His Secret Agenda

by Beth Andrews

  “It’s too personal.”

  “See?” she asked irritably. “That wasn’t so hard.” She turned her back on him, set dessert plates on the tray before spinning around again. “It’s not like I expect you to share all your secrets with me just because I hired you—despite your less than stellar résumé.”

  His brow furrowed. “You hired me because you were desperate.”

  She waved that distinction away. “I’m giving you a chance.”

  “And I appreciate it.”

  “I don’t want your gratitude,” she almost growled.

  “What do you want then?”

  A straight answer. To stop feeling like she’d been wrong to hire him. To trust him.

  She wanted him to do or say something that would put her mind at ease about him.

  “Nothing.” She went to the refrigerator for the milk. “I’m sorry. I’m mad at Jack and taking it out on you.” She poured milk into a ceramic creamer. “It’s not like we’re friends, right? And it’s obvious you want to keep it that way—”

  “You’re my boss,” he pointed out.

  She flashed him a forced smile as she put the milk away, opened the freezer and took out a gallon of vanilla ice cream. She set it on the counter. “That I am. And even though I have friendships with several of my employees—and am related to my manager—you and I will keep our relationship strictly business from here on out.”

  Despite the fact that she’d invited him to Sunday dinner. And that he’d accepted.

  Or that he’d kissed her last night.

  He shoved a hand through his hair. “I doubt someone like you needs any more friends. You probably have more than you know what to do with.”

  “True.” She put the coffeepot on the tray along with the sugar bowl. “I just thought…”

  “What?”

  “I thought maybe you could use one.”

  He looked shocked and, to her surprise, insulted. “I’m an island.”

  She grinned. “Like I said, I’ll leave you alone. Can you get the tray for me, please?”

  She picked up the apple pie and ice cream and headed to the door. She’d made it to the threshold when he said, “It’s nothing personal.”

  “You don’t have to ex—”

  “I had a…falling out with my family,” he said, unrolling his sleeves, “and we haven’t spoken for a while.”

  “I’m sorry.” Even as mad as she was with Jack, she couldn’t imagine not seeing him, talking with him—or anyone else in her family. “I shouldn’t have pressed. Let’s forget I said anything.”

  “I hate spiders.”

  She frowned. Maybe all of this talk about opening up had pushed the poor guy over the edge. “Excuse me?”

  “Spiders.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I hate them.”

  She adjusted her grip so that the pie pressed against her rib cage, taking some of the weight off her wrist. Dean seemed at ease in her mother’s kitchen. He leaned back against the counter, his shoulders relaxed, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

  But there was a challenge in his eyes. As if he was daring her to say something about what he’d admitted. And that’s when she realized he didn’t just hate spiders. He was afraid of them.

  He’d shared one of his secrets with her.

  “I won’t tell a soul,” she promised, shifting the ice cream so she could make an X across her heart.

  “I appreciate that.” But despite the slight upward curve of his mouth, he didn’t really seem amused. If anything, he seemed…triumphant. Almost predatory. She could only stare as he closed the distance between them. “What about you?” he asked, reaching out as if to touch her cheek. But then he fisted his hand and dropped his arm back to his side. “Any secrets you’d like to share?”

  She swallowed in an attempt to work moisture back into her mouth. “Nothing quite as dark as arachnophobia.”

  “You sure?” His eyes were steady. Intense. “Because you know what they say about confession being good for the soul.”

  Except she didn’t need confession. Not when she’d already taken care of her penance on her own.

  “I’m positive.”

  “Everyone has secrets, Allison. And I’m guessing yours are more interesting than most.” He leaned forward and she slanted back, kept the ice cream and pie between them. “Guess I have my work cut out for me,” he murmured.

  Fear, irrational and unsettling, filled her. “What work is that?”

  One side of his mouth lifted. “Finding out what your secrets are.”

  ALLISON’S FACE DRAINED OF color and she took a hasty step back. “I…they’re waiting for us….”

  Then she raced out of the room.

