Deep Cover

by Moira Reid

  “Officer Baeck, please. He tried to pull me out of my car. It was a random attack, nothing else.” She shivered at her next words but forced them out anyway. “Rape maybe, but—”

  He looked up from his notebook and forced a patient smile. “And that’s how you were injured You fell on the parking lot while attempting to flee from the man, correct?”

  “Well, and he kicked me.” A shiver of dread at the memory shook her. She pulled the blanket an EMT had given her tighter around her shoulders. “The man” was the real question, thankfully one the officer wasn’t asking. He’d looked like a man, but there was no way he was a man, not a human man anyway—and that was just crazy.

  “When he tried to kidnap you—”

  “Sir, please stop saying that. He tried to relocate me. That’s not the same thing.”

  “All right. When he grabbed you, you slid under your car?”

  “Yes, I threw myself down on the ground and got under my car. When I started screaming, he kicked underneath the vehicle, and his boot struck my temple.”

  The officer looked up from his notebook. “A man grabs you, tries to drag you out of your car toward a van, kicks you, and you don’t see that as a possible kidnapping?”

  She cringed. Her father had an uncanny sense for finding her wherever she was, and he could show up here any minute. Keeping weird musings from the police was one thing; trying to avoid dealing with her father’s questions was quite another.

  The pounding of her blood at her temples, the involuntary shivers through her chest, the crazy memories rushing through her mind of how it had all happened—her body seemed bent on agreeing with the officer. Those moments in the parking lot were blurry, but whatever the man’s intentions, they were something much worse and much weirder than kidnapping. She couldn’t say any of that, however, without sounding like a nutcase.

  She straightened on the gurney and tossed her hair back from her face, tossing the thoughts along with it. What she’d imagined about her attacker was nuts, an obvious side effect of her head injury. She would not talk about this. She’d find some way to figure it out on her own. There had to be a logical explanation.

  “Whatever it was, it’s over, and I’m fine, sir. Really.”

  The officer shook his head as he jotted down another note that she could not see. “Let’s go over the description once more.”

  The longer she remained here, the more likely her father would appear. She’d been trying to get him to stop being so overprotective since he’d driven her mother away. This was just the kind of thing that would make that impossible. Claire could already hear the Third Cavalry mounting their horses just thinking about it.

  “Please. I’ve told you everything. I’d like to go home now.”

  He snapped his notebook closed and tucked it inside his jacket pocket. “If that’s all you remember, then that’s what we’re going with.”

  “It was a random thing. I was just stupid and unlucky.”

  “Or lucky. And I hope you’re right, Miss Simonson.” He shook his head as he spoke. “Take care of that cut”

  “She’s always been a little hardheaded.” Her father’s voice echoed through the emergency room from a distance and snapped her spine straight.

  She glanced past the officer and saw her father roll toward them in his wheelchair. He’d dressed in a pair of slacks and a white shirt pressed to within an inch of its stitches. Her father might be long retired from the military, but he still believed in armed forces’ precision in all things, including his clothing—and his daughter. Some things never changed, not in twenty-seven years. His instincts made him overprotective and controlling; hers made her fight both with every turn.

  The officer turned toward him. When her father entered a room, people rendered the floor to him. He was just as foreboding as he’d been as a young man, and it never seemed to matter to anyone that he was going on sixty-five and wheelchair bound. Others handed over the reins of control to him without question. Over the years, she’d learned better.

  She had to admit she had not fallen far from the tree of his legacy. In her business, she never showed weakness, never allowed herself to appear out of control of any situation. Being the CEO of her own consulting firm required distancing from one’s emotions, taking on a persona that exuded confidence. She’d learned that from her father, although her insistence on her own independence had not been the lesson he’d intended to teach.

  And he’d taught her another thing without meaning to—two people could not be in charge Her mother had run away from his controlling ways years ago. His subsequent attempts to control Claire’s life always ran headlong into her own. He’d worked too hard and sacrificed too much for her after her mother disappeared for her to tell him off, and generally the simplest solution was to avoid confrontation.

  She sighed. Sometimes, that just wasn’t possible.

  “You’re her father?”

  “Yes, Officer. Captain Dirk Simonson.” Her father rolled in slowly. He was perfectly capable of racing the wheelchair with his considerable upper-body strength. Instead, he moved with purpose, the quiet control in him more powerful than any blustering would ever be. Her father was about to take over, and this poor man whose job was to serve and protect was about to be cast aside.

  “We’ll do our best, sir.”

  “She might remember more later; she’s probably still in shock.”

  Claire pursed her lips and took in a deep breath. “Father, please don’t talk about me like I’m not in the room. I’m not in shock.”

  “I told you she was hardheaded.”

  With that one sentence, her father attempted to render her the helpless female, a role she’d been fighting against her entire life. If it wouldn’t have caused a scene in front of everyone in the hospital, she would have given him a piece of something inside her “hard head.”

  “We’ll be in touch.” The officer shook hands with her father, then walked toward the curtain the nurse had drawn around her gurney. As he pushed it aside, Butch stepped into view.

