, unless she transformed into a sexually adventurous woman, fast, he’d never give her a second glance.

Thankfully she wasn’t still “Sparky” Swann, the sad little dork she’d been in high school. Back then the most curvaceous thing about her had been the thick round glasses she’d worn to correct nearsightedness. The intervening years had brought the final flourishes of puberty, LASIK surgery, and a much-needed fashion intervention by her college roommates. Nobody mistook her for a Victoria’s Secret model, but at least she didn’t still look like a refugee from science camp.

What did Roger look like now? Letting her heavy eyelids drift closed, she conjured up his golden perfection in her mind’s eye. She could picture him clear as day, seated in pew four at Bluelick Baptist with the rest of the Reynolds clan, all tall and square-jawed in his Sunday best. Would his eyes retain their stunning sky-blue clarity? Would he still have his star quarterback’s body and thick, gilt-blond waves? It didn’t matter. She adored Roger for more than his pretty container. Everything about him appealed to her, from his large, loving family to his sense of tradition and duty, confirmed by his decision to follow in the footsteps of his father and grandfather, joining them in their law practice.

In the seamless way of dreams, Roger turned to her and smiled his heart-stopping, almost blindingly white smile. The congregation launched into a booming rendition of “Rise Up, O Men of God.” He winked and leaned in close. Can I share a secret with you, Sparky? I’m—

Something crashed, and a low, distinctly un-Roger-like voice muttered, “Goddammit!”

She bolted upright in bed, heart pounding. Her eyes automatically sought the red glow of her bedside clock: 1:47 a.m. Had her subconscious sound editor missed a cue, or had a real-life noise jarred her out of what had been shaping up to be a very interesting dream? Holding her breath, she listened intently, and then nearly screamed when another crash sounded from her front porch. Another muffled curse followed.

Her feet hit the floor. Her hand swept across the surface of the bedside table, searching for her phone. The slow, steady crunch of gravel betrayed someone’s progress around her cute and, gulp, isolated cottage. When the footfalls stopped, her racing heart pole-vaulted into her throat. Someone lurked outside her bedroom window.

Your open bedroom window, her mind screamed. What had she been thinking, going to sleep without locking the window? Now nothing but a flimsy screen and a wispy white curtain separated her from some crazed rapist-murderer. Unless this guy had the body mass of a mosquito, she was screwed.

She snatched up her phone and ordered herself to calm down. Bluelick wasn’t exactly a hotbed for cold-blooded violence. Everybody knew everybody and a good percentage of them were related. If she braved a look outside, she’d probably find some kid pulling a dare, more scared than she was.

A deep, almost lazy “Hey, Doc?” broke into her weak attempt at self-soothing.

The voice didn’t sound like a kid, or the least bit scared. Her fingers fumbled over the phone, tripping up the simple 9-1-1. If he wanted to come in, he’d be through the window and choking the life out of her in less than a minute. Emergency responders would reach her in time to draw a chalk outline around her cold, dead body.

“I’ve got a gun!” she croaked, trying for Dirty Harry, but sounding more like Kermit the Frog.

“Well, that’s fine, Doc,” the oddly familiar voice drawled. “But you don’t need it. I’ve already been shot.”

Shot? Holy smokes, was he serious? She flicked on her bedside lamp, but before she could formulate a response, he went on. “C’mon Sparky, open up. I heard you moved back home to hang out your shingle. Congratulations, you’ve got your first patient.”

That he’d called her “Sparky” didn’t mean much. The entire town knew her by that godforsaken nickname, but her fear ebbed, because an unmistakable stitch of pain threaded her mystery visitor’s voice.

She crept to the window. “Who are you?”

“Tyler Longfoot. Remember me?”

What woman could forget Tyler Longfoot? Four years older than her, a whole lot wilder, and monumentally cooler, Bluelick’s very own badass rebel had always radiated dangerous charm. A vision of him floated through her mind: the devil’s mane of thick, black hair; flashing green eyes filled with careless challenge; sensual lips cocked with wicked intent.