  Dean scratched the side of his neck. Smooth move, Garret. Scare the hell out of her. Good plan. That’ll make it easier to find out where Lynne and Jon are.

  He made it to the hallway before remembering the tray in the kitchen. With a mild curse, he headed back the way he’d come.

  He could do this. He’d fought in the mountains of Afghanistan and the streets of Baghdad. All he had to do was get through coffee and dessert, make more inane small talk. Ignore Chief Martin’s suspicious glare and leading questions.

  Dean would rather be on a recon mission searching for suspected terrorists.

  He picked up the tray and walked out of the kitchen. He’d accepted Allie’s dinner invitation so he’d be able to subtly pump her family for information about her. Or better yet, get her to open up—or in this case, slip up—and give him a clue he was searching in the right direction.

  He hadn’t counted on her brother being as anxious for information about him as he was about Allie.

  Dean went into the living room. A sofa faced two plump armchairs in front of the fireplace, a glass-topped coffee table between them. Kelsey sat in one chair, Emma wiggling—either in excitement or because she had to go to the bathroom—on her lap. Jack sat at his wife’s feet.

  Helen and Larry were on the sofa. Dean raised his eyebrows when he noted their linked hands. Maybe Nolan and Cassie weren’t the only happily married couple in the world.

  Just one of the few.

  Allie, perched on the second armchair, didn’t so much as glance up when he entered the room.

  “Thank you, Dean,” Helen said as she rose. “You can set it on the coffee table.”

  “Great. As soon as everyone has their dessert, Emma can share her secret,” Kelsey said. “She’s had enough of being silent. Poor kid’s about to bust.”

  Allie slid a slice of pie onto a plate, then handed it to Jack, who added a scoop of ice cream. “I think it’s cruel you made her stay silent for so long.”

  Kelsey set Emma down and accepted the plate from Jack. “Hey, it was her idea. She wanted to make a big production out of this secret, not me. And she thought the safest way not to spill the beans early was if she didn’t speak at all.”

  “Dean, please sit down,” Helen said, indicating the end of the sofa across from Allie. “Coffee?”

  He nodded and sat as Helen served it and Allie dished up the pie. He accepted his piece and took a bite, almost groaning in pleasure. Sweet, warm apple filling wrapped in a crust as flaky as his mother’s. What could be better? He refused to feel ashamed about accepting their hospitality—and their damned good pie—under false pretenses. And while he knew better than to like the people he was investigating, it was easy to like the Martins.

  He flicked a glance at Jack. Well, most of the Martins.

  But liking them was okay. As long as it didn’t interfere with the job.

  Reaching for a napkin, Allie leaned forward, giving Dean a peek at her cleavage and the lacy edge of her cream-colored bra. He choked on a mouthful of cinnamon-laced apples.

  And found Jack staring at him.

  “You all right?” Allie asked, her elbows on her knees.

  She was torturing him. He stole another look at Jack. Or else she was trying to get him killed.

  “I’m f
ine,” he wheezed. He took a large sip of his coffee and cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

  “Well, kiddo, it’s time,” Kelsey said, pulling a piece of glossy white paper out of her back pocket. She handed it to Emma, who pressed it against her chest. “You ready to share your news?”

  The child skipped to the center of the room, her grin huge and excited. “Look,” Emma ordered, shoving the paper in Allie’s face.

  Allie leaned back as if to better focus on the picture, then her expression softened. “Oh…” she breathed in that awed tone women used when they came across puppies, babies or a man who brought them flowers for no reason “…it’s an ultrasound.”

  Larry leaped up with a whoop, practically hurdled the table and enfolded Jack in a bear hug. Helen, a bit slower to her feet but just as enthusiastic, hurried over to Kelsey, tears in her eyes as she hugged her daughter-in-law. Allie picked up Emma and joined her mother and sister-in-law in one of those group hugs women liked.

