To choose between justice and love

There’s a burglar on the loose in the beach town of Wallis Point, and undercover detective Lyndsay Fairfax is pursuing every lead. Even the one that takes her straight to the brother of handsome marine veteran John Reilly. John, whose lively restaurant is the heart of the town, is the first person Lyndsay has connected with since her husband’s death. But she can’t tell him who she really is, and she can’t let his brother slide if he’s the culprit. Lyndsay has to figure out how to do the right thing without also losing the man who is so right for her...

“It would’ve been nice to jet you off to someplace warm.”

“I like that no one can see us,” Lyndsay murmured. “We’re in our own world out here, alone.”

“I can’t imagine not living near the ocean,” John replied.

She drew in a breath. “There it is!”

A tiny, faint ray of light appeared on the eastern horizon. And while she held her breath, it grew larger and larger. She could see John clearly in the early-morning light. He had a wide smile on his face.

“Is it always this calm?” she whispered.

“Never.” His voice was low. “This is my first time, at least.”

She turned her chin and caught his gaze directly. For a moment they shared a look, and then with a low groan, he leaned into her.

“I can’t fight it anymore...”

Dear Reader,

Welcome to a new Wallis Point, New Hampshire, story, set in the fictional seaside town first described in The Long Way Home and The Secret Between Them.

Lyndsay Fairfax is an undercover police officer sent to investigate a series of high-end thefts. Posing as an interior designer working in a congressman’s beach home, she befriends a group of tradesmen and becomes part of their community in hopes of tracking information about the notorious burglary ring.

But along the way, Lyndsay falls in love with John Reilly, a returning marine veteran and protective leader who’s taken responsibility for his family’s restaurant and the welfare of his troubled younger brother.

Lyndsay must keep her cover and follow the evidence wherever it leads her, even if it points to a suspect that will surely bring her personal heartbreak.

Thanks for reading Lyndsay’s story! I hope you enjoy the romance.

All the best,

Cathryn Parry

The Undercover Affair

Cathryn Parry

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CATHRYN PARRY is the author of nine Harlequin Superromances. Her books have received such honors as the Booksellers’ Best Award, the Cataromance Reviewers’ Choice Award and several Readers’ Choice Award nominations. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband and their seventeen-year-old cat, Otis. Please see her website at www.cathrynparry.com for information about upcoming releases or to sign up for her reader newsletter.

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For my dad, James Parry.

Thanks for always being there for us.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

“OH-OH-SIX, M-S-T. A white box truck. That’s the tag and vehicle description for the crew of movers. They gave their names as—”

A shadow fell across the decoy catalog where Lyndsay Fairfax had scribbled her morning’s surveillance notes. Instinctively, she covered the jottings as she lifted her head.

Outside her car window, a man’s gaze met hers—the bartender from the Seaside Bar and Grill, whose parking lot she was currently sitting in. Her “police brain” automatically noted the details: six feet tall, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. He had brown hair with piercing gray-blue eyes.

She hadn’t expected anyone to sneak up on her like that. There was no exit on this side of the parking lot, which meant he must have come from the house behind the restaurant.

He stared, his attention lingering on her face. She’d noticed him during the past week while she ate lunch at the Seaside with the group of home contractors from the wealthy cul-de-sac she’d infiltrated. But he wasn’t the object of her investigation in Wallis Point, New Hampshire, and so she’d never endeavored to meet him. Her police task force hadn’t mentioned investigating him or the Seaside Bar and Grill.

With her phone still pressed to her ear, Lyndsay gave him the sweet, friendly “Lyn Francis” smile that her undercover alter ego had been using all week while she passed as an interior designer for Mrs. Kitty MacLaine and her congressman husband.

Unlike the contractors in the small community that she’d been monitoring, this man didn’t smile back at her. And something in his wary eyes made her pause.

His frown deepened as he moved past her vehicle.

Chewing her lip, she watched him, following his progress down the restaurant’s small, gravel parking lot to a commercial van labeled Seacoast Beer Distributors idling in the far spot. The bartender stood outside the passenger door, hand on his hip, as he rapped on the window, then initiated what appeared to be a not-so-friendly conversation with a younger man, also on his mobile phone.

She blew out a breath. Of course—the bartender was preoccupied with the state of his establishment’s beer lines.

“Lyn, are you there?” her partner’s gravelly voice asked over the phone.

“I’m here,” she said, relaxing into her seat again.

“What’s going on?”

