Hero Undercover: 25 Breathtaking Bad Boys

by Annabel Joseph

“And don’t sass me. I said no.”

  “I said no,” she mimicked, rising to her knees and glaring at him. “Sometimes you can be such a jerk!”

  Jay lowered the paper and stared at her.

  “Really? This is where you want to go tonight?”

  She ignored his warning tone and crawled closer. “Come on, it will be fun,” she wheedled, stroking his newly grown beard. “We’ve never really worked together before. You might like it more if I’m with you.”

  “We worked together on the Barrows case,” he growled.

  “Yeah, but that was an accident,” she protested, “and it all worked out all right. He’s going to spend the next thirty years in prison.”

  “Oh sure, it all worked out. You got raped by that asshole if you recall,” he barked, turning toward her. “He’s lucky I didn’t find out about it until after we’d left his house or I would have put a bullet right between his beady eyes.”

  “Now, Jay, let’s not get all worked up,” she cooed, backing up a bit.

  “No, by all means, let’s not. Listen, little girl, I took a vow to love, honor and cherish you and you took a vow to love, honor and obey me and that’s exactly what you’re going to do. You tell Chet he can send any future requests for our services to me. I’ll decide whether it’s too dangerous or not. You got that?” he asked, leaning toward her until they were nose to nose.

  “Um, yes, sir,” she answered, inching further backward.

  “And another thing, don’t ever let the notion enter your head that you can decide to take on one of these jobs on our own,” he growled. “That training has made you entirely too cocky in my opinion. You take it into your head to run from me and you’ll be one very sorry girl,” he promised.

  “But, darling, you’re not who I run from,” she drawled sweetly. “Yours are the arms I run to.” Walking her fingers up his chest, she toyed with his beard before leaning in to kiss him.

  “Humph,” he said, staring at her intently. For some reason he didn’t think she was telling him the precise truth of her conversations with Chet. Reaching out, he grasped her upper arms and pulled her to him, kissing her.

  As soon as she relaxed in his arms, he stood, pulling her up with him and tossing her over his shoulder.

  “Wait,” she squealed. “Where are we going?”

  “To the bedroom.”

  “Why?” she asked as he strode from the room.

  “You’re going to get spanked.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” he said firmly as he patted her ass.

  “But what have I done?” she gasped.

  “It’s not what you’ve done, but what you’re contemplating doing that has me concerned.”

  “Oh, so you’re a mind reader now?” she said with a snort, as she tried to push the hair out of her eyes.

  “No, but I’m not stupid either. I can almost hear the gears turning in that clever little mind of yours,” he said, tossing her on the bed where she bounced several times.

  “So, because you think I’m thinking about something, you’re going to spank me?” she asked in shocked surprise.

  “I’m going to spank you because I want to, and because I want to reinforce who’s in charge here,” he said, leaning over her. “I’m going to spank you because you need it. In my opinion you’ve gotten a little too big for your britches and a little too sassy lately.”

  “Is that so?” she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at him.

  “Yes, that’s so,” he replied, taking a seat on the bed. “Now get over my lap and I might reward you if you’re a good girl,” he stated sternly with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Really?” she asked, beginning to grin.

  “Yes really, my naughty bride, but remember what I said. No more conversations with Chet that don’t include me.”

  “Yes, sir,” she promised with a salute before she dove over his lap.

  Jay smiled and worked her pants and panties down to her knees. His pretty wife thought she was home free. A sweet spanking and some amazing sex to follow. Too bad he had a little more in mind. She was his. He’d protect her with his life, but she, in turn, would mind him and mind him well. She’d said his were the arms she’d run to, well he had a news flash for her. His arms would never let her go.

  The End

  Stevie MacFarlane

  Hi, I'm Stevie MacFarlane. I live in a small rural community in Upstate NY, and I have been writing off and on for about twenty years in my spare time, although there wasn't much of that with a husband, five children and an assortment of supposedly domesticated pets.

