by Susan Fox
“Of course I cut men’s hair. I can transform you. Add . . . oh, a conservative suit and tie, maybe a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.” She studied him—the animal vitality that was so distinct even when he wore a woman’s bathrobe. “You should carry yourself differently, though. Try not to look so . . . masculine.”
He flashed a grin that stole her breath. “What are you making me into?”
“Well, let’s think about it. What would make you seem the most harmless?”
She studied him, wondering if harmless was possible. Then she had a brilliant idea. “You need an introduction from someone in town who vouches for you. So you’re not really a stranger.” This was actually kind of exciting. Again she was in a mystery novel, but now that the danger had passed she was having fun.
“True. But the only person I know is you, and I’m not putting you on the line.”
She was relieved and insulted all at once. Insult won out. “Ever since I met you, you’ve been ordering me around. Where do you get off, making decisions for me?”
“This one’s for your own protection.”
To protect her, he’d take more risk upon himself. She should let him. It was his job, after all. The last thing she was was a risk taker. Yet she knew Caribou Crossing and he didn’t. Without her, the danger to him would be greater.
This was about more than playing mystery novel; she actually cared about this man’s safety. Enough to risk her own.
Or maybe she was doing it for the poor dead girl and her parents. Was this some kind of atonement for her own flaws as a mother?
Oh well, whatever her motives, she felt a strong sense of purpose. “We need a story that will let you carry out your investigation without casting suspicion on either of us.”
“I won’t let you do it.”
She ground her teeth together. Why would she want to help such an obnoxious man? “Let’s brainstorm then,” she proposed, “and see what we come up with.”
“You know Caribou Crossing,” he admitted. “I’d appreciate your insight.”
Accepting that minor concession, she leaned her elbows on the table. “You’re limping and wincing so do we need to build some kind of accident into the story?”
He shook his head firmly. “By tomorrow no one will be able to tell I’m injured. Not when I’m dressed, anyhow.” He gave her a wicked, slanting look.
She tried very hard to imagine him dressed, from buttoned-up collar down to socks and shoes. The standard advice for when you were nervous around other people was to imagine them in their underwear. With Jake, it was much better for her peace of mind if she imagined him dressed.
The phone rang. She raised an eyebrow and Jake said, “Answer it. But be careful.”
It was Evan, who’d heard through the grapevine that she was under the weather. How amazing this was, having a son who was concerned about her health. “I’m feeling much better,” she reassured him. “I’m staying home today, just to be safe.”
“Need anything? I’d be happy to pop by.”
“No, but thanks. And I’ll be back to work tomorrow.”
“In that case, how about coming over for dinner tomorrow, to celebrate the upcoming addition to the family?”
“Dinner tomorrow?” Brooke glanced at Jake, who raised his eyebrows questioningly. Thinking that this could be an opportunity to try out whatever cover story they designed, she said to her son, “Can I wait and see how I feel in the morning? With Jessica pregnant, I don’t want to bring any bugs into your house.”
“Sure. And if you feel up to it, come early and have a short ride with Rob. She loves going out with you.”
“I love it, too.” Despite living in ranch country, Brooke had never been on a horse until last fall, when Jess’s daughter had wheedled her into trying it. Now, one of her favorite things was going for a ride with her granddaughter. “I’ll call in the morning.”
“My son,” she told Jake after hanging up. Her new closeness with Evan still felt like an unexpected and undeserved gift.
Returning to business, she planted both elbows on the table and stared at Jake. “All right, let’s give it our best shot. What’s a healthy guy your age doing showing up in Caribou Crossing right now? A tourist? An unemployed person looking for work? Maybe a lawyer wanting to set up a small-town practice?” She nodded. “I like that. It would give you a reason to talk to lots of people in town.”
“Yeah, but a lawyer might be too threatening to the man I’m hunting.”
