Undercover Love (The Women of Manatee Bay, Book 2)

by Jessica Nelson

  “Dear God, please help us find Maggie. Rachel is worried. Please bless her tender heart and give her peace concerning her sister. Thank you for hearing our prayers and for caring about us. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

  Rachel blinked the sting from her eyes as their hands unclasped. Short and simple, yet his prayer touched her more than his concern had. More than his apology, even.

  Gulping back her emotion, she gave him a tight smile. “If you want to follow me to my apartment, we can ride together to find Maggie after I get my stuff.” He would probably ask to see her license to carry.

  He followed her home. Except when she lost him at a yellow light. Didn’t he know to speed up? Chuckling, she glanced once more in her mirror. He’d caught back up to her. His silhouette sat strong and true. What a rule follower.

  At her apartment, she waited for him to find a guest parking spot before walking to her door.

  “You know, running a red light is against the law.” Grant perched his shoulder against the wall as she dug through her purse for keys.

  “It was yellow.”

  “It was orange.”

  She snorted, then laughed outright. “Don’t you ever break any rules?”

  “Rules, sometimes. Laws, no.” But his smile belied the seriousness of his tone.

  Still chuckling, she slid her key into the door. And frowned when it didn’t turn. The door wasn’t locked?

  Grant nudged her. “Move behind me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  Grant had picked up on the unlocked door. The man’s powers of observation were amazing. As much as she wanted to barge in herself, she grudgingly backed up and let him go first.

  His shirt, sporting a bright green fish diagonal against his back, filled her vision. He pushed the door open with one arm. His other stretched toward her, beckoning her to move farther to the side. She did, pressing herself against the wall and out of the doorway’s range.

  Was Grant armed? A quick glance to his side confirmed the absence of a weapon.

  Quietly he moved into her house. She debated whether to follow him. Well, she did have her cell phone. She snatched it out of her purse, dialed 911 and let her thumb hover over the send button.

  Then she slipped in after Grant. Her apartment was dark, just as she’d left it. But the scent had changed. It no longer smelled like lemon Pine Sol, her cleaner of choice, but rather like a combination of Chanel No. 5 and coconut rum.

  “Grant,” she whispered.

  He turned towards her, his finger against his lips.

  She tiptoed to him and put her mouth near his ear. “Maggie’s home.” She jerked her chin toward the guest bedroom.

  He slid toward the room and she followed him. Though the lights were dimmed, the faint outline of Maggie sprawled on the bed was visible.

  Before she could stop herself, Rachel threw her purse at the shadowed lump of a sister who’d worried her all day and night with her whereabouts. Her alcohol-soaked sister.

  The lump squealed.

  Because she felt like screaming, regardless of Grant’s presence, she whirled around and stomped into the kitchen. Deep breaths. Count to ten. Closing her eyes, she focused on calming down. Be quick to listen, slow to speak, slow to become angry. Anger does not bring about the righteousness of God in Christ Jesus.

  She recited the litany in her head, grasping the edge of the table until it cut grooves into her palms.

  A hand on her shoulder broke her concentration.

  “Are you okay?” Grant’s breath whispered past her ear, smelling like cinnamon and calm reason.

  She took a quivery breath, anger’s wake leaving a trembling in her fingers. “I’m fine. Just have to get control of myself.”

  “Maggie’s getting dressed. She said she’ll be out in a minute.”

  “I don’t want to see her.” Because she might cry. Thinking Maggie had suffered harm at the hands of the mayor had cracked her protective armor and she needed time to regroup. To shield herself and to never let Maggie know how much her disappearance had affected her.

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  His question teased her, tempted her to do the unwise action of trusting him. But hadn’t she already? The realization shocked her senses. Grant must have sensed her upheaval because he pulled out a chair and, hands on her shoulders, guided her to sit down.

  Before she could decide whether to have him stay or leave, Maggie strolled into the kitchen. Her hair jumbled around her face.

  “This yours?” She tossed Rachel’s purse on the table. “Thanks for waking me up.” She shot Rachel a scowl, then walked to the fridge and opened the door.