  Over the course of my life I have been a waitress, social worker, cook, sewing machine operator and a fine die cutter. I swear I had no idea what I was doing, but apparently the ability to take a wire finer than a strand of hair, sharpen it and feed it through a wire die, was enough for them to keep me on. I also worked for a very short time in a meat packing plant where I got to stand in front of a machine that spit boxes of frozen chicken at me, that was fun!

  Then there was the plastic plant I enjoyed for a spell. The heat and smell were bad enough, but the excess hot plastic needed to be pulled off the parts and put into a grinder. I believe they called this byproduct 'spew' or some such thing. I was not quite fast enough to separate the parts and still get the excess into the shredder, (picture Lucy in the chocolate factory) so I just tossed it behind me until they came to break me for lunch. By that time I had a mountain of twisted plastic taller than me! Needless to say, I just turned in my gear and went home.

  So I must say that I enjoy what I'm doing now. Of course, being retired gives me more time to let the characters in my head entertain me and hopefully, you as well. I would love hearing from you at StevieMacFarlane@aol.com and thanks for stopping by.

  Visit her blog here:

  http://steviemacfarlane.weebly.com/

  Don’t miss these exciting titles by Stevie MacFarlane and Blushing Books!

  The Marriage Market Series

  Amelia, Book One

  Grace, Book Two

  Effie, Book Three

  Suzanna, Book Four

  Martha, Book Five

  4-Book Set

  Single Titles

  Widow on the Loose

  Changing Her Mind

  Little White Lies

  The O’Malley Brides

  The Not-So-Lucky Bridget O’Malley

  The Perfectly Naughty Bride

  The Trouble with Abby

  A Timeless Woman

  The Red Petticoat Saloon Series

  Crystal’s Calamity

  Sugar Babies, Inc. Series

  A Sweet and Sassy Match, Book 1

  Match Me if You Dare, Book 2

  Matched for Keeps, Book 3

  The Last Match, Book 4

  4-Book Set

  Anthologies

  Sweet Town Love

  Hero Undercover

  Pandora and the Pool Guy

  By

  April Hill

  ©2017 by Blushing Books® and April Hill

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Blushing Books®,

  a subsidiary of

  ABCD Graphics and Design

  977 Seminole Trail #233

  Charlottesville, VA 22901

  The trademark Blushing Books®

  is registered in the US Patent and Trademark Office.

  April Hill

  Pandora and the Pool Guy

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.


  Chapter 1

  I've never found moving to be a particularly pleasant experience, but this move was already beginning to make my prior moves look like a lot of all-expenses paid vacation cruises. The only good thing to be said about being shipped from one coast to the other on an overcrowded, overheated airplane full of screaming tots was that I was being shipped to my destination at someone else's expense. I was traveling light, with two suitcases of clothing and two shopping bags full of my most indispensable books. Everything else, I had been assured, would be provided, including a small stipend and a rented house 'suitable to my marital and financial situation.' Since I had no husband, suitable or otherwise, and since I usually kept my entire fortune in a mayonnaise jar under the kitchen sink, I could only assume that the paperwork necessary to send me and most of my earthly goods to a mysterious destination three-thousand miles away had been relatively simple.

  After a flight from NYC to Los Angeles, involving three plane changes and two four-hour layovers, I arrived at my new home half asleep and hungover. High-calorie food with virtually no nutritional value is normally my addiction of choice, so I rarely drink on airplanes, or anywhere else, for that matter, but today's flight hadn't been what you could call normal. This flight was what you could call, with total accuracy, fleeing for my life—to a place called Boredom, California. (Boardman, my 'local contact' corrects me.)

  I didn't know, then, and still don't know my 'local contact's' real name, or even if he or she is really local or even real. Over the phone, which is the only way we've ever communicated, his or her voice sounds electronically generated, sexless, and devoid of any discernible sense of humor. All of which, he or she assures me, in the same unconvincing robotic tone, is for my own protection.