“Right. We want inoffensive. Innocuous. An accountant?” Then she shook her head. “No, you probably don’t have any experience with accounting. You’re more of an action guy, right?”
“Yeah, I like the action part of the job. The danger, the risk. But I’ve got a knack for figures. Sometimes I get stuck on that kind of U/C job. White-collar stuff,” he added with a touch of disdain.
“And instead you’d rather be . . . hmm, let me see . . . undercover as a drug-dealing member of a biker gang?”
“Well, yeah.” He gave a shrug remarkably similar to Robin’s “well, duh” one.
Brooke promptly decided to turn him into an accountant. “You know, the accountant cover could really work. We’ve only had three accountants, and one of them, Ellen Christiansen, just folded her practice and retired to Victoria with her husband.”
“How did I hear about the job possibility? Did she advertise her practice for sale?”
“No. The only way you’d have heard is through a contact. We’re back to you knowing someone, which means me.”
“I could say I know Ellen.”
She shook her head. “Her daughter lives in town and she talks to Ellen regularly. What about this? You’re my cousin. We used to play together as kids.” She shook her head again. “No, you’re too young. How old are you anyhow?”
“Thirty-five.”
Eight years younger. Young, handsome, sexy, addicted to danger. She shouldn’t be attracted to him. “I used to baby-sit you,” she said grimly.
“Mmm, every boy needs a sexy baby-sitter.” He sent her another of the heated gazes that made her body tingle.
She tried to ignore the distraction. “Look, I had this cousin about your age back in L.A. My dad’s brother’s son. His father was killed in a car accident and his mom had a job. I baby-sat him and his sister after school and sometimes on weekends. Then his mom remarried and the family moved away. So, let’s say you’re him. We’ll say your mother’s new husband was Canadian, and your family moved to Vancouver. You grew up, studied accounting . . .”
She snapped her fingers. “Try this. You work for a big firm, but recently you’ve been thinking you’d like to get out of the rat race, be your own boss. When Ellen left last month, I thought of you and gave you a call.”
“A cousin whom you’ve never mentioned to your son?” he asked skeptically.
“We haven’t seen each other in ages, and just keep in touch with Christmas cards each year,” she said triumphantly. “Last Christmas, you mentioned that you were thinking of making a change, so when Ellen left I let you know there was work here for an accountant. You decided to come up and check things out. To see if you’d like to live here.” She was on a roll and could feel the energy flowing through her veins.
It was kind of like the manic cycles of her bipolar.
The thought was like a slap in the face.
“You’re good at this. It could work,” he said grudgingly. “I’d have more credibility with you to vouch for me, but I’m not happy about letting you do it.” He studied her closely. “And you’re nervous, too. You’ve gone pale.”
“I . . .” She pressed her hands to her cheeks and rubbed color into them. The lithium worked, she reminded herself. Natural energy was a different thing from mania. “I’m fine. Too much caffeine.”
“No such thing.” He got up to refill his mug again, frowning when the carafe yielded only a couple of spoonfuls of brew. After drinking them thirstily, he thrust the mug under the water tap and filled it
up. He came over to rest a hand on her shoulder. “I can’t let you do it.”
She, not he, was in control of her life and made her decisions. She scowled up at him. “Do you want to catch Anika’s killer?”
His hand dropped, his jaw tightened, and he nodded.
“Well, so do I.” And she’d enjoyed the last few minutes, planning and working with him as if they were partners.
Jake studied her face again and must have seen her determination because he gave a resigned nod. “So be it. But we’ll be very, very careful.”
As he had read her face, she read his voice. He hated the idea of having to be careful, of needing to look after her. Well, he’d just have to live with it, because he needed her.
“Jamal will build me a solid cover story,” he said, “in case anyone checks me out.”
She tilted her head to one side. “He’s your boss?”
Jake winced slightly. “Sort of. We’ve known each other since we both signed on more than ten years ago. Had the same goal—to fast-track through the grind and get into U/C work. We worked together more than a few times. Make a good team.”