  Rachel bit back the heated retort that automatically sprang to her lips. In your anger do not sin.

  “Maggie.” Grant glanced at Rachel.

  He looked unsure. Was he planning to say something? She hoped not. Then his hands went to his pockets and his jaw firmed. Oh, no. He was. She shook her head at him but he was already crossing the kitchen to stand near Maggie.

  “Your sister has been worried sick about you.” Grant nudged the fridge door closed, forcing Maggie to back out of the fridge and face him.

  “Rachel? Ha.” A sneer marred her full lips. “Most likely she’s just being her normal controlling self.”

  “Rachel loves you.” Grant’s voice had deepened.

  “Really? Ask her.”

  Rachel paled. She felt the color leaving her cheeks as surely as surf drained from the beach at high tide. Did she love Maggie? Truly, in a God-way? Her gaze met Grant’s and, ashamed, she looked away.

  “See?” Maggie’s accusatory tone echoed through Rachel, pounded at her. “She only cares that I didn’t follow her dumb rules. She’s always been like that, from the time she started talking. Didn’t matter that she was the baby sister, she still tried to tell me what to do. I’m surprised you fell for her act, Sergeant.”

  “It isn’t an act.” Rachel shoved her chair back and it slammed against the wall. She resisted the urge to check whether her burst of temper had left a dent. What could a dent matter when she had a hole slashed into her heart by her own flesh and blood?

  She stood and slapped her hands on her hips. “Why is it so hard to think I love you? A guilty conscience, maybe?”

  “Oh, please.” Maggie’s cheeks cherried. “When are you going to get over Scott? I knew he was a fake the moment I met him.”

  Poor Grant. He’d backed away from Maggie and stood near the entrance of the kitchen. No doubt poised to flee.

  Rachel gestured for him to leave with her head. His presence was completely unnecessary. Besides, he didn’t need to know about Scott and Maggie. Instead of leaving, Grant moved away from the entrance to stand behind Rachel, a bulwark.

  She wet her lips, and forced herself to take a calm breath. “Scott was not a fake. Only weak.”

  “Same thing.”

  “It’s not. You should know.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Rachel couldn’t resist. “Excuse me?” She pitched her voice a tad too high.

  Maggie snarled and lunged. Rachel ducked to the right and let Maggie barrel into Grant. He held her against him, though she raged to be free.

  Okay, maybe she shouldn’t have done that. For one thing, it was completely unchristian. For another, it only reminded her of the past, when they’d been children, then teenagers, then young women sharing bright hopes for the future during late night conversations. When they’d fought, Maggie had always made fun of Rachel’s shriek, which reminded her of their mom’s when she nagged their dad. The mimic never failed to send Rachel into a fit.

  But now Rachel felt bad for turning the taunt on her sister. Worse than bad. Like the cold, unfeeling person Grant had accused her of being only months ago.

  I’m sorry, God. Please help me.

  Grant stared at her, looking for the world like he’d rather be in the 7-Eleven dodging bullets than caught between two snarling sisters. Maggie heaved at his side, appearing more upset than
angry.

  Rachel squared her shoulders. To make things right was her responsibility. She’d trusted Christ. She’d felt the power of forgiveness, the peace of reconciliation. Maggie had not. Gulping, she stepped closer to Maggie, but left enough distance in case Maggie felt like letting loose a slap or two.

  But she didn’t know what to say. As Maggie stopped struggling in Grant’s arms and eyed her, Rachel wrestled with herself.

  There were more bones in the graveyard of their relationship than she knew what to do with. Planting flowers on the graves wouldn’t help anything. Digging up skeletons wouldn’t either.

  And so she stared at her sister, hoping, praying Maggie would see the things she couldn’t say just yet. She held her out her hand to her sister, palm up.

  Maggie’s eyes widened. They turned glassy, as though she saw the depths of Rachel’s remorse and the sight crippled her with pain. She slumped into Grant’s arms and sobbed.

  Harsh, wracking cries that filled Rachel’s kitchen, that fisted her heart into a hard, little ball.

