Spying Under the Mistletoe (Love Undercover Book 2)

by Stina Lindenblatt

  “That bad, huh?” Jayden asks.

  “It wasn’t what I was expecting, that’s for certain.”

  I get them up to speed on the Christmas concert and my date with Chloe.

  “She’s already falling for your charms?” Adam asks. “Nice job, man.”

  “It’s more about Whiskey’s charms than anything. This little guy can charm the shit out of anyone.” The little guy in question is snoozing contently on my lap while I watch the San Francisco Rock game.

  I cringe as the Calgary Flames score. The Rock are now down two in the second period.

  “Any word yet on who has the contract out on Chloe?” I ask them.

  “No,” Liam says. “The Feds can only say that whoever’s interested in her also wants to locate Nikolai. The sole difference is, whoever has the contract on her wants to take him out. The Feds just want to lock him up for the rest of his life and destroy the mafia kingdom he inherited.”

  “Is it really that big of a deal if someone kills him instead?” Connor asks. “It would certainly save tax-payer money.”

  “If the Feds can lock up Nikolai, they can also take out other players in the crime family. That’s their ultimate goal.”

  “Sounds great—except for the part where whoever has the contract out on Chloe will sweep in and deepen their network in the area,” I say. “The reason they haven’t so far is because the Orlov crime family is too deeply entrenched in this part of the world. The only way to gain control of the territory is to take out the entire family.”

  “Including those members who have nothing to do with the criminal activities?” Connor asks.

  He’s right. Chloe can’t be the only innocent in this game.

  “The Feds are working on that, too,” Liam says as a Flames player lands in the penalty box. “It’s a never-ending battle. But for the most part, it’s their battle until they ask for our help.”

  “Well, who do we have here?” Adam says, voice on full alert.

  “Who?” I ask, my heart suddenly pounding unexpectedly in my chest.

  “It’s a woman who doesn’t live in the building.” He describes her as best as he can due to the distance and lighting.

  “Whoever it is, she isn’t purposely hiding her face. So she’s probably some innocent visiting the building.”

  “Can you tell what apartment she buzzed?” Connor asks at the same time I say, “Are you able to send us a photo?”

  “I have no idea. Her body was blocking the panel, so I couldn’t see which button she pushed. But I’m sending you her photo now.”

  A moment later, the image comes through on our phones.

  What the fuck?

  “Her name is Tabitha Windhouse. She’s the president of the Dalhousie Elementary PTA.” I give them the CliffsNotes version of what I know about her.

  “Too bad we can’t bug Chloe’s apartment. Then we could hear if that’s who Tabitha is visiting.”

  This is where being the good guy is problematic. You can guarantee the mafia has no issues bugging people’s homes, vehicles, or phones if it suits their purpose. The same can’t be said about the Feds or us unless there is approval from the higher powers. If they’re caught illegally bugging someone, any evidence they collect could be inadmissible in court.

  Which means the bad guys might win.

  And no one wants that—except for the bad guys and their greedy lawyers.

  I can’t even ask Chloe the next day about Tabitha’s unexpected visit. There’s no way for me to explain how I know about it without drawing suspicion.

  “Maybe Ava can get her to talk about it at lunch. She could ask her how tonight’s PTA meeting went.” I might not specify it, but the comment is directed at Liam—Ava’s husband.

  And Liam knows it. “I’m not comfortable dragging my wife into our case. It’s enough that she talked to Principal Woodnut first to get permission for you to be at the school even though you’re not qualified to be a substitute teacher. The less Ava’s involved, the better.

  “But I’ll make sure she knows to tell me what Chloe says if she confides in Ava about why Tabitha was there.”

  That will have to do.

  “Otherwise, I’ll have to hope Chloe brings it up at lunch,” I say.

  “Connor, what can you tell us about Tabitha?” Liam asks.

  Connor’s our information guy. If there’s anyone who can find out anything, it’s him. Depending on the mission, he can often get information from his FBI contacts if the info isn’t available to him through his normal channels.

  I’d be surprised if he hasn’t already done a background search on Tabitha while we’ve been talking.

  “She was married to Tim Atkins, a prosecutor and a vocal advocate for giving white-collar criminals longer jail time. They’ve been divorced for a year now.”

  Apparently, Tim’s creepy pastime when it came to Chloe didn’t damage his career.

  “They have two kids, both attending Dalhousie Elementary School. They share custody. She’s the president of the PTA, which you’re already aware of. She ran a high-end catering company before she married Atkins, and she’s currently a full-time mother.” He lists a bunch of other things, none of which set off any alarms.

  “She could be here simply to talk to Chloe about the show,” Adam says.

  I wince at the hit made on the Rock player, which sends him flying to the ice. “Assuming that’s who she’s there to see.”

  “Keep us updated if you see anything else pertaining to Tabitha’s visit,” Liam tells him.

  “Will do.”

  “Speaking of the show…Isabelle,” I say, since I have her on the line. “What are the chances of your Grandma Josephine giving me advice about planning a Christmas concert for seniors?”

  “Are you asking because she’s a senior and knows that demographic, or because she’s an Academy and Tony Award-winning actress?”