  She hadn’t really seen him that well in the dark parking lot, but under the fluorescent lighting, his body, clad in fitted jeans and an old blue sweatshirt, was exactly what she’d felt while in his arms. In top physical condition, he radiated the same air of confidence she’d seen on all the military men her father had ever worked with, that of a man trained by the most powerful government in the world and backed by the most potent weaponry ever conceived. As he stood at command rest and continued to stare unabashedly into her eyes, she could see it. Oh yeah, wherever he’d come from, he’d been one of them at some point in his life. Whether active duty or veteran, he was definitely military. Oh God, was he one of her father’s—

  She started to speak to him, but he assessed her in one long, appraising look, then locked his gaze on hers. It might be better to pretend you don’t know me.

  Her father wheeled closer and touched her knee. “How’s your head?”

  Claire pulled her attention away from Butch’s intense blue gaze and looked down at her father. Never seeing anything like kindness or pity in his features before, she was startled to note his eyebrows drawn together over pursed lips.

  She could still see Butch out of her peripheral vision, but more than that, she could almost feel his presence in the room. He’d moved neither closer nor farther away, and yet he seemed in motion. No, not in motion, more like ready to move at a moment’s notice.

  Men her father had trained always looked like this. Before he’d been injured, he’d worked for a top secret branch of the military he still could not talk about. All her father’s men had been poster boys, but none quite like this one.

  Her father had asked her a question, and she forced herself to ignore Butch and answer it. The sooner she got through what he would try to turn into an interrogation, the sooner she could get out of here.

  “I’m perfectly all right, Father. What are you doing here?”

  “I heard the call on the poli
ce radio. When I tried to reach you on your cell and you didn’t answer, I had to call the hospitals to find you. Do you have any idea what that was like? Finding out you were hurt and having to hunt you down? Why didn’t you call me?” The concerned look on his face disappeared as quickly as it had come, replaced by the more common Dirk Simonson trademark scowl of reproach.

  “There was no need. As you can see, I’m perfectly fine.”

  “All evidence to the contrary. Claire, a man tries to kidnap you, and you insist you’re fine, first to the police, then to me. There’s a difference between hardheaded and ridiculous.”

  “Father—”

  “Why were you—”

  “Do you know that man?” Claire glanced toward Butch, bent on derailing the out-of-control, fast-approaching train wreck. She had no interest in arguing that she was well past the age of consent and did not, despite his beliefs to the contrary, answer to him. She couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else seeing the row this particular situation promised to become if not nipped in the bud. She had only a moment to get whatever control she could, and she grasped it with both hands.

  Her father did not turn around. “That’s a friend of mine, Butch Markham. Don’t change the subject.”

  A friend of his? She glared at Butch. So, her father did know him. Had he been following her? What was going on here? “Would you mind asking him to step outside for a moment? This is my hospital room, such as it is, and I’d prefer—”

  “Now who’s talking about someone like they aren’t in the room?”

  She’d seen his lips part, saw his jaw move, but his rich and smooth voice, like coffee laced with liqueur, surprised her. Had he sounded like that in the parking lot? Never would she have imagined that such a wonderful sound would come from that tough-looking exterior.

  The resonance through the busy noises of the hospital reminded her of snowy nights spent reclining by the fire. The cozy image of him snuggled next to her on a pillow-covered sofa popped so clearly into her mind that she gave her head a quick shake. The motion had the dual effect of making her head spin and her vision swim, but it was worth it. That image was not something she needed in her head. Not now, preferably not ever. For whatever reason Butch had appeared out of nowhere tonight, followed her to the hospital, and stood staring at her with those amazing eyes, she was now absolutely certain it hadn’t been by chance.

  “What’s he doing here?” She addressed her father again, staring at the man and ignoring him at the same time.

  “You did it again.” The corner of his mouth rose in a smirk that made his eyes dance for a moment, then return to diamond crystal solidity. “But I’m willing to overlook it.”

  The room shifted as the air, unnoticeable a moment ago, now caressed her skin with warmth. The blood thumping at her temples intensified, and she had to blink to clear her vision. Despite the richness of his voice and his casual stance, that gaze and mouth didn’t belong to someone she’d dare get cozy with.

  She forced herself to concentrate and focused her attention on her father. “What is he doing here? I know he isn’t a cop. Who is he?”

  Her father’s eyes flashed as his strong baritone shook the room. “He’s your bodyguard.”

  Claire looked at Butch. “A bodyguard I wasn’t supposed to know about.”

  “You know about him now.”

  “I don’t need a bodyguard. This was just a random—”

  “You were attacked tonight. Anybody crazy enough to do that is nobody I want anywhere near you again. Butch is going to make sure my wishes come true.” His words were slow and measured as he squeezed her knee.

  “Father.” Her voice sounded weak and pleading. She cleared her throat and began again. “It’s all over now. This was my own fault, and I will be more careful in the future.”

  “You are never careful, Claire.”

  She ignored the comment. “Besides, I have a business to run. I can’t babysit a grown man all day long. And I’m sure he has more important things to do too. This is just silly.”

