Man Undercover

by Alana Matthews

  Tara felt herself redden again. She wasn’t particularly prone to blushing, but hearing this old woman say what she herself had been thinking half the night was embarrassing the heck out of her.

  She turned, making sure that Matt was asleep.

  “It’s not like that,” she said. “He’s a cop. And I have no interest in cops.”

  Imogene looked at her. “You actually fool yourself with a line like that?”

  “I’m not trying to fool anyone.”

  “Uh-huh,” the old woman said. “One thing I’ve learned in all my years on this Earth is this. You’re presented with an opportunity, you’d better take it, because you might not get the chance again. And, child, I’ve seen the way that boy looks at you. That’s the kind of look that only comes around once in a lifetime.”

  Tara felt her heart skip slightly, but pushed the feeling away.

  “What about you?” Tara asked. “You ever meet Mr. Right?”

  Imogene snorted. “What I met was Mr. Wrong, who up and left me right before Mr. Wrong, Jr. was born. Takes everything I got to keep that kid on track, but he’s finally coming around.”

  “Oh? What does he do?”

  “For a living? He’s in construction. You know that new Performing Arts Center? That’s one of the sites he worked on.”

  Tara nodded. “My station has been covering it. And I’m supposed to be at the dedication ceremony tomorrow.”

  “You’re a reporter, right? I thought I heard one of those idiots back in the mine call you that.”

  Tara shook her head. “A segment producer.”

  “And what exactly does that mean?”

  “I look for story ideas, listen to pitches from reporters, arrange interviews, stuff like that. It’s not very glamorous, but I enjoy it.”

  “You ever meet any movie stars?”

  Tara laughed. “Whitestone isn’t exactly a hot spot for the Hollywood crowd. But, who knows, there may be a few at the dedication tomorrow. Along with the mayor, the governor and a handful of big business types. You should stop by. You may get lucky and see somebody famous.”

  Imogene nodded. “I might just do that,” she said, and gave Tara a wink.

  THE DRIVE SEEMED TO take forever.

  Halfway down the mountain, Tara felt herself starting to nod off. She resisted at first—some kind of survival mechanism kicking in—then finally succumbed to the temptation and let her mind drift away.

  A moment later she was dreaming, images flickering through her brain, speeding up, slowing down, flashing intermittently like gunshots in the dark.

  A crying child.

  An empty classroom.

  A stern-faced teacher checking her watch.

  Then, without warning, Tara was back in the mine, crouching next to one of the dilapidated wooden braces, looking in horror at the pile of rock and debris left by Imogene’s booby trap as it began to rumble and shift.

  “He’s coming through,” Imogene said, and it was only then that Tara realized that the old woman was crouched next to her.

  But when Tara turned to face her, she didn’t see Imogene at all.

  It was her mother.

  Wearing a wedding dress.

  Her mother nodded toward the pile of rock as it continued to shift. Several chunks of debris fell away, leaving behind a jagged hole in the wall.

  “He made it,” she said. “He’s here.”

  “Who? Who is it?”

  “Who do you think?”

  Then a face appeared behind the wall—the hard, cold-eyed face of Ed Richmond, one of White stone’s finest. Career cop, cheating husband, absentee father.

  Tara’s absentee father.

  But the moment their gazes met, he was gone in a flash of bright white light, and Tara turned around to find herself standing in a funeral home, an open coffin only feet away from her.

  A woman sat nearby, dressed in black, tears in her eyes, and Tara recognized her immediately. Lila Sinclair. Detective Lila Sinclair, to be more precise. Her father’s ex-partner, second wife and now widow. This was the very same woman who had sat at the family table for Thanksgiving dinner when Tara was sixteen. The woman who had shared a motel room with Detective Richmond the night a burglar broke into his home and tried to rape his wife.

  Tears streamed down Lila’s cheeks, but Tara averted her gaze, not wanting to see that face, not wanting to talk to her, despising her simply for who she was and what she represented.