“A local passed by the car. He’s gone now.”

“Be careful. The most important thing is to keep your cover.”

“Don’t I know it.” Pete, her partner during the past week, was a grizzled old-timer with years of experience under his belt, and though she was an experienced state police officer as well, this was her first time undercover. Pete seemed protective of her for it, and she didn’t mind. She got to do the interesting work, gathering and relaying the information to him, while he sat on the other side of her phone calls.

She craved the work. She needed the work.

“Okay,” she said, “moving on, the two guys who go with the white box truck are the McAuliffe brothers, James and Brian. James goes by Jimmie. Both are about five-ten. Midtwenties. Live locally. The truck has no identifying company name or logo, and I’m given to understand that they’re freelancers who work for themselves by word of mouth.”

“Got it.” Pete’s voice was a murmur, as if he was concentrating because he was typing the information.

“That’s all for today. I hope this is helping the burglary investigation,” she said wistfully, keeping her eye on the bartender, his back still to her. She was leaving this afternoon. She was going to miss the assignment, as well as her lunches at the Seaside with the contractor teams.

“Yeah, it’s helping. So far we’ve been ruling people out as suspects. We’ll find out more about the investigation tomorrow.”

“Right.” Tomorrow was the day the burglary task force was meeting at headquarters, up in Concord. She hoped to be part of phase two, because to be part of the team that brought down the ring of thieves preying on wealthy homes along the seacoast was what she most wanted.

The bartender glanced her way, and it wasn’t a friendly look. He was suspicious of her still. And that could jeopardize things...

On a whim, she said, “Pete, could you please look up and tell me who lives at 118 Seaside Drive?” That was the home—connected to the Seaside Bar and Grill by a covered walkway—the bartender had come from.

“Affirmative. There’s a Margaret Reilly, age sixty. And a Patrick Reilly, age nineteen.”

Definitely not the bartender. He looked to be in his thirties. She thought she’d heard one of the contractors calling him John, but she wasn’t positive.

“Lyn?”

“Please check if Margaret Reilly owns the Seaside,” she said. There was a Margie who worked in the kitchen. Until now Lyndsay hadn’t connected that Margie might live right next door.

“Hold on, let me check...affirmative, as well. What’s going on?”

She wondered if John could be Margie’s son. He would be the right age. “Pete, could you check if there’s an address for a John Reilly in Wallis Point? Age thirty-something.” It was just a whim, but she wanted to cover her bases.

“One minute.” There was a short pause. “Affirmative again—22 Cove Road.”

That was about two miles away, closer to the cul-de-sac where she worked. Lyndsay had memorized the Wallis Point street maps prior to arriving at her assignment.

She didn’t know what, if anything, this information told her. Bartender John, possibly John Reilly, was still standing by the beer truck, and every few minutes he stared toward her. She needed to find out if he was, in fact, John Reilly, Margie’s son.

“Lyn, is there something I should know?”

“Yes. Please add Margaret and Patrick Reilly to the list for background checks. It seems everyone in the area stops by this place at one time or another. Hold off on John Reilly for now, though.” She would verify John’s real name in a few minutes, but Pete could get started. “I know we initially didn’t have the owners of the Seaside Bar and Grill on our surveillance list, but I think it’s prudent to check them out.”

“Will do.”

She stretched her shoulders. “Okay, then. I’ve passed you information on everyone who has visited or is affiliated with the congressman’s neighborhood during the past four days. Is there anything else you need from me before I wrap it up here and head back north tonight?”

“Yeah, we need one more thing. No, make that two.”

“Great.” She could multitask. And she liked assignments. “What do you have?”

“I need you to get into the Goldrick house this afternoon.” That was the vacation home on the lot directly beside the MacLaines’. “You’re specifically looking for any artwork on the walls. Paintings that look as if they might be worth something. We’re not seeing anything on the insurance company reports, but we want to make sure.”

Her heart sped up. Finally, police work that was more directly connected to the burglaries that Pete and other members of the task force were investigating. “No problem. Does this mean I’ll be continuing with phase two of the task force?”

“One step at a time, Lyn.”

“I was invited up to Concord for the meeting tomorrow,” she said cheerfully.

Pete laughed. “Because I recommended you. You’re doing great work so far.”

He hadn’t said what her future was to be, one way or the other. That was up to Commander Harris, she supposed.

She wasn’t going to give them any reason not to let her continue.