  “Let’s go with C: all of the above. Zoe’s the one who’s usually responsible for the school performances. But since she’s on maternity leave—thanks to us—the planning all falls on Chloe. I’ve volunteered to help her, but I know as much about that sort of thing as she does. So I figured—”

  “You’d get extra brownie points when it comes to becoming her boyfriend?” Isabelle asks, putting the puzzle pieces together.

  “Yep, that pretty much sums it up.”

  “You do realize my grandmother doesn’t like to do things half-assed, right?”

  I laugh. “Yes, I do realize that.”

  “Chloe’s probably thinking something along the lines of the kids singing a few songs. My grandmother will be envisioning something more along the lines of a Broadway-style production. But I can still ask her if you’d like.”

  “Yes, please.” That should buy me more than enough brownie points.

  Hopefully.

  10

  Chloe

  I pull into my parking spot at the school and turn off the engine. Before I have a chance to climb out of my car, Landon steers into the empty spot next to me.

  He waves and gestures for me to wait a moment. I slide out of my vehicle and collect my purse and bag of supplies for the day.

  “Mornin’,” he says, coming around to where I’m standing.

  “You ready for this?” This being his third day at school.

  “Definitely. Isn’t the number one rule when it comes to bears to never let them sense your fear?”

  The corners of my mouth twitch. I’d hardly compare kindergarteners to a ferocious forest beast.

  They’re more like a combination of Pooh and Tigger: always eager for something sugary and ready to bounce off the walls.

  “Good point,” I say. “They’ll be swinging from the lights if they sense your fear. And I’m sure William, the janitor, wouldn’t appreciate that.”

  He laughs, and we walk toward the building. The crisp November air is heavy with the promise of rain, and I can almost feel my waves frizz in the lingering dampness.

  �
�Did you have a good night after I dropped you off at your car?” he asks.

  “It wasn’t too eventful. I talked to my accountant for you. Sorry, he’s too busy to take on new clients.”

  Landon’s expression says my news doesn’t surprise him. “That’s okay. Thanks for asking. What else did you do?”

  “I came up with a list of Christmas songs the kids can sing for the concert. Now, I just need to find someone who can accompany them. You don’t, by any chance, know anyone who plays an instrument, do you?”

  “Sorry, I don’t. So other than coming up with the list of songs, did you do anything else exciting last night?” He doesn’t sound particularly disappointed by the extent of what I’ve told him. It’s more like he’s expecting there to be something else.

  “I watched some TV”—an old episode of Outlander because Jamie Fraser’s accent is damn sexy—“but that’s about the extent of it. What about you?”

  Landon opens the side door, and we step inside the building. “My evening was pretty much the same. Except I worked on my teaching plans and watched hockey.”

  I laugh. “You sound as boring as I do.”

  After checking in at the office, we head to our classrooms.

  “I heard the good news,” Ava says, coming toward us down the hall. “That Tabitha agreed to let you do the Christmas performance.” Her gaze flicks momentarily to Landon before returning to me.

  “More like the parents and teachers at the meeting agreed it would be a good idea. She was outvoted. So it looks like she won’t be pulling any strings to get the school board to prevent it from happening.”

  “And she was okay with that?”

  “She kept whatever she was thinking off her face, but I suspect she’s waiting for me to screw up with the show so she can say ‘I told you so.’ ”

  Landon and Ava exchange glances again. “Which is why we won’t give her that satisfaction,” he says.

  I swear it must be a full moon…or whatever it is that turns cute, curious kids into abominable monsters.

  Even my typically sweet little angels have sprouted horns in the past few hours.

  And I’m not referring to unicorn horns.

  Melissa goes racing around a table, squealing as Anton chases after her with a blue monster puppet on his hand.

  I remove it. “Is there any particular reason you’re chasing Melissa around the classroom when running inside is against the rules?”

  He lifts his chin, the confidence of a cutthroat attorney oozing from him. “She took my pencil.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did too.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did too.”

  Melissa’s closing statement involves sticking her tongue out at him.

  “All right, you two.” I remove a pencil from the holder on my desk and hand it to Anton. “Go sit down and practice writing the letter L. Both lower and upper case.”

  “But—” Melissa starts to say.

  “No buts. We don’t run in the classroom, and you both know that. You save it for outside. And you don’t use poor Wilfred here for terrorizing other students. He’s a happy monster and doesn’t like to be wrongly stereotyped to be something other than what he is.”

  “What does ste-re-type mean?” Jackson asks, his eager face peering up at me, even though he wasn’t part of the initial conversation.

  “It means believing that everyone from the same group has the same characteristics. For example, assuming a really tall man is a great basketball player. For all you know, he doesn’t like sports. Or maybe he’s a talented hockey player and doesn’t know the first thing about basketball.”

  At “hockey player,” Landon’s image pops into my head.

  Nope, not happening, I tell my brain, my body, and anything else that’s listening.

  I’m not going there. Being a single woman is a good thing.

  I’m independent.

  I’m strong.

  Okay, the lack of sex in what feels like a lifetime sucks, but there’s definitely more to life than being in an intimate relationship with a man.