  Instead, Tara turned her attention to the open coffin and slowly strode toward it, feeling as if she were moving through a vat of molasses, each step an effort, her heart in her throat as she drew closer and closer.

  Grief gripped her as she came to a stop and stared down at the body inside. Eyes closed. Arms crossed over his chest.

  But to her surprise, it wasn’t her father.

  It was Matt.

  TARA JERKED AWAKE, sucking in a breath, and swiveled her head toward the backseat. Matt was still stretched across it, fast asleep, his bare chest rising and falling rhythmically.

  Uneasiness quaked through her and settled in her stomach, the image of him lying in that coffin lingering in her mind’s eye, an uninvited ghost. She shook it away, and hugged herself as if to ward off a chill.

  “You okay, hon?”

  Imogene. Keeping her gaze on the road.

  “Bad dream,” Tara said.

  “Boy, do I know that territory. But I sleep like a baby, now.”

  “Oh? How do you manage that?”

  “I don’t let things build up inside. Something bothers me, I take action, do something about it.” She looked at Tara. “Sometimes you just gotta shake things up, you know? Throw off your chains and air your grievances. Find a way to turn a bad dream into a good one.”

  Tara was tempted to point out to Imogene that she had just spouted about every pop psychology cliché that Tara had ever heard, but she bit her tongue. The old woman was only trying to make her feel better. But Tara didn’t feel better. The sense of unease the dream had given her had not yet dissipated, and she had to wonder if her unconscious mind had been trying to tell her something.

  Or confirm what she already knew.

  That getting involved with Special Agent Matt Hathaway would be nothing but heartache.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was past midnight when they reached the city.

  Whitestone was a sprawling mix of urban sophistication and western charm, home to old families with long histories. But with the sudden influx of new residents over the past decade, it had begun to rebuild and reinvent itself, a process that was slowly destroying what made the place unique.

  Now, strip malls, fast food drive-throughs and cookie-cutter apartment complexes dominated the neighborhoods, and Tara had a feeling that anyone visiting from, say, Los Angeles or Phoenix would feel as if they’d never left home.

  As they pulled onto the main highway, Imogene pointed toward the outbound lanes.

  Flashing blue lights ahead.

  Highway patrol cars.

  Glowing road flares blocked off all but one of the oncoming lanes, causing a line of traffic at least a quarter of a mile long.

  Even the traffic on their side of the highway had slowed to a crawl.

  It may have been a Friday night, but Tara didn’t think this was a drunk-driving checkpoint.

  Imogene smirked as they drew closer to it. “Looks like the little blue bears are having a hissy fit over your new boyfriend.”

  Surprised by her tone, Tara eyed her reproachfully.

  “What?” the old woman said. “You think you’re the only one who has a problem with cops? Just ’cause I’m pushin’ eighty don’t mean I’m Mother Teresa. Too many of these boys got a sense of entitlement that truly chaps my butt.”

  Tara said nothing. God knew she had her own prejudices, but she definitely didn’t share Imogene’s sentiments. Her father may have had his problems, but a sense of entitlement had not been one of them. And she certainly hadn’t seen it in Ma
tt.

  He was stirring now, coming awake, and she wondered if he had heard Imogene.

  She glanced at the activity across the highway, then reached over and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Stay down,” she said softly.

  He did as he was told, keeping his head low as they rolled past the road block. Fortunately, CSHP wasn’t checking the inbound cars.

  “We need to find a phone,” he said.

  Tara gestured to the patrol cars. “Or we could flag these guys down and tell them what’s happening.”

  “And spend the next two days wading through their territorial baloney? No thanks. They probably would have listened to you, but once they see a wanted fugitive, the game is over. I have to get hold of Everhardt.”

  Tara nodded, suddenly realizing that now that they were clear of danger, she not only wanted to divert a disaster, but was just as anxious to bring down The Brotherhood as Matt was. The shock of the past several hours was starting to wear off, and she could feel anger quickly replacing it.