“I’ll head inside to lunch, and then get to it,” she said. “What was the second objective? You said I have two.”

“The second objective is the same as always. Keep your cover, Lyn.”

“Why are you telling me this again?”

“Because I want to stress to you that keeping your cover is your first, last and major objective, always. Never forget it.”

“Right,” she said cheerfully again. “I’m an interior decorator currently contracted by DesignSea. This week, I’m working on a proposal for Congressman MacLaine and his wife.”

“You’re so subtle,” Pete said dryly.

She laughed because his sarcasm was unfounded. She was subtle. She felt like a duck in water doing this kind of work, and that was a great feeling.

Except where he was concerned. She darted a glance toward John, the bartender, as she hung up with Pete. Staring at her, yet again. She was giving herself a third agenda item for this lunch break, and that was to find out his full name and his particulars so Pete could run his background check.

Exiting from the car, she grabbed her purse, which carried her concealed Glock, then headed inside the Seaside Bar and Grill. The air smelled fresh and briny, and the wind blew through the opening of her jacket, making her shiver. She opened the door to the eatery, smelling something delicious, like freshly baked bread.

She checked her watch: 11:46. The kitchen was open but still a bit early for Andy Hannaman’s crew, the group who were working on the Goldrick home. They didn’t habitually leave the oceanfront cul-de-sac until noon, then it was a six-minute drive to their lunch spot.

Taking a seat in the back corner, Lyndsay strategically chose her favorite position where she had a view of the parking lot and road, plus a view to the entrance as well as the kitchen entry, with the long wooden bar beside it.

She waited. John would be inside soon, as well as Andy. Both her objectives could be achieved together. She could chat with the crews and organically, without suspicion, gain an invitation to look at the Goldrick renovation, as well as unobtrusively ask for John-the-bartender’s particulars.

In the meantime, Millie, the waitress who stood only as high as Lyndsay’s shoulders, came and took her sandwich order.

“I’d like the BLT, please.” Another strategic decision, designed to initiate a conversation with Andy. Millie nodded at her, then scuttled off. The little waitress didn’t speak much—she just did her job.

For the moment, Lyndsay was alone with her thoughts. Nothing to do but sit at the scarred table and gaze over the parking lot and street to the dunes beyond, with a sliver of dark blue ocean in the distance. The beach at Wallis Point reminded her of summer vacation from her youth. Also of romantic vacations from her marriage, but she didn’t like to think those thoughts.

Millie brought her a glass of iced tea, which she set beside Lyndsay’s department-issued mobile phone on the table. “Thank you, Millie.”

She received a brief nod and a smile in reply. Followed by the retreat of quick paces from soft-soled sneakers.

Concentrate. Watch for Andy Hannaman’s crew.

She checked her perimeter. Cocked an ear for the sound of a vehicle pulling into the gravel lot.

Instead, the door opened, and John the bartender walked inside, followed by the young man from the beer truck. The young man wore a uniform shirt with a logo, and his body language indicated that he was reluctant to follow John. The two men headed behind the bar, and she observed as John explained in a low but authoritative murmur what he needed the young man to fix. Evidently, there was a problem with the beer line.

Distracted from her purpose, she gave them her full attention. John’s head was bent. He had a short haircut, like a lot of the police officers she worked with. But it wasn’t just his looks that drew her notice. There was something to the way he moved. The subtle cock of his hip, the deliberate, staccato punch of his fingers tapping against his forearm as he concentrated. His mannerisms showed he was impatient. Alert. Coiled.

He turned, and for a split second, she caught him studying her, too. Smiling as if she was nothing more than a red-blooded woman checking out an interesting, red-blooded man, she gazed directly at him.

Her line of sight was broken by Millie, bringing out her bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich. It smelled delicious, and Lyndsay’s stomach rumbled, craving food, so she nonchalantly turned her attention to that and dug in.

She wasn’t really drawn to John, she told herself. She’d been wary of romantic relationships with men ever since Jason had passed and she’d been widowed. Since then, she’d tried to live on, tried to press forward and be cheerful and find something meaningful to do.

Her solace had been to keep busy, with work, work-related training classes, sessions at the gun range. Anything not to be alone with her thoughts...

Then this opportunity had arisen—to work undercover, a chance at maybe later being promoted to a detective. Her dad had been so thrilled to hear about it. She’d thought maybe...maybe her life could be more fulfilled if this professional assignment worked out and she became a full-time detective. She would get to work on bigger cases, help more people than by being a police officer in a squad car. It would also be a job where she could actually wear street clothing and feel more like her long-ago, pre-widowhood self.

