Texan Undercover (Romantic Suspense)

by Anne Marie Novark

  But Claire wasn't ready to pursue a relationship yet. Maybe not ever again. For thirty-two years, she had flunked out in the men department. In high school. In college. In marriage.

  So why was a certain private eye tempting her to test the waters again? Making her want something she wasn't ready for?

  Claire grabbed her purse and coat and left her office. She flipped off lights on the way to the back door.

  Sure the man was hot, but he was also rude. Was he that way with everyone? And why should she care?

  Good grief. She'd avoided men since her divorce because there was no place for a relationship to go. She didn't believe in happily ever after. At least, not for herself. Not anymore. Bennett had hurt her. No way would she open up and become vulnerable. She would never let a man have that kind of power over her again.

  Claire needed to get away from Dillon and temptation. She'd leave town and see about hiring that other tech. The perfect excuse to put some distance between her and the handsome private eye.

  Damn, she'd been all but drooling as she watched the man hook up his little gadgets to her machines, admiring the muscles beneath his shirt when he bent and stooped over the computers. She couldn't help wondering what it would feel like with Dillon bent over her.

  Don't go there, Claire. Sighing, she switched off the last light. Dillon probably thought she was an idiot, anyway. Why couldn't she keep his names straight? She was smart, damn it. She had two degrees from Drexel. One in computer science, the other in business administration. She should be able to remember his cover.

  After locking the back door, Claire made her way across the parking lot. Her stomach tightened when she saw the shadow of a man leaning against her car. The panic subsided when she recognized Dillon.

  Drat the man.

  "What do you think you're doing?" she asked. "Is this some Neanderthal kind of thing? You don't think I'm capable of getting myself home safely? I've managed fine so far, thank you very much."

  "You're not from Texas, are you?" He pushed away from the car.

  "No, I'm not." The question threw her. "What does that have to do with anything?"

  "There's a Southern Code of Honor," Dillon said. "Or maybe it's my code of honor. Or hell, maybe it is a Neanderthal kind of thing. Never mind. Get in the damn car, lock the doors and get yourself home."

  Claire watched him turn on his heels and stalk away. He climbed into his pickup, but didn't drive off. He sat there and stared at her. Waiting.

  She got in her little red BMW, started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot. She glanced in her rearview mirror. Dillon turned onto the street and eased in behind her. Was he following her home?

  For several minutes, Claire decided that was precisely what he was doing and it made her angry. She was also touched.

  When he turned in the opposite direction as they approached the freeway, Claire squashed the spurt of disappointment gnawing inside.

  ****

  "So, the woman's hot. I say go for it." Stan Brozek carried his laptop to the coffee table and sat on the edge of the sofa. "Jeez! Why can't I get this? Take a look at line five-sixty-eight in the pattern-matching module. I keep getting an error."

  Dillon squatted on his haunches beside the coffee table and looked at the code his partner was working on. They were debugging the backup program that would log the data from the computers in e*Claire's. The gadgets he'd installed last week were a trip wire, to trap anyone who unplugged them. This program was the key to the investigation.

  "Line five-sixty-eight, you said?" Dillon studied the string for a minute. "Don't deallocate the structure when you finish with the input."

  "Damn, why didn't I see that?" Brozek's fingers flew over the keyboard as he made the correction. "I'm going to finish this baby tonight. You can make book on that, buddy."

  "Yeah, yeah. I hear you. I'll believe it when I see it." Dillon walked back to the desk to his own laptop. He picked up his Dr. Pepper and grabbed a handful of peanuts before sitting down.

  "You gonna ask the lady out?" Brozek asked.

  "Nope. It's business. I don't care how hot she is."

  "Business, bull. She's not a client or a suspect. Or is she?" Brozek looked up from his computer. "Is she?"

  "Hell, no. I don't know. She's said a few things . . . No, definitely not." Beautiful Claire Maxwell couldn't be the hacker. He needed to keep an open mind, though. Everyone was suspect, like he'd told her. He didn't want to consider the possibility of her involvement.