  Besides, that’s why God invented vibrators.

  “Wilfred might be a blue monster,” I say, “but that doesn’t mean he’s scary because the monster stereotype says he’s mean and scary. He can be a giving monster who likes to help everyone he sees. And just because he’s a blue monster doesn’t mean he loves cookies. Does that make sense?”

  All three of them nod and return to their tables.

  By the time the final bell rings, I’m more than ready to go home and soak in the tub. But before I can do that, I’m scheduled to volunteer at the retirement village. I haven’t told Mathilda yet that the Christmas show doesn’t have to be canceled after all.

  The kids all leave, and I pack up my stuff to work on at my place.

  Landon pokes his head in the classroom, like he’s done several times during the day. “Are you going home now?”

  “No, I’m volunteering first at the seniors’ residence. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “I’m almost finished in here. Wait for me, and I’ll walk you to your car.”

  I brush him off with a wave of my hand. “You don’t need to do that. It’s not like the school’s in a bad neighborhood.”

  He opens his mouth, as if he’s going to say something, but whatever that was is interrupted by the ringing of his phone. He glances at the screen, gives me the universal sign for “wait a second,” and answers it.

  He turns around, talking to whoever’s on the other line, and strides back into his classroom.

  Not wanting to stick around and feel like I’m eavesdropping, I grab my purse and coat, and leave.

  The weather isn’t any better since this morning. The air is chilled and damp from the earlier dump of rain, and large puddles dot the near-empty parking lot.

  At my car, I glance at my front tire, and a silent curse rushes through me like a gush of wind.

  Fuckadoodle.

  My tire is flatter than a stepped-on chunk of Play-Doh.

  I let out a hard breath and crouch to examine the wheel.

  Footsteps approach from behind. Before I have a chance to turn around to see who they belong to, a gloved hand covers my mouth and nose. My heart rate screeches to a halt, and a surprised scream jostles loose from me, the sound muffled by the hand.

  I’m roughly yanked to my feet, and a thick arm pins me to a large, hard body.

  Even without seeing who it belongs to, I know the man holding me isn’t Landon.

  I struggle and squirm and kick at him. He tightens his grip, squeezing the air out of me like the coils of a giant serpent.

  A giant serpent with feet.

  My attempts to escape are getting me nowhere, so I lift my foot and stomp it. Hard.

  My shoe makes contact with the instep of his foot.

  “Fucking bitch,” he hisses in my ear.

  But alas, the attack on his foot isn’t enough for him to release me.

  It is enough, though, to surprise him, and his grip loosens slightly. So I do it again.

  “Fucking stop that,” he growls.

  “Go to hell.”

  That’s what I say. All he hears is a muffled noise that sounds unrecognizable at best. For all he knows, I’ve just asked him to color in a picture of a friendly dinosaur.

  I keep squirming…

  Until I feel the cold press of metal against the side of my head.

  I freeze.

  “That’s fucking better.” His palm on my mouth shifts, allowing me to breathe a little easier.

  Literally, not metaphorically.

  “I’m going to remove my hand from your mouth, and then we’re going to take a little walk to my van. You’re not going to struggle or call out for help. If you do, you’re a dead little lady. Am I perfectly clear?”

  I can barely hear him, my pulse pounding loudly in my ears, but I nod my head, understanding a lot more than he realizes.

  As promised, his hand disappea
rs from my mouth—and my lungs plead for me to take a long drawing breath of the soothing cool air. To ease my throat, which is sore from screaming.

  Dampness rolls down my face, but I can’t tell if it’s from tears or random raindrops that are beginning to fall.

  The gun moves from my head, and he pushes me forward. I can no longer see it or feel it, but it’s there all the same.

  I’m not a religious person—but that doesn’t stop me from praying to God or any other deity who can help me. Praying that I’ll get through this.

  That I won’t become another statistic.

  There are so many things I have left to do on this planet, like the Christmas show.

  If I don’t survive this, there won’t be a Christmas show. Not unless the teachers go through with it to honor my final wishes.

  Maybe God will let me return to earth to watch it.

  Or I could be an angel and help with spreading good deeds.

  I could live with that (no pun intended).

  The man tells me where to go—which isn’t the same place where I’d like to tell him to go.

  When faced with death, people go through many phases before acceptance kicks in. They bargain with God. They promise they’ll be a better person if he lets them live.

  They’ll give up smoking or drinking too much coffee or whatever their vice is.

  I’m too busy for that.

  I’m planning all the things I can return to earth to do as an angel—like Clarence in It’s a Wonderful Life.

  I’ll probably have to start small. Rookie stuff. The bigger good deeds are no doubt delegated to the more experienced, senior angels.

  This is assuming I’ll return in human form. Maybe God has a sense of humor and will send me down as a dog.

  A cute dog like Whiskey.

  The thought that I’ll never see Whiskey again clenches my heart in an invisible fist. It tightens when I realize I might never again see anyone I love.

  My friends.

  My mother.

  My cousin Nikolai.

  What are the chances if I return as an angel, I’ll get to see the people I love again?

  That’s the last thought I have before I’m suddenly free of the man’s arms and stumbling to the ground.