She glanced down to where her duty belt usually dug into her hips. Not today. Today she wore a dress she’d chosen because she liked it, with brown tights underneath and ankle boots, plus a short leather jacket that fit her undercover status.

She glanced at John.

Only to catch him staring at her again. Then, after that split second when they met gazes, he abruptly looked away. And he continued his conversation with the beer distributor guy.

John bent over, and for a moment she was treated to the sight of his clearly muscled torso that had been hidden by his oversize black T-shirt. He had...a nice body. She inhaled and crossed her legs beneath the wooden table. But it wasn’t the appropriate time or place to be thinking of such things, not by a long shot.

She forced herself to look away from the bar and toward the door. Through two sets of plate glass windows she saw the small parking lot where her sporty, black, undercover car was by itself. In early April, the place was still briskly cool, too early for the summer season, and thus, not crowded with traffic and beachgoers on vacation.

The sound of tires on gravel crackled, and Lyndsay refocused. Right on time, Andy Hannaman and his crew had arrived in their large white work van with Hannaman General Contractor stenciled in red paint inside a white oval-shaped logo.

In the front seat was Andy’s son, AJ, and in the back seat, AJ’s friend Chet Evans. A black pickup truck followed the van into the lot. Moon Buzzell, who was building a new tile shower under Andy’s direction at the mansion next door to where Lyndsay was undercover, had shown up.

As Andy exited his van, he saw her through the window and waved. Cheerfully—because she had genuinely come to like him—she waved back. Andy was older than her, closer to her father’s age than to her own, and she felt comfortable with him. It had helped even more that he’d taken her under his wing on their four-mansion cul-de-sac in the wealthy section of private beach. None of the residents were back yet; it seemed all of them had hired work out to local contractors in order to prepare for the upcoming summer season.

Andy strode inside, trailed by his son and two employees. Lyndsay wasn’t worried about them—she’d spent four days now as part of their little community.

To Lyndsay’s pleasure, the contractors and workers in the cul-de-sac had bought her cover story lock, stock and barrel. Indeed, she’d enjoyed these lunches and afternoon breaks with Andy’s crew so much, she’d even felt like an interior designer, which wasn’t so strange, considering that had been her original life’s plan when she’d first left home, at eighteen. The police force had come later.

“Hey, Lyn.” Andy greeted her with a smile.

Lyndsay nodded to Andy. “How’s it going?”

“Great. I saw you taking off early for lunch,” he remarked, sitting across from her at the table.

“Yeah, playing hooky,” she admitted sheepishly.

He laughed, the lines around his eyes squinting as he did so. He was in his late fifties, she judged. Andy reminded her so much of her father, with his graying temples and crinkled blue eyes.

He peered at her plate. “So you took my advice—I told you to try the BLT. What do you think?”

“You’re right, it’s really good.” It was easy to give him a genuine smile—she liked the sandwich. A movement caught her peripheral vision, and she chanced a glance at the bar. John was ducking into the door toward what was presumably the kitchen, and Millie was beside the register, taking a phone order.

Andy saw her glance away and turned around, noting what she’d been looking at. Then he turned back. He seemed like he was going to ask her something—possibly about John—so Lyndsay intercepted that thought. Not the right time.

“What are you going to have today?” she asked Andy. “Want me to read the menu for you?” He usually squinted as he strained to read the menu blackboard across the room. “There’s a pastrami on rye. Salads, but I know you don’t like salads, so—”

“Pastrami on rye.” Andy nudged his son. “Will you order for me while I hit the can?”

Yes, the crew had grown ever more comfortable with her by the day, to the point where they were no longer worried by their language. Lyndsay hid a smile and focused on what was left of her sandwich. The bread and the vegetables were fresh, and the bacon had been cooked just right.

When she’d finished a bite, she turned to Moon Buzzell, nicknamed “Moon” because of his round face and somewhat spacey manner. Or so she’d been told by Andy. Moon had just returned from the soda case and was opening a bottle of blue sport drink.

“Hi, Lyn.” He gave her a goofy look. “You came out early today.”

“I did.” She deliberately kept her gaze from the bar and focused only on him.

Moon’s cheeks turned red. “Andy told me today is your last day.”

“It is. I’m hoping I can come back and implement my proposal, but we’ll have to wait and see if it gets accepted.”