  Everyone started talking at once. Questions and answers about due dates and morning sickness, baby names and cravings flew around the room. Jack clarified it was too early to tell if the baby was a boy or girl, but Emma, obviously hoping for that brother, told him in no uncertain terms it was a boy. She was sure of it. Allie asked if Kelsey wanted to cut back her hours. Helen talked about getting the old crib out of the attic, and Larry went to get a bottle of wine—and ginger ale for Kelsey and Emma—so they could share a toast.

  And Dean sat there, his blood cold as he took it all in.

  His hands were unsteady as he set his cup and plate on the table. He’d been here before. Except the last time he’d been to a family function where someone announced a pregnancy, it’d been his brother Ryan announcing the woman he loved was pregnant with his child.

  And then Dean had lost control and broken Ryan’s nose.

  He forced himself to get to his feet and calmly walk over to Allie.

  She was now hugging Jack, so Dean waited until she’d let go of her brother before touching her elbow. “I’m going to head out.”

  She was so happy, it was almost painful to witness. “What? But why?”

  “This should be a private celebration,” he said. He then thanked Helen for her hospitality and congratulated Kelsey and Jack.

  “Let me get your coat,” Allie said, following him out into the hallway.

  Larry came down the hall carrying wineglasses by their stems in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other. “Allie, can you get the ginger ale?”

  “Sure, Dad. I’m going to walk Dean out first.”

  “I appreciate you having me in your home,” Dean said.

  “You’re more than welcome, son,” Larry said. “We’re always happy to meet Allie’s friends.”

  Sweet God but some people were gullible. Thankfully, Dean wasn’t the type of man to succumb to guilt.

  Allie opened the closet door and reached up to the shelf for his hat. “Damn you, Jack,” she muttered, her fingers barely grazing the brim.

  His Stetson was at the back of the shelf—right where Chief Martin must’ve tossed it. Dean also noticed Allie’s jacket, the red leather one she’d worn the other day, hanging to the left.

  “Let me help you,” Dean said, coming up behind her.

  He reached for the hat, trapping her between the coats and his body. His arm brushed her shoulder and she twitched. With his fingers curled around the brim of his hat, he stepped back out into the hall.

  Where he could breathe.

  She handed him his coat without meeting his eyes. Laughter broke out in the other room and she glanced over her shoulder.

  “I can see myself out,” he said.

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded, kept his expression blank. “I’d hate for you to miss any of the celebration. Go back to your family.” He put his hat on. “I’ll see you Tuesday.”

  She looked at the front door and, obviously feeling he’d be able to handle leaving on his own, said, “Okay, then. Good night, Dean.”

  Instead of watching the sway of her hips as she walked down the hall, he stared into the closet at Allie’s red leather jacket. Shrugged his coat on as he remembered her putting her cell phone in her pocket last night.

  After making sure the hallway was empty, he wrapped a scarf around his hand, reached into Allie’s right coat pocket and picked up her phone. He then dropped it into his own pocket and put the scarf back.

  He kept his strides unhurried as he left the house. Standing under the porch light, he buttoned his coat. Despite the cold, the sky was clear and there were almost as many stars visible as there were back home.

  Best of all, his evening hadn’t been a total waste.

  He patted the pocket with Allie’s phone as he made his way down the steps. The snow beneath his feet crunched and the cold air stung his lungs. He couldn’t wait to get back to Texas.

  He’d discovered a few useful things tonight. Such as there was no sense trying to gain information about Allie from her family. The way Chief Martin had acted, Dean knew it would be in his best interest to keep as low a profile as possible during his remaining time in town.

  He unlocked his truck, slid inside and started the engine before he even shut the door. He’d also learned that Allie truly was one of those people who lived to help others, which played into his theory that she’d helped the Addisons run away from a pedophile.

  And though Dean had taken a misstep in the kitchen by admitting he wanted to discover her secrets, Allie’s reaction had confirmed what he’d already suspected.

  She was hiding something.

  He pulled away from the curb and turned the radio up when Brad Paisley’s latest came on.

  But he still couldn’t figure out why Allie had represented Miles Addison in the first place. Of course, even Lynne’s mother had admitted to being tricked into believing Miles was innocent. Maybe Allie had been, too?