“He was your partner before he was promoted?” She wondered why Jamal, not Jake, had been given a higher rank.
“U/Cs don’t have partners, but yeah, sometimes we’d be part of the same team. Still works that way, except now he’s the guy who coordinates the operation. He’s good. Damned good.”
She could well imagine the strong bond that could develop between people who risked their lives together. Undercover, in enemy territory with no one to trust but the other members of their team.
Jake reached for her hand. “You asked me my name but you’ve never used it. Say my name, Brooke.”
Her hand jerked under his but she didn’t withdraw it. “Jake.” She said it softly and it tasted fine on her lips.
He squeezed her hand. “I’ll keep you safe. I promise you that.” His smoky eyes peered intently into hers and she read his sincerity.
“I believe you, Jake.”
“We’ll work on the cover story together, until we’re both letter perfect.”
She nodded.
“And I won’t leave you alone. It’s logical that you’d invite your cousin to stay with you, right?”
“You want to stay here?”
“To keep you safe.”
Safe. How could she feel safe with all that virile masculinity sharing her home?
Standing in front of Brooke’s full-length mirror, Jake assessed her handiwork.
He was clean-shaven and his wavy hair was trimmed so short it didn’t curl. The gray suit added to the image of respectability, along with the pale yellow shirt and the tie striped in charcoal and yellow. So did the prissy gold-wire glasses. Yeah, he could pass for an accountant. As long as he left the Beretta behind.
Brooke, disguised in her oldest clothes with a cap covering her blond hair, had gone shopping in Williams Lake, a fair-sized city an hour and a half away. She assured him she’d seen no one she knew as she purchased men’s clothing, accessories, and toiletries.
While she’d been gone he had spent the time resting, on the phone with Jamal, or doing research on Brooke’s computer.
One portion of that research still haunted him. Eskalith, Brooke’s prescription drug, was lithium. Commonly used for treating bipolar disorder, also called manic-depressive illness.
Not only was Brooke a recovering alcoholic, she had a mental illness.
In his Internet search, he had found that many victims of the disease responded very well to medication. His eyes had widened as he’d scanned a list of famous people who were bipolar. Yeah, some people functioned extremely well. His gaze had caught on the name Patty Duke. He’d seen a book coauthored by her on Brooke’s shelf.
While she was still out shopping, he’d skimmed through the book, whose other coauthor was a medical writer. It was enlightening, but he had trouble relating some of what he read—particularly Patty Duke’s descriptions of mania—with what he knew of Brooke.
When Jake had heard a car engine and looked out the window to see Brooke’s Toyota, he had hurriedly returned the book to the shelf. The disease was her secret and he wouldn’t confront her. But he shouldn’t involve her in his investigation. She was too fragile.
It had been difficult, though, to reconcile his image of fragility with the vibrant woman who’d unloaded her packages on the living room table as she’d chattered about her shopping expedition, and tossed out new ideas she’d come up with for his cover.
And he’d realized something. Illnesses weren’t the same thing as weaknesses, and the way she coped with her alcoholism and bipolar disorder was a testament to her strength. So he’d gone along with her and let her transform him. Now he was Arnold Pitt.
He assumed that when Pitt had been a kid his nickname would have been Armpit. When he’d said that to Brooke, he’d won himself a laugh. The first laugh he’d heard from her. It made him want more.
It made him want to know this woman in different circumstances. As his body healed, it got harder and harder to resist his attraction to her. Grandmother she might be, victim of two serious diseases, but she was also a dynamite woman with her bouncy hair, slim curves, and iron will.
She’d bought him a razor, a comb, deodorant. She hadn’t bought condoms. He knew, from searching her house, that she wasn’t on the pill and didn’t have any other contraceptive devices. Just as well. His life was complicated enough without sleeping with Brooke, even if she’d let him.