The door opened. Lyndsay made sure to smile and wave at the crew of guys—and one gal—who streamed inside before heading over to the soda case. The Burke crew, she privately called them. She’d already recorded information for all of them. It was a close-knit microcosm of men and women who serviced the wealthy beach homes. But she’d gotten to know their habits.

John was back behind the bar. Today one of them asked him for a draft beer. Instead of a draft, John opened a bottle of local brew for the gregarious painter without comment.

Lyndsay took a sip of her iced tea and pretended to pay full attention to Moon Buzzell as he recounted to her his opinion of the hockey game the night before. At the same time, she observed the McAuliffes.

They’d arrived alone, in their white box truck with the New Hampshire license plates whose numbers she’d already phoned in to Pete. The two men put in a to-go order and stayed apart from the others. Both scrolled their phone messages quietly as they waited.

“How is the shower stall coming?” she remembered to ask Moon after he’d finished a bite of his Italian submarine sandwich.

His face brightened. “Stop by and see it. I should be done tomorrow. Maybe you could put one into your design plans for Mrs. MacLaine?” he asked hopefully.

Bingo, here was her opening. Job done.

“If I have time,” Lyndsay said offhandedly, as if it wasn’t important and she was really busy. Even though the design plans were just a front, she was doggedly spending a few hours each day calling up her foggy memory of how to wrestle with the design software installed on her task force-issued laptop. “What are you using for tile?”

“They wanted standard white subway tile.” Moon scratched his head. “I think.” He shrugged. “For sure the showerheads are something else. Special order, real high-end.”

“I’d like to see that,” she said. “Okay, you’ve piqued my curiosity. I’ll stop by this afternoon. The MacLaines were looking for some high-end suggestions,” Lyndsay lied.

Moon stopped chewing and swallowed. “Keep me in mind for the installation. I could use the business.”

“Of course,” she promised.

Andy returned from the bathroom. Over the rim of her glass, Lyndsay saw the McAuliffe brothers gathering up to leave. Millie was busy with another table, so it was John who passed the two brothers each a white plastic bag and rang up their orders, which they paid separately. One of the brothers took his phone, touched the screen, then pressed it to his ear.

At the same time that the McAuliffe brothers were on the move, Andy approached John at the bar, leaning casually in to speak with him. The two men seemed to know each other. John still kept that level, guarded expression while Andy talked with his hands and grinned.

Both men turned and looked at her. Andy brazenly, without guile, and John surreptitiously.

They’re talking about me. It looked like Andy was going to bring John over to introduce him to her.

John’s gaze remained on hers. And even though his look was stoic, almost fiercely shielded behind lips set in a solid line and facial muscles gilded bronze and hard, his eyes told a different story. They searched her, up and down.

To her legs beneath the short dress. The thin T-shirt she wore beneath the leather jacket, and the high ponytail that bared her neck and collarbones to him.

Oh, no. Had she overplayed her role? All she’d wanted to know was his name. And to keep her cover, but he certainly didn’t look suspicious of her now.

He looked like he was interested in her. As a woman.

Swallowing, she glanced at her hands. She didn’t want to feel attracted to anyone. Not on an undercover assignment. Not during her big career break.

She glanced up again, and he took another long look at her, gazing directly into her eyes. She exhaled, not sure what to do. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling he gave her, on the contrary. But professionally, it could be dangerous.

Andy seemed to notice her torment. With growing realization, he stared from his friend to her. His friend noticed, too, giving Andy an irritated look, then turned back to the evident problem with his beer tap.

Quickly, Lyndsay turned to Moon and murmured, “Who is the guy behind the bar with Andy? What’s his name?” The more advance intel she had, the better for her to play her part. She was giving up on subtly, but this was typically lost on Moon, anyway.

“Who, John Reilly?” Moon asked.

Bingo, that’s all I need. “Yes, I guess that’s his name,” she murmured. “I haven’t been introduced to him yet.”

Moon shrugged, not looking too happy that her attention was on John Reilly instead of on him. “He’s usually in the kitchen when it’s busy.”

Indeed, two more contractor vans had pulled in. It seemed that everyone at the beach was getting ready for summer season.

“So he’s a bartender here?” Lyndsay murmured quickly. “Or is he an owner?”

“Owner.” Moon sighed and took a guzzle of his sports drink. “It’s a family business.”

Ah. So Margie must, indeed, be his mother.