  Grant led Maggie to a couch and Rachel followed, nails digging into her palms. This broken woman was the sister who’d always been so independent? So wild and rebellious?

  Next to Grant, Maggie looked small and vulnerable. Rachel swallowed the tight knot that threatened to suffocate her. Thank goodness Grant was here. He met her gaze, compassion evident in the softness of his expression.

  On wooden legs she stumbled forward, settling beside her sister, feeling Maggie’s warmth and smelling the rich scent of the Chanel No. 5 she’d swiped from Rachel’s bathroom.

  Past Maggie, she saw Grant nod. Urging her to what? Reconciliation?

  Maggie’s sobs had quieted into little hiccups of air, like a child whose unbroken sobbing steals the energy needed for sorrow.

  “I’m sorry,” Rachel whispered, the back of her eyelids stinging. For how long had she judged her sister? Held her sins against her? I’m so sorry, God. This is what He’d been trying to lead her to. A place of healing and forgiveness. She’d been stubborn, but no more. Not when the sister she’d adored during childhood wept in her living room, broken.

  Her usual companions of anger and bitterness deserted her, ousted by the presence of love. God’s comfort, given to her in order that she might comfort Maggie.

  She slid her fingers around Maggie’s gaunt shoulders to encircle her body. Grant shifted an inch or so, just enough that Rachel could be the one Maggie rested against.

  ***

  “Coffee?”

  “Sure.” Grant settled in Rachel’s kitchen chair, grateful Maggie had decided to go to bed early. Being a cop meant involving himself in other people’s affairs. He’d comforted widows and victims but never a woman mourning the loss of a child she’d killed herself.

  He rubbed the back of his neck, wishing the kinks would unwind just a little. Seven o’clock and it felt like midnight.

  It had been hard to make out Maggie’s whimpers but the gist of things seemed to be that she’d betrayed Rachel years ago and had been on a downslide ever since. Things crashed when she decided to have an abortion, only to prematurely wake up during the procedure to discover the baby was farther along than they’d expected. She’d seen his body on the ultrasound as it had been ripped apart.

  He shook his head, sickened by the image.

  Rachel brought him a coffee cup. Black and shiny, the cup matched the Spartan décor of her kitchen. Not that her kitchen was cold. Just color-schemed and clean as a whistle.

  He’d noticed the scent of her home as soon as he stepped in. Beneath the cloying alcohol and perfume, there’d been a relaxing lemony smell. And when he sat on the couch while Rachel comforted Maggie, he noted the lack of family pictures. Pretty, scenic views hung on her walls. Pictures of her in scuba gear graced her dustless entertainment center.

  But no family. One picture of her and Katrina standing in front of the river, the sun’s brightness haloing their faces. That was it.

  The living room itself was sparse. One leather couch and a small TV. A computer in the corner. Everything structured and serene. Rachel took care of her things.

  It was a nice trait, a revealing one that he filed away. Now, however, her usually well-ordered hair hung in strands around her pallid features. Puffy pink skin stained the rims of her eyes.

  Messy and undone, yet he’d never seen her more attractive or approachable. She wiped the counter, her movements brisk and practiced, then carried her own steaming mug to the table.

  “Did you get dinner?” Her eyebrows lifted as she sipped her coffee.

  “I’m fine. Thank you for the coffee.” He lifted his cup, inhaling the rich aroma of some brew he didn’t recognize. “This isn’t Folgers.”

  “No, I like my coffee a little more sophisticated.” She smiled, a soft curving to her lips that took the bite from her response and turned it into something teasing.

  He liked what her voice did to his insides. How she made him remember his longings as a child for stability and warmth. She had more warmth than a man could know what to do with, a passionate fire burning inside so he’d never be cold again.

  “How’s Maggie?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “Does she know who the father was?”

  Rachel shrugged, staring into her cup.

  Clearly evading the question, but he’d let it go. Not his business.He tasted his coffee, and savored the flavor against his tongue. The heat. “Forgiving Maggie…that was tough for you.”