  Not that it mattered; he didn’t need to figure out Allison Martin and her motives. All he needed to do was find Lynne and Jon. Whether they wanted to be reunited with Robin—or even wanted to be found—wasn’t his concern.

  All he cared about was completing this job.

  And moving on to the next one.

  “HEY, RICHIE,” Allie said late Monday morning as she walked into The Summit’s kitchen.

  She was running late after spending almost an hour with her cell phone provider, reporting her lost phone. She’d discovered it missing last night when she got home. When her mom couldn’t find it either, Allie had canceled her service.

  Only to find her phone wedged in back of the driver’s seat not twenty minutes later. She’d missed it last night—which was what she got for searching her car in the dark—and would’ve missed it today if she hadn’t spilled the large coffee she’d bought at Sweet Suggestions.

  She really hated Mondays.

  She unwound the scarf from her neck and narrowed her eyes at her assistant—or, as he liked to think of himself, her sous-chef. Richie’s brown hair was covered with a baseball cap, his stubby ponytail pulled through the hole in the back, his thin face was pale, his brown eyes watery.

  “You feeling all right?” she asked him.

  “Yeah, I’m good.” He stopped chopping onions long enough to take a long drink from his water bottle. “I think I’m coming down with a cold, that’s all.”

  “You sure you’re up for working today?” She slipped off her coat and laid it over the back of a chair before going to him at the counter. “You know how slow Mondays are. I’m sure I could manage without you.”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “If you say so. But let me know if you feel worse. I talked to Ellen earlier and both she and Bobby have head colds, so it’s definitely going around.” Ellen Jensen, Allie’s hairdresser, had called to change Allie’s appointment to Wednesday, hoping her son would be back in school by then.

  Allie dug a notepad and pen out of a drawer. “Why don’t I make tortilla soup tonight? Sort of my
Mexican version of chicken noodle soup, minus the noodles.” She wrote a list of the ingredients she’d need. “Can you run to the store for me? And it’d be better if I handled the food prep tonight. We don’t want any contamination.”

  Richie took the list, shoved it into the pocket of his baggy jeans. “It’s not like I spit in the food,” he muttered. “I wash my hands after using the bathroom and everything.”

  She raised her eyebrows at his tone. “You sure you’re all right?”

  He dropped his eyes and shrugged his bony shoulders, looking more like a teenager than a man of twenty-three. “Sorry. Guess I’m not feeling as well as I thought.”

  “Why don’t you forget the groceries? I’m sure I’ll have time later—”

  “Nah. I’ve got it.” He took his coat from one of the hooks on the wall. “I’ll get the groceries, drop them off and then maybe head home for a quick nap. Some sleep will make me feel better. Besides, I don’t want to leave you hanging. Mondays might not be the busiest but they’re usually pretty steady.”

  Wasn’t he sweet? She’d definitely made the right decision to hire him, no matter what Jack said. Yes, Richie had previously had a problem with drugs, but he did his best each day to fight it. To make a better life for himself.

  And she was helping him do it.

  “All right,” Allie said, taking her wallet out of her purse. She handed him a fifty and a couple of twenties. “If the avocados are decent, get a few extra and I’ll make guacamole, too. And you’d better see if Kelsey needs anything for the bar.”

  He put on his coat and pocketed the money before pulling on his knit hat and picking up his water bottle. “I should be back in a couple of hours,” he said, then pushed through the door to the dining room.

  Allie washed her hands and finished chopping onions. Scooping them into a large bowl, she covered it and stuck it in the refrigerator.

  “Can you call Noreen for me?” she asked Kelsey, who was mopping the floor in the barroom. “See if she can come in and help me prep dinner?”

  “Hello. I’m great, thanks for asking.” Kelsey stuck the mop into the industrial bucket. “Second day in a row I haven’t thrown up my breakfast. Although I almost did when I walked into the kitchen and smelled those onions Richie was cutting.”