Andy ambled back to their table. Lyndsay swallowed but stared steadily at him.

“Would you like to meet my friend John?” Andy asked her.

Act natural. She’d told Andy three days earlier that she’d wanted to meet as many people as possible in the area. I’m building my business from the ground up, she’d told him. That was part of her cover.

“Sure,” she replied in a neutral tone. “But I can see that your friend is busy now. Maybe another day.”

But Andy didn’t take the hint. He glanced at John, then sat at the table, placing his bag of chips and his pastrami on rye before him. “I’ve known John a long time,” he remarked. “Coached him in youth hockey back before I got married and had kids. He left for the military when he grew up.”

“Oh.” Lyndsay lowered her gaze to the remaining crumbs on her plate. Her own husband had been Army Special Operations. A Ranger. But no one needed to know that.

“John came home a few years ago,” Andy was saying. “But he came back different than he was before. He never used to be so quiet.”

She nodded, not saying anything. Maybe this explained what was going on with her. She couldn’t be personally interested in him. It was just that they had more in common than she’d realized.

“Well,” Andy said, sighing, “you’re leaving us tomorrow anyway, right? Unless Mrs. MacLaine accepts your design. And if she does and you come back, then maybe I’ll introduce you to John.”

“Sure.” She smiled at Andy. “We’ll do it then. And put in a good word for me, because he’s been giving me funny looks all morning.”

“I know he comes off as intimidating sometimes, but you don’t need to be worried about him. He’s a good guy, Lyn.”

“I’m not worried,” she said lightly, taking another sip from her iced tea. But her gut told her that maybe she should be. Across the room, John Reilly was staring at her, intently.

He hadn’t stopped staring at her.

* * *

JOHN REILLY STOOD with arms crossed, watching through the break room window while Lyn Francis roared out of his parking lot in her little black Audi. He could feel his eyes narrow the longer he watched her. He didn’t know what it was about her, but there had been something—something he couldn’t put his finger on. On the surface she seemed to have been making a business call in his parking lot—some sort of catalog that she was reading numbers from—but there was more to it than that. Something that set off his inner alarm bells. The more he studied her, the more curious he felt about her presence.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets. It wasn’t that she was attractive. She definitely was, but that wasn’t why he’d been watching her in the first place. Not the only reason, anyway.

The door opened suddenly beside him, and Millie, his mother’s best friend and their longtime waitress, moved inside as quiet as a ghost and began to wipe down the table. That was a reminder to John that he had other priorities to concentrate on. Lyn Francis wasn’t his business. The Seaside Bar and Grill was.

Gritting his teeth, John nodded to Millie, then headed out behind the huge, carved wooden bar that was the pride and joy of their small beach-restaurant business. John’s father had built the Seaside twenty-five years before. John had helped put up the shelves in the back, and he knew exactly, by feel, the spot where he had once secretly carved his initials. John was part of this place. He couldn’t just walk away, much as he sometimes wished he could.

The lawyer’s bill for his brother had come due today. John needed to meet with the bank and somehow scrape up the money to pay it. And on top of that, the screwup with the beer line not working wasn’t helping matters at all. It was costing them, too.

John squatted beside the open closet that led to the big silver keg of domestic beer beneath the bar. “What do you think?” he said to the technician—Cody. “Can you get this line fixed by five o’clock?”

That was when the after-work crowd came in. And John couldn’t keep selling bottled beer for the same price he charged for cheaper drafts, because John was such a good guy to his old friends. He was losing money on the deal.

Cody sat up and scratched his head. “Don’t know,” he mumbled. “I got a call in to my supervisor.” He looked at John. “Actually, I need to leave for a while. I’ll be back later, though.”

“No,” John said reflexively. If Cody left, he likely wouldn’t be back today, and John wasn’t going to let that happen.

Cody blinked. “I have to leave.”

“Why?”

“I, um, need to get a part.”

“Really?” John crossed his arms again. For not the first time today, he wished he was back in active service. That way, people might actually listen to him and follow his orders. “And what part is that, Cody?”

Cody gave him a stubborn look, but John stared him down.

Cody’s cheeks turned red. “I need to replace my flashlight. The bulb isn’t working, and I can’t see.”

John had a million flashlights on the premises. Without a word, he leaned over the bar, reached the top shelf, then chose among three working flashlights. The first was large, more of a weapon than a source of light, the second was medium with a bright glare, and the third was small with pinpoint accuracy—just right.