  “Babysit?” Butch took three steps and he was beside her, the air around him scented with a delicious aroma she couldn’t place. Whatever it was, a clear, lusty image of him naked came with it.

  What in the world was coming over her? She blinked the image from her mind. Sure, she hadn’t been with a man in a long time, which could explain her body’s instant attraction, but she worked with men all day long. Not once had any feeling like this come over her. Of course, none of the men who worked for her smelled or looked like this one.

  Bodyguard? Oh, this was not good.

  He opened his mouth again, and Claire steeled herself to the effect his voice had had on her a moment ago.

  “Miss Simonson, I haven’t needed a babysitter for a long time. Don’t know that I ever needed one. You, however, need someone to watch over you. I’m it.”

  His hands still hung at his sides, but she looked down at her own resting in her lap to be sure. No, he hadn’t touched her; she could have sworn that he had. Heat moved through her whole body, whether from anger or something else she wouldn’t let herself think about.

  “I want you safe, Claire. Butch is not going to get in your way; he’ll be with you twenty-four-seven until this maniac is caught, and that is nonnegotiable.”

  She’d heard that sound in her father’s voice before, way too many times to count. His whether-you’re-twenty-seven-or-seven-I’m-still-your-father voice trucked no discussion. She looked at Butch again, and seeing the same smirk on his full lips, she knew she had to try anyway. She didn’t want a shouting match in the hospital, but the alternative was worse—a bodyguard, with her day and night? This one in particular? Trouble with a capital T.

  “I have been taking care of myself for a long time now, and I can—”

  “End up as a sex slave in somebody’s basement…or worse.” That coffee voice floated low and rich through the room again, and as the words “sex slave” passed over his lips, the heat coursing through her reached a fever pitch, settling between her thighs.

  Doctors and nurses moved around the emergency room, their voices and footsteps swirling around her. The hospital continued its mission, its personnel hard at work saving lives. Meanwhile, she was trapped in a three-way argument she had little energy to pursue. The kind of saving she needed was nowhere in sight.

  Right now was not the time for this discussion, especially while her wild-eyed, hormone-inducing savior stared at her, bringing every nerve ending in her body to vibrating life. She would think of some way to change things. His charge to watch her twenty-four-seven could not be allowed to happen. If even one full day passed and he remained beside her, she had a bad feeling about what her body, the damn betrayer that it was, might consider without the consent of her sense of reason.

  Twenty-four-seven. The thought sent two chills down her spine—one of fear, the other something a lot like lust.

  “Oh boy.”

  * * * * *

  Butch kept his eyes trained on the road ahead, avoiding the hot gaze of the woman next to him. She would have taken a ride with anyone else if she could have, anyone it seemed but her only other alternative—her father. She was stuck with him and had managed to turn a short drive into the Spanish Inquisition.

  He pulled his Mustang into the parking lot where Claire had been attacked, and he attempted to turn her interrogation into a conversation.

  “I knew your father before he was injured.”

  “You were one of the boys in his club.”

  Club? Obviously she didn’t know a thing about her father’s occupation or Vivemonde. She’d asked him at least a hundred questions since they’d gotten into his car, firing them one after another shotgun-style across the small space between them. Given strict orders not to disclose anything beyond the barest information and absolutely nothing top secret, avoiding her questions was becoming more difficult by the minute.

  His instincts told him to simply radiate a palmful of calm over her, and
that would end the unpleasantness, but he’d known other Viven who had their sentences extended on Earth for years for that kind of slip. Besides, it wasn’t too tough to picture where that would lead—clutching the long strands of her hair in his hands, holding her mouth to his as he thrust inside her. Strange that his instincts were moving in that direction in the first place. On Earth, for almost ten years now, he’d never once considered it. Until now. Yeah. No palmful of calm.

  Instead, he was trying, without much success, to ignore the questions as well as the lyrical sound of her voice.

  “Did you hear me? I asked if you were in—”

  “Yeah.” He rolled his window down and took a deep breath. “I’m in his club.”

  Dennis Tito was Earth’s first space tourist and had paid twenty million dollars to board the International Space Station in 2001. Butch had traveled through space years earlier than that and hadn’t had to pay a dime. All he’d done to earn this trip was piss off his boss on his home planet of Vivemonde. The day he landed on Earth, Dirk Simonson, captain of UMI, the US government’s secret UFO military initiative, and trainer of CETs, convicted extraterrestrials, became his new boss.

  Simonson was intelligent but related to all Viven only as their leader. He could be blunt to the point of cruelty and was not above being vindictive. Over the nearly ten years Butch had been assigned to him on Earth, he’d known no one as demanding as Dirk Simonson. At least not until Claire had gotten into his car. Ahlif ad ratsog or “the apple didn’t fall far from the tree” was a saying that obviously spanned the universe.

  She wasn’t especially cruel, but she had “demanding” down to a science.

  Most females got along with him, seemed to like him even. When he’d shown up in the parking lot, she’d liked him. Not so much anymore. Butch reminded himself that she didn’t want him to be here any more than he did. This was just another job, his last one before he could board the ship headed for home.