  The house in whose driveway I was eventually deposited was a small Cape Cod, from the fifties, probably, sorely in need of paint and missing a front window shutter. The curbside mailbox was leaning at a precarious angle to starboard, and the front steps looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer to them then walked away when the steps resisted removal. I attributed the house's overall grunginess to an attempt to match the 'profile' that had been created for me—a bit shabby, inconsequential, not worth a second glance, and close to being invisible. A profile, I thought glumly, not unlike my real one. So, here I was, beginning my brand-new life and stuck with the same, frankly colorless persona I'd been carrying around the thirty-three years preceding the 'incident.'

  The incident that had put me here had begun on a lovely spring morning in Newark, New Jersey, where I was living in a third-floor walkup, two blocks off Bloomfield Avenue—not the best of neighborhoods, but not the worst, either. I was living sort of hand to mouth while I waited for my ship to come in, which it was apparently in no great hurry to do. On that life-changing morning, I had wandered into Grossberg's Bakery in anticipation of one, or possibly two, if I stretched the budget a bit, of Lila Grossberg's excellent custard filled doughnuts. (I particularly liked the ones dipped in chocolate.)

  So, as it turned out, did Edgar Ronald Greco, known by his few friends and extensive list of enemies as 'Eddie the Slug.' A trim young street hood in his wasted youth, Eddie had apparently been scarfing down delicacies like custard filled donuts for close to forty years, an unhealthy set of dietary choices that had left him bearing an uncanny resemblance to Jabba the Hutt.

  Eddie had just slurped down his third custard filled doughnut and was licking chocolate frosting from his upper lip, when I made the mistake of offering him a handful of napkins with which to mop up the gobs of custard he had drooled down his shirt front. (Note: I am not especially fastidious and do not normally offer unsolicited sanitary advice to slobbering thugs with whom I'm not acquainted, but Eddie's slovenly eating habits had already dribbled custard on my shoes and were coming perilously close to ruining my appetite—which is not an easy thing to do.)

  Eddie the Slug had just accepted the handful of napkins—without so much as a simple, "thank you," when Mrs. Grossberg's quiet little shop erupted into a cacophony of chaos and confusion, punctuated by the sounds of shattering glass and splattering baked goods. (Overwritten, no doubt, but I'm trying to convey a certain feeling, here.)

  It's funny, really, how Mrs. Grossberg's customers—myself included— reacted to the hail of automatic gun fire ripping through the shop. Maybe we'd all seen too many crime shows on TV. Maybe it's simply built into the modern human psyche for self-protection, but everyone hit the floor at once, with their arms over their heads, like actors in a well-rehearsed gangster movie. Everyone but Eddie the Slug, that is. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Eddie as he flew backward and ended up in one of the orange plastic chairs provided for those of Mrs. Grossberg's customers who enjoyed consuming their empty calories seated. When I glanced cautiously (and foolishly) up, in the hope that the shooting had stopped, the first thing I saw was Eddie, just a few feet away, slumped and presumably expired in the orange plastic chair, which was more or less reddish orange, now. He looked more surprised than dead, with his eyes and mouth open, and a puddle of custard oozing down his stomach.

  My timing, as always, could have been better. At the exact moment I looked up, a tall, stoutly built man in a gray business suit, and carrying a large black handgun, strode through what was left of Mrs. Grossberg's doorway. He ignored the three shop patrons and one clerk, lying on the floor in various defensive positions, and leaned down to check Eddie's pulse—presumably to be sure the corpse was well and truly dead. Apparently satisfied that the Slug had eaten his last doughnut, the heavy-set man in the gray business suit simply walked out of the shop and stepped into the front passenger seat of a waiting car—a pale blue 2016 Lexus with New York plates and a small, roundish dent in the right front fender. And since I am a lifelong collector of mostly useless facts, I even noted the license plate numbers.

  And thus began my journey from aspiring unemployed New Jersey novelist to aspiring but equally unemployed California novelist. Without knowing it, I was about to become invisible.