John turned the small flashlight on and put it into Cody’s hand. “Go to it. If you need anything else, I’ll be right here.”

Cody made a small noise in his throat that sounded like something between a groan and a whine. John felt his teeth clenching. He knew he was probably feeling some prejudice against Cody because of his youth and poor work ethic—similar to John’s younger brother’s youth and poor work ethic, and Patrick wasn’t exactly giving John an easy time of it, either. But these two young guys would have to grow up and learn to be responsible. He’d said that to his brother, and his brother had told him to get off his case.

John sighed and rubbed his hand over his eyes. He was dealing with Cody right now, not Patrick. “Look, Cody, you need to get this done by five o’clock, no excuses.”

It irritated John to have to be a hard-ass in order to get the job done. He had the skills to fix the beer line himself with much less time and emotion expended. But if he touched these beer lines, then he voided the contract with the distributor.

John played by the book. He was honest. He was direct.

He stared at Cody. “Are we clear?”

“Okay. Give me a few minutes.” Cody’s shaggy mop top and beard disappeared under the counter.

John planted his feet and crossed his arms, watching over the kid. He would stay here as long as it took.

Across the room, Andy Hannaman stood, stretched, and gathered his group’s plates and empty bottles. John glanced for Millie, but she was probably in the kitchen with his mother. It was after one o’clock, past the lunch break and well before quitting time, so the place was nearly empty. He went around the bar and helped Andy clear the table of dirty plates and empty wrappers.

“Thanks,” he told Andy. He appreciated that his old friend was there to help him.

“I don’t see why you didn’t want to say hi to her,” Andy said.

“Who?” John asked, though he knew who. The cute blonde with her ponytail and big blue eyes was still on his mind. He had no idea why—it bugged him that he couldn’t put his finger on the specific reason why—but she did something to him, and it wasn’t just because she was hot. A lot of hot girls walked through these doors during summertime. This whole question of why he was getting uneasy vibes about her was driving him nuts.

Andy rolled his eyes at him. “Lyn’s nice. She’s a sweetheart, actually. I saw you two looking at each other earlier.”

“You saw wrong,” John growled.

“Moon said she was asking about you, too.”

Now this just pissed him off. “Stop this line of thinking.”

Andy squinted at him. “I don’t get it. What’s the big deal? I thought you’d be happy. You can’t judge all women by—”

“All women?” John nearly exploded. His former marriage was old news, years-ago news, and what he did or didn’t do with his dating life was no one’s business but his.

“Don’t get riled up,” Andy said, holding up his hands. “I’m just trying to help you. She’s a decent sort. An interior designer working for the MacLaines. Lyn’s not a slouch.”

“I never said she was a slouch.” But that made him think. The congressman? That would imply that she worked for a high-end firm, and that she had serious skills. He turned to Andy. “Why is she so friendly with us?”

“What’s wrong with us?” Andy looked genuinely flummoxed.

John sighed. Even if Andy didn’t see it, the lady was suspicious. A woman like her, with her hot car and her good looks and her high-end interior design skills—at least, according to what Andy had just said—here, in this place? In this little dump of a bar in this sad, dead-end stretch of beach?

“You don’t think she’s too friendly?” he said. “Getting to know all you guys on the crews?”

“No. It’s good for her business, and frankly, it’s nice.”

“You don’t see any ulterior motives?”

“Like what?”

He didn’t want to get into his reasons for watching everyone in the bar so closely. “She’s too alert,” John mused. “Too interested in us.” She paid too much attention when most people didn’t pay any attention at all—fiddling with their mobile phones all the time as they were.

She seemed to be hiding something—he thought of the way she’d covered up her notes when he’d come up behind her in the parking lot. He hadn’t imagined it—she’d flashed him a surprised, guilty look before giving him that sweet smile that would turn any man’s knees to jelly.

“I caught her,” he muttered to himself. “I know I did.”

It was almost as if she was trained to pay attention to everything going on around her, and his sneaking up on her had been a rare slipup.

Andy burst into laughter. “You’ve been spending too much time behind the bar, my friend. You need to get out of this place and mingle more.”

Sure, he could laugh, John thought. Andy didn’t have a younger brother in trouble with the law. But not even Andy knew the extent of the trouble—John hoped nobody did. As much as possible, John didn’t want the information to get out.

Andy just shook his head sadly at him. “You’ve really grown paranoid. I’m worried about you.”