  “Why do you say that?” She looked up from her coffee.

  He hid his smile. So she’d tried to turn the question around on him. Smoothly done and didn’t surprise him in the least. “Maggie mentioned a betrayal. Something she did to you. Something you’ve never forgotten.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  “I forgave her tonight.” Rachel’s gaze didn’t waver from his, though her voice quivered on tonight. Truth. Shouted with her body actions.

  “Are you happier now?”

  “Yes. I am.” Her nails tapped against her cup, a thoughtful click in the quiet kitchen. “I didn’t want to.”

  “What did she do to you?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “A painful one?” He phrased it carefully, not needing to examine why he suddenly wanted her to share with him her secret hurts.

  “Yes.” A blade couldn’t have been sharper than the look she shot him.

  “If you ever want to talk about it …” The words halted on his lips. It wasn’t like he could interrogate her, break her down emotionally and urge her into a confession. But how he wanted to, just to forge a deeper bond between them.

  A faint flush suffused her face. “It’s not a big deal anymore.” She sighed and looked away. “It shouldn’t be.”

  He kept quiet. Most people would fill a silence with words.

  Rachel’s gaze returned to his and an impish smile crept up her cheeks. “Are you using interrogation technique on me?”

  Surprised, he slung back coffee, grimacing as the hot liquid raged down his throat.

  “You are.”

  “You don’t sound disapproving.”

  “I guess I’m not. It’s nice to see you don’t follow all the rules.”

  “Didn’t break any.”

  “Interrogating a woman you date breaks a lot of protocol. It’s just not cool.”

  “I’m an officer of the law. No one pays me to be cool.”

  “Right now you look like a surfer from Laguna Beach.”

  “And cool?” He grinned, then let the grin melt into a more serious smile. “I care about you. I care about what happened to you in the past. If you ever want to share, I’m here.”

  Her eyes rounded. He recalled the aloofness she’d iced herself in during all those dinners with Alec and Katrina. Did this uninhibited expression of disbelief mean she was allowing him to glimpse her private feelings?

  “That’s very kind of you,” she said.

  “I’m not a good
Samaritan. You’re special to me.”

  “I’m beginning to believe it,” she murmured. Her fingers reached across the table and took his, clasping them tight. “My past isn’t a huge secret. The pain comes from the destruction of mine and Maggie’s relationship.”

  “It sounded to me like she’s the one who destroyed things.”

  Rachel took a deep breath. Her grip tightened on his fingers. “Kind of. She slept with my fiancé five years ago.”

  Grant scrambled back in time, trying to recall five years ago. Maybe when she’d first come back from college and opened her PI business? He popped his hand up from hers, snapped his thumb and middle finger. “Are you talking about preacher boy?”

  “I’m referring to Scott.” Her head side-tilted. “How do you know about him?”

  “I crushed on you in high school, so when you came home I was curious.”

  “You what?”

  “I found out about your boyfriend on a stakeout.”

  Rachel rolled her eyes, held one of her palms up in the air. “Hold it right there. First of all, I have no clue why a thirty-year old man would use the term ‘crushed.’ Secondly, what stakeout?”

  “Just some observation to make sure you were legit.”

  “How long has this been going on?” The pitch of her voice could crack a mirror.

  “Who cares? You’re saying Scott cheated on you? Wasn’t he a minister?”

  “A youth pastor, and it doesn’t make him perfect.” She heaved her chair back and exploded out of her seat. The chair slammed against the wall. Twice in twenty four hours. Grant resisted the urge to check the wall for marks. How often did she do that? The woman was like a train constantly propelled by her emotions. She paced the kitchen, her hands flinging upwards and outwards.

  “I knew you all were checking up on me. Spying.” She swung around, planting her hands on the table with a loud slap. “Stalking.”

  “No,” he scoffed. “Sit down. We did a few investigations, just when we were bored.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s not a big deal.” Amused, he stood, letting his length unfold until he looked down at her. Rachel liked being in control. At least she couldn’t control being shorter than him, though he figured she’d like to. She straightened, the top of her head level with his chin.