  "Then ask her out," Brozek said. "You haven't dated in God knows how long. You could use a tension reliever, buddy. A hot lady and a soft bed. Ask the woman out. It would do you good. Do me good, too. Maybe you wouldn't be such a grouch."

  "She's not my type. Too high maintenance. Too expensive for my tastes." Keep telling yourself that, Anderson.

  "Hey, not all rich ladies are like your mother. You need to get over that. Move on."

  Dillon took a swig of Dr. Pepper. "Yeah, well. Your mother didn't dump you when you were seven years old. I'm over it. I've moved on. I just don't care for snobby rich girls, that's all."

  "The Maxwell dame's not snobby," Brozek said. "I've been in the cafe enough to see how she treats her customers. She might wear designer clothes and expensive jewelry, but she's not snobby."

  "Leave it alone, Brozek." Maybe Claire wasn't a snob, but she still made him feel like he wasn't good enough. Dillon didn't like the feeling. He'd fought it all his life.

  "You have to get over this phobia of yours, pal. So what if your mom's parents gave you a bad rap when you were a kid, you are not hurting for money now. You could move in the best circles, if you wanted."

  "That's not what I want." His early years had convinced him of that. Dillon's mother and grandparents really were snobs. He'd lived in Lubbock with them, after his mother left his father. He'd never fit in. And they'd never let him forget it.

  "How's that program going?" Dillon asked.

  "Trying to change the subject?"

  "Two points for the Polack."

  "Hey, now. I'm just trying to help."

  "I don't want help. I want to get this job over and done with. We have a company to run. In Dallas. Six months away from home is too long."

  "Yeah, yeah. I'm tired of living in this apartment with you, too."

  "Then stop talking and start working." Dillon tossed a couple of peanuts in his mouth. Brozek was right. He had to get over this phobia with the rich upper class. But it was hard to forgive and forget.

  On his seventh birthday, his mother had flown him to Houston for a rare visit to his father. She'd signed over full custody and Dillon had never seen her again.

  His dad had been kind and loving in an absent-minded way. An intense and dedicated scholar, he taught history at Rice University. Dillon had made good grades in school, but he wasn't in the same league with his dad. Again, he found himself not fitting in. Not good enough.

  Dillon logged on to the Internet and checked his email. It was ironic that he'd chosen the field of private investigation for a career. Going undercover required blending in with the environment. All those years of trying to fit in was put to good use. And for short periods of time, he could live as someone else. Didn't have to think about who he really was or where he'd come from. A cop-out? Maybe. Everyone had to deal with life in his own way.

  "Damn it. I'm getting another error," Brozek said. "Come look at this. Man, I don't believe it. Why don't you take over? I'm going to grab some food."

  Dillon took his soda and settled down on the sofa. This program was proving to be a bitch. He read over the code Brozek had written. Lines and lines of it. One little mistake and the whole thing unraveled.

  "I feel like Chinese," Brozek said, stretching. "You feel like Chinese?"

  Dillon didn't look up from the laptop. "Chinese is good. Don't forget the mustard this time."

  "Grouchy, grouchy. Do us both a favor. Ask the lady out." Brozek shrugged on his leather jacket and adjusted the
collar.

  "You're way too interested in my personal life," Dillon said. "We're on a job, remember? Kinda tough to start a relationship."

  "All work and no play . . . You know what they say? Not healthy. Not healthy at all."

  "Go get the food, Brozek."

  "Just think about it. You need a woman, man. It's been too long. That's not healthy, either."

  "Thank you, doctor. Now get off it, will you?"

  "Okay, okay. I'm gone."

  The door to the apartment closed. Dillon finished his soda. He and his partner usually got along fine. But six months on an assignment made the nerves stretch thin.

  He liked Stan Brozek. Respected him, too. Eight years ago, they had started A & B Investigations. Internet surveillance and computer crime was a growing area of concern. Hunting down hackers, con artists, even terrorists in the infinite void of cyberspace proved challenging and rewarding. Dillon could play with his computers and catch the crooks. Not a bad way to make a living.