She entered the bedroom and he turned to her. “Will I pass?”
She patted him on the shoulder approvingly. “You look just fine, Arnold. You’ve stopped looking like Rambo.”
“Look like a wimp,” he grumbled.
“That’s what we’re aiming for, right? The opposite of your previous look.”
Look? Only a woman would call an undercover disguise a “look.” “Well, it beats the bathrobe.” He winked at her, knowing her cheeks would color. He’d grown kind of attached to that old bathrobe, particularly when he noticed how she couldn’t seem to look away from the bits of naked flesh it revealed.
Maybe she would let him sleep with her.
Not that he was going to try. Well, probably not.
“Can I get out of these clothes now?” He hooked a finger into the knot of the tie and pulled it loose.
“Of course. That’s why I bought casual clothes for Arnold.”
He took off the suit jacket and began to unbutton the neck of his shirt. Her gaze followed his fingers. He liked the way she watched him; he liked the fizz of awareness in the air between them. He shouldn’t wish that one of these days he’d get to see her take off her clothes. Or, better still, do it for her.
He was down to the fourth button when the phone rang. They both jumped.
She scurried across the bedroom and grabbed the handset from the bedside table. “Oh, Jess, I’m glad you called.” She sank down on the side of the bed, sitting on the freshly cleaned quilt. “I was going to give you folks a call this evening.” Her gaze met his and he nodded to let her know he realized she was talking to her daughter-in-law. The “cousin” story was about to get its first test.
He kept unbuttoning his shirt, then pulled it out of his pants, noting that Brooke was still watching. Awkwardly he peeled the shirt off without hurting his side too badly. He hung the garment neatly on the back of a chair and put the annoying glasses on the bureau.
Jess had obviously asked Brooke how she was feeling; she replied that she’d definitely kicked the bug. In turn, she asked about Jess’s health, then listened, making “uh-huh” sounds.
Time to have some real fun with Brooke. To gauge the likelihood she’d let him sleep with her. Just in the interests of science. He whipped his belt through the loops and watched her eyes widen.
Chapter Eight
Brooke was saying to Jessica, “I have a surprise. Did I ever mention my cousin Arnold?”
He unbuttoned his pants.
She stuck her tongue out at Jake and he gave a surprised grin. Now she made no bones about watching as he slid his zipper down. He liked this bold, playful mood of hers.
“He was a sweet little boy. An egghead. Wimpy little kid.”
He barely suppressed his laugh. He toed off the leather loafers she’d bought and slid his pants down, removed them and his socks at the same time.
“Anyhow,” Brooke said, “he’s an accountant in Vancouver and we exchange Christmas cards. He said he was thinking of making a change, starting his own practice in a small town, and I thought of—”
She broke off, apparently interrupted by Jessica—or, he’d like to think, struck dumb by the sight of him in his boxer briefs. Black ones she’d bought, the same brand he normally wore.
“Yes, that was exactly my thought. I’ve heard a number of people say how much they miss Ellen. So I mentioned it to him and he’s driving up tomorrow. He’s going to stay a few days and check out the town, see if it’s a place he might want to live.”
He had to get back at her for that “wimpy” crack. He stretched his shoulders, then craned to check the dressing on his side, twisting his hips in her direction.
“Hmm?” she said distractedly, her gaze following his every movement. He hadn’t proved whether she’d go to bed with him, but he knew she liked his body.
He slid down the right side of his briefs and checked the bandage on his hip. When he looked back at Brooke, her cheeks were even rosier.
“Oh, he’ll stay with me. It’ll give us a chance to catch up on old times.” She ran her tongue around the outside of her lips. Not nervously but deliberately. “And get to know each other again.” She’d turned the game back on him.
He didn’t know if she was just messing with him, or sending an invitation, but his body responded and his underwear began to feel too tight. He should turn away but he didn’t. He wanted her to know the effect she had on him. And he wanted to see if she’d look away.