  Twelve hours after the mayhem at Mrs. Grossberg's shop, and following a tedious afternoon spent poring over a stack of fat 'mugshot' books, I selected a snarling photograph of a frequent felon and small-time local crime boss by the name of Frank Roy Bugosi and firmly identified him as the instrument of Eddie the Slug's untimely but probably well-deserved demise. Shortly after that, I picked the same Mr. Bugosi out of a police 'lineup,' thereby, as the saying goes, putting another nail in my coffin. Some weeks later, thanks to my excellent eyesight and amazingly astute memory for gruesome details, Mr. Bugosi was indicted on multiple charges, including the homicide of Mrs. Edna Greco's hoodlum offspring, Eddie the Slug Greco. Despite Mr. Bugosi's attorney's insistence that his client was a former altar boy, an upstanding member of the community, and totally innocent of all the ridiculous charges against him, Frank was carted off to jail to await trial.

  Several weeks after that, while I was still basking in the smug, sunshiny feeling of having done my civic duty as a responsible citizen, Frank Bugosi, aka 'The Iceman,' was granted bail and released on what the prosecutor's office assured me was an insignificant but easily remedied legal technicality.

  But then, proving that he was far from being the unlikely flight risk his lawyers had promised in court, Mr. Bugosi went missing, and a few days later, I began receiving e-mails that enumerated in graphic detail the astonishing number of disagreeable things that can happen to a single woman living alone at my exact street address. I duly reported these unwelcome messages to the prosecutor's office, assuring them, at the same time, that I was a street-wise broad who didn't scare easily. Until the fifth message, that is. While 'disagreeable things' numbers one through four had been revolting, 'disagreeable thing' number five was enough to send me scurrying to the phone with a hysterical plea for protection.

  At first, it was decided that all I needed was a bodyguard to watch my apartment and to follow me around at a discreet distance whenever I was stupid enou
gh to go out. That arrangement lasted for slightly less than a week, when I opened the door to my supposedly well-guarded apartment and found the handsome young police officer assigned to me gone. In his absence, someone had festooned the hallway in front of my door with a baker's dozen of naked and partially dismembered Barbie dolls, all of whom were smiling back at me—those with heads, anyway. Each of the eviscerated ladies had been posed in a different obscene position, and all of them were covered in what turned out to be a popular brand of chunky spaghetti sauce.

  Finally, possibly because I claimed to be losing my memory of everything that had occurred that morning at Grossberg's, and definitely because no one seemed to have the faintest idea of where 'Frank the Iceman' might be located, they decided to relocate me—with a different name, different persona, etc.

  The whole witness protection business was very much like I remembered it from TV, only more annoying for the person being protected. I was presented with a seemingly endless list of details about my newly invented life, along with a slew of rules concerning secrecy and security, then drilled to the point of exhaustion while I tried to memorize it all. With that done and proven to their satisfaction, I was asked to sign a number of important looking documents, promising that if I broke any of the rules and became injured, maimed, or dead as result of purposely violating those rules, I wouldn't hold the Department of Justice responsible. Truthfully, I was eager to sign. Everything about my new identity seemed so well thought out and meticulously planned that, for the first time since my nightmare began, I was starting to believe I might actually live to be thirty-four.

  I am nothing, if not an optimist.

  I went into the office that day as Pandora Elizabeth Walker, (and yes, Pandora is my real name.) I emerged as Pauline Marie Peterson, under the theory that a false first name beginning with the same letter as my real name would make it easier for me to remember under stress. I was also provided a new social security card, a California driver's license, and miscellaneous receipts and photographs to suggest that Pauline Marie was a real person. There was a small checking account, as well, and two major credit cards with minimal spending limits—all courtesy of the United States Department of Justice. After due consideration of my claim to be a writer and my promise to use it exclusively as a word processor, I was furnished with a new laptop—stripped of its identifying information and e-mail capabilities.