  "All right. Okay." Dillon found the error, typed out a command and corrected it. They were closing in on the hacker; he felt it in his gut. With this program and a little luck, they'd nail the bastard.

  Brozek had worked non-stop on this case from the beginning. Right away, it was obvious the hacker never used his own computer. He bounced his communications around the world through different servers. Brozek traced every bounce point one at a time until he'd discovered the origin: the computers at e*Claire's. Subpoenas and court orders were obtained so they could proceed through proper channels. Everything had to be legal, so the evidence would hold up in court.

  For the past week, Brozek worked backup to Dillon's undercover operation. When he wasn't minding the surveillance van two blocks over, he came into e*Claire's. The cybercafé kept long hours catering to the college crowd. Brozek relieved Dillon sometime during the day, every day. No one knew Brozek was working with him. Not even Claire.

  Dillon hadn't seen her for over a week. A couple of days after he started working at e*Claire's, she left town. Before that, she'd avoided him like the plague. But he'd watched her--covertly--when she'd made the rounds among her customers. No, Claire Maxwell was definitely not a snob. She joked with everyone and helped students with homework.

  Dillon told himself he was glad she had left town. And he told himself he wasn't glad she'd be back tomorrow.

  ****

  "Here's your breakfast." Natalie set a steaming mug of raspberry tea and a pastry on Claire's desk. "How'd it go? Did you hire another tech?"

  "Yes," Claire said. "I found a computer science major to work part-time in Huntsville. I thought we'd share duties for a while before having tech support at each cafe. See how it goes, you know?"

  "Sounds good to me. The hunky tech here is doing a bang-up job. A couple of computers crashed last week and he had them running in no time."

  "Great." Claire sipped her tea. She hadn't seen Dillon since she'd returned. Monday mornings were always hectic, especially when she'd been gone for a while. "Any more troubles with Richard? Has he been getting to work on time?"

  "Pretty much."

  Claire didn't like the sound of that. "What's going on? Why are you covering for the guy?"

  "Because he's an artiste." Natalie waved her hands vaguely in front of her.

  "An artiste? He's a pastry chef, Nat."

  "Chefs can be temperamental, can't they? And his éclairs and lady fingers are dreamy," she sighed. "I can forgive him his little discrepancies and eccentricities, why can't you? He's the best chef we have. I don't think we can afford to lose him."

  "All right, all right. You obviously have a soft spot for him. Or more likely, his pastries. Just make him understand he needs to be more punctual."

  Natalie gave a mock salute. "Will do, boss."

  "Cut it out. So what else has been happening? You've kept me informed through email, but it's not the same." Claire told herself she wasn't fishing for information about a certain private eye. The one who had been taking up way too much of her thoughts this past week.

  "Frank is back," Natalie said.

  "From Colorado? How did the dig go?" Frank Winslowe was an instructor at UT, working on his Ph.D. in archeology. He was a regular customer in the cafe.

  Natalie shrugged. "He said it went well. It wasn't really a dig though. He spent the Christmas holidays cataloguing artifacts and gluing together shards of Anasazi pottery. His idea of a grand old time."

  "You like him, don't you?" Claire bit into the puff pastry. The creamy concoction dissolved in her mouth with an explosion of sweetness on her taste buds. No, they really couldn't afford to fire Richard the artiste.

  "What can I say?" Natalie shrugged. "I have a weakness for guys in wire-rimmed glasses."

  "You are so weird, Nat."

  "Don't knock it. Glasses can be sexy, especially if that's all the guy is wearing."

  Claire shook her head at her friend. "You're also shameless."

  "Hey, I like men. All types. All flavors." Natalie grinned. "He finally asked me out."

  "Shy, quiet Frank asked you out? Congratulations," Claire said. "You've been dying to date him. Now you have your wish. When's the big night?"

  "Saturday. Think you can fill in for me? It might be busy. All the kids have returned from winter break and classes started last week. They're a little wild."

  "Busy is good and I think I can handle the wild. Go and have a good time. Don't worry about anything here."

  "Thanks, Claire. You're the greatest--" A crash in the kitchen, followed by a string of loud curses, interrupted Natalie.