  Those creeps had almost killed her.

  She wasn’t sure what had triggered this feeling. Imogene’s comment about the little blue bears, maybe. Not so much the words, but the way in which they’d been spoken. The not-so-subtle hint of scorn beneath them.

  It had reminded her of Carl and Rusty and Jimmy Zane. And any thoughts involving them were bound to make her angry. Especially Carl.

  She could still feel his paw squeezing her breast, and a shudder of revulsion ran through her.

  She turned to Imogene.

  “Phone,” she echoed. “Let’s find a phone.”

  THERE WAS AN EZ-MART on Charleston, just east of the highway. Imogene pulled the Rambler into the lot and parked away from the bright fluorescent lights of the storefront.

  The phone kiosk next to the entrance was graffiti-scarred and battered, but it looked functional.

  Matt pulled himself upright and opened his door. His joints were stiff from lack of use and he couldn’t wait to get out of this car.

  He looked at Imogene. “You mind taking Tara home?”

  Tara turned sharply. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve put you through enough,” he said. “You need to go home and get some rest. I’ll handle it from here.”

  “As much as I’d love to take a nice hot shower and count all my cuts and bruises, I think I’ll stick around for a while.”

  “Why?”

  She seemed surprised and even hurt by the question, as if he’d just told her this had been nothing more than a one-night stand. He immediately felt like a fool, and Imogene didn’t hesitate to reinforce that feeling.

  “Boy, you’re as dumb as rocks, aren’t you?”

  “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” he said to Tara. “But if I call Everhardt and he turns out to be the wrong guy, I don’t want you caught in the blowback.”

  “I’ve held my own so far, haven’t I?”

  “That’s not the point. You’ve been lucky. We’ve both been lucky. And if you were to get hurt now, I’d never forgive myself.”

  The defiance in her eyes made her even more beautiful. “I’m a grown-up, Matt. I can tie my own shoes and everything.”

  “I know that, but—”

  “And to be honest, this is the biggest story I’ve ever been involved with. I can’t walk away from it now.”

  Despite himself, Matt felt his heart lift. That Tara wanted to see this through, no matter what the reason, made her all the more attractive to him.

  She was, he realized, the first women he’d met since Becky died who possessed the kind of qualities that made him wonder if it was possible to fall in love again.

  A boldness of spirit.

  A quick, decisive mind.

  A face and body which only confirmed that God was a master craftsman.

  As much as he might try, he couldn’t forget her hands touching him, tending to him, caring for him.

  Or that almost-kiss back in Imogene’s shack.

  And while he knew it was wholly inappropriate to be thinking this right now, he wouldn’t mind putting the night on pause and taking a moment to help her count those cuts and bruises.

  Still, he’d meant what he said. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if she were to get hurt under his watch. Under anyone’s watch.

  He was about to tell her this again when she cut him off.

  “Look,” she said. “This isn’t a negotiation. So go make your phone call. I’ll be inside, looking for a restroom. If I can’t take that shower, at least I can freshen up.” She smiled. “I want to look my best when we take down the bad guys.”

  Matt shook his head and found himself returning the smile.

  How could he possibly argue with that?

  IT WASN’T UNTIL SHE GOT inside and smelled popcorn and roasting hot dogs that Tara realized she was starving. Her purse and wallet were still laying on the floor of Susan’s cabin, however, and she wasn’t about to ask Imogene for charity.

  The old woman had done far more than anyone could ask of a stranger. Especially under these circumstances. And it was obvious that Imogene wasn’t exactly rich. She barely had enough change for Matt to use the pay phone.

  He was out there now, standing at the kiosk in a wrinkled Marine-green T-shirt that Imogene had found in the Rambler’s trunk. One of her son’s old shirts that read NEVER SURRENDER.

  It was a little snug on Matt—which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing—but it was considerably less conspicuous than a torn and bloody prison shirt.