  "Sounds like Richard's in unusual form this morning," Claire said.

  Natalie hopped out of her chair. "I better go see what all the fuss is about."

  "I'll come, too."

  When Claire entered the kitchen, it was like stepping into the middle of a television sitcom. Her head chef stood near the industrial-sized refrigerator wielding a wooden spoon. He was screaming at someone bent over in the opened fridge. Claire swallowed hard. She had a pretty good idea who that denim-clad bottom belonged to.

  "Imbecile! Out of my kitchen! I do not allow such a one near my pastries." Richard advanced cautiously toward the fridge. His two assistants ignored him and kept working at the stainless steel counter, preparing that day's menu items.

  "Cool your jets, Pierre. I'll get out of your precious kitchen as soon as I find something to eat. I'm tired of all the sweets. Why don't you cook real food? A sausage and biscuit would go down good right now." Dillon unfolded his tall frame from his crouched position and turned to face the irate chef.

  "I would rather die than make this, what you call it? Sausage and biscuit." Richard lifted his chin and glared at Dillon.

  "I could easily arrange that. Especially if you throw more pots at me."

  Richard sniffed. "Leave now and I will refrain from further violence." He jerked his left arm out, pointing the way to the door. His eyes widened when he noticed Claire and Natalie. The little man rushed across the room. "Mademoiselle Maxwell, you will persuade this imbecile to leave immediately. I cannot perform my duties with such people near me."

  Claire watched Dillon move toward them. The Frenchman almost cowered as the big man stopped beside him. But the chef stood his ground and lifted his chin even higher. Richard Lareau might be small in stature, but he was no wimp. The dark-haired, dark-eyed chef had emigrated from France and attended UT Austin, where he had majored in the culinary arts. Claire knew he was biding his time at e*Claire's until he found a position at a prestigious restaurant.

  "Mademoiselle?" Richard clasped the spoon in front of him.

  Dillon turned to face her. "Yes, Mademoiselle?"

  For the past week, Claire had tried not to think about Dillon Anderson. His striking good looks. His bedroom eyes. His hard mouth. She'd tried, but he'd constantly crept into her thoughts anyway.

  Now, with him standing so close, latent hormones stood to attention. Broad shoulders filled the brown cab
le sweater. Strong muscled thighs strained against the denim of his jeans. His hazel eyes invited her to share in the absurdity of the situation. She hadn't realized he had a sense of humor. His lazy grin speared her through the chest.

  If she smiled, Claire risked offending the sensitive chef. She covered her mouth and coughed. "Natalie, take care of this, will you?"

  Her friend stepped forward. "I'm sorry, big guy," Natalie said to Dillon. "You'll have to leave. I've told you before, the kitchen belongs to Richard and no one is allowed back here."

  Claire left the kitchen and hurried down the hall to her office. Heavy footsteps sounded behind her. Anticipation and a delicious sense of dread glided along her spine.

  She heard the chirp of a cell phone and glanced over her shoulder. Dillon answered the call and picked up speed. He grabbed her elbow, pushed her through the door and slammed it shut. He snagged her with those bedroom eyes. Claire wanted to look away, but couldn't.

  "Get over there and start the trace," Dillon barked into the phone. "I'll work this end. Right." He cut the connection.

  The walls of Claire's office closed in on her. Dillon's fingers burned through her sweater. He still stared at her.

  "Who was that?" Her voice was a whisper; her throat dry. "My partner," he said. "K & G Research has been hacked into. Again."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dillon released Claire's elbow. He didn't want to. He wanted to pull her close. Taste her. Touch her. The job, Anderson. Focus on the job.

  "You think the hacker did it from here?" Claire stepped away, scooted around her desk and sat down.

  "Probably. I've started a trace. Should know something in a few hours." Dillon lowered his frame into the chair opposite. Why was he so attracted to Claire? He'd been around beautiful women before. What was different about the woman on the other side of the desk?

  "Do you know what kind of attack it was?" Claire picked up a pen and scribbled something on a pad of paper. She kept her eyes lowered.

  "Smurf. Floods the email host with fake messages--"