  Tara wished she had a change of clothes, too. Her V-neck was filthy, and when she’d asked the clerk for the restroom key, she was afraid he’d insist that she buy something before handing it over.

  But he didn’t, and when she got a look at herself in the restroom mirror, she considered this a minor miracle. There was a bruise developing on her right cheekbone, and she had no idea how she’d gotten it. The dirt on her face made it hard to see, but there was no disguising it. She looked like a battered wife.

  Tara dabbed at the bruise, felt a small pulse of pain. She let the water run hot, then stripped off her shirt and bra and got to work, washing the grime and sweat and blood off her face, hands, arms and torso, thinking how glorious it was to be clean.

  Or, at least, semi-clean.

  Discarding the bra, which was too disgusting to deal with, she used damp paper towels to wipe the V-neck, then slipped it back on, following up with a spot check.

  Not perfect, but better.

  There wasn’t much she could do about her hair but run her fingers through it in hopes of making herself just a little more presentable. Unfortunately, the bruise was still a problem and she wished she had some cover-up.

  Ron the Newscaster had once said she was pretty enough to be an on-air anchor, but he would undoubtedly reconsider that opinion if he could see her now.

  Thinking this was about as good as it was going to get, Tara grabbed the key off the back of the toilet and exited the restroom.

  As she passed through an aisle filled with bags of chips and beef jerky and boxed doughnuts—reminded once again how hungry she was—she looked through the front glass at Matt. He hung up the phone, retrieved some coins from the hopper and fed them back into the slot before dialing another number.

  For a moment, their eyes met, Matt frowning at the sight of the bruise. Then his gaze lowered slightly, and Tara remembered that she was no longer wearing a bra. She knew what the friction of the cloth and the cold must be doing to her.

  Always the gentleman, however, Matt quickly looked away and went back to his phone call.

  It was only then that Tara shifted her attention to the parking lot and felt her chest tighten in alarm. A Whitestone Sheriff’s patrol car had just pulled into the empty slot directly behind Matt.

  Two young deputies emerged, taking in the stranger at the pay phone kiosk with cold, hard eyes.

  MATT STIFFENED when he saw the reflection in the convenience s
tore window: a Sheriff’s cruiser, two deputies emerging, giving him the cop stare.

  He kept his back to them, his head down, as he pretended to talk on the phone.

  The line rang unanswered in his ear.

  Was this a hot dog and soda break? Or had these two been notified by the clerk that a wanted fugitive was standing right outside his store?

  Matt knew his face was all over the news, and chances were pretty good that there was a television playing quietly behind the counter. But the clerk had barely glanced at him when he and Tara arrived. Spent most of his time ogling Tara as she asked for the restroom key. And if the cops had been called, Matt was pretty sure they’d send in a SWAT team to take him down, not a couple of pavement pounders.

  So he told himself that everything was fine, as long as he didn’t let them get a look at his face.

  He briefly considered Tara’s suggestion that they go straight to the cops. Tell these guys who he was and what The Brotherhood was up to. But he knew in his gut that they’d never believe him, and his best bet was to get hold of Everhardt.

  Assuming he could get the guy to answer his phone.

  The pay phone kiosk was close to the entrance, and Matt could almost feel the heat from the deputies’ bodies as they moved past him and stepped inside.

  Slowly letting out a breath, he chanced a glance through the glass and saw Tara still standing in the potato chip aisle, clutching the restroom key, which was hooked to a wooden paddle.

  She was frozen in place.

  Stay calm, he wanted to tell her.

  They don’t know who you are. Just return the key and come back outside.

  Then one of the deputies looked at her, giving her the once-over as he nodded to her in greeting.

  Spurred into action, she returned the nod then stepped past him and deposited the key on the counter, thanking the clerk as she turned and headed for the door.

  She was almost to it when the deputy said something to her and she turned around.

  His gaze went straight to the bruise on her face.