John doubted that. And the more he thought about the idea of her being so alert, like some sort of secret investigator, the more it made sense that’s what she was. That’s why he’d been so drawn to her—his subconscious had been alerting him to the danger she posed. Making him notice things about her that he normally wouldn’t study in a person.

She’s had situational-awareness training, the same as I have. He would bet the Seaside on that fact.

And if he ever saw Lyn Francis again—or whatever her name was—then he was going to confront her about it.

Thoroughly.

CHAPTER TWO

Meeting of the Seacoast Burglary Task Force

Concord, New Hampshire

LYNDSAY TIGHTENED HER duty belt across her hips. Regulation gun, nightstick, flashlight, handcuffs and key were all in place. After a week of undercover work in her chosen street clothes, the duty belt felt tight and uncomfortable. But she was still an officer—not yet a detective—and so she was required to wear her uniform for the meeting with the other members of her task force.

With one last look in the mirror, she smoothed her hair bun and straightened her collar. Leaving the ladies’ room, she headed upstairs to the conference room in the massive, granite-faced headquarters building.

She was outside in the corridor when her mobile phone vibrated. She glanced at the screen and saw that it was her father’s number. Since she had a few minutes before the meeting officially started, she moved to a window in an alcove off the main corridor and took the call. Outside, the lazy river wound along the heart of the state capital. Not wanting to be overheard taking a personal call in a professional setting, she kept her voice low.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Lyndsay! I wasn’t sure if I’d be leaving you a voice mail. You’re off the undercover assignment now, I see.”

“Yes. I’m about to head into a meeting. What’s up?”

“Oh, I’m just calling to check on you. Wanted to make sure everything went well.”

“It did.” Lyndsay watched a police car turn the corner of the building, down on the street several floors below. She knew her dad wanted to hear details about her assignment, but she couldn’t say anything just yet. “I met my objective for the week, so I can say that I’m pleased.”

“You were successful, I assume.”

She smiled to herself—her dad always expected the best of her. She could forgive him for the pressure of the expectations—she knew he loved her, and she knew how he loved the job.

“Well, I’m not sure if my small part will help catch the bad guys, but I’ll get a better idea shortly.” Honestly, she wasn’t sure about the big picture, but that was because she’d been on a need-to-know basis. Today, she hoped to be moved beyond that.

“I’m proud of you for seeking out the assignment,” Dad said. “It’s a tremendous opportunity you’ve snagged.”

“I’m not sure what happens now,” she admitted. Her father was her best confidante, and she’d missed not talking to him during the past week. A police chief himself, recently retired, he felt nostalgic for the job. And, he enjoyed living vicariously through her. It drew them closer, and she didn’t mind that. In fact, she liked it. “Dad, honestly, now that I’ve got a taste of it, I’m not keen to go back to patrol.”

“Enjoyed being an undercover detective, did you?” The pride in his voice was unmistakable.

“Yes, I did like it. Very much.” She thought briefly of the freedom and the camaraderie she’d felt at the beach. It had been fun. Even being checked out by a handsome bar owner was something she’d decided she could handle. Especially after she had called Pete yesterday afternoon and he’d relayed that so far, John Reilly’s background wasn’t raising any red flags. In fact, he had an honorary discharge from the Marine Corps. She should be able to relate to him when and if the time came.

“...You need to go in there and tell them you want the promotion to detective,” her father was saying. “You need to step forward and ask for the increased responsibility. Obviously, they needed a woman with your skills for the short-term task force. Who would have known that year in interior design school would come in handy for you? But the point is, you can’t let them discard you now. There’s a bigger picture, and you need to insert yourself—”

“I know, Dad.” He was getting too passionate. Among the drawbacks of having a father who had also been in law enforcement for his entire career was that he sometimes got too involved.

“So what’s your game plan?” he demanded.

Going with the flow, that was her plan. Working with what came up, as it came up, had always gotten her through life’s difficulties. “I’ll handle it, Dad. I’ll be okay.”

He sighed aloud. “Aw, I’m just so proud of you.” His voice lowered. “I never had the opportunity to do what you’re doing. I always regretted that.”

“I know,” she said softly. Her dad had been the big fish in a small law-enforcement pond—a small town in the mountains, the chief of police on a tiny force. Now he was driving her mom a bit nuts being underfoot all the time. “I’ll come and visit you both soon, but I have to go now, okay?”

“Remember to ask for the job, Lyndsay.”

She smiled in spite of herself. “Ten-four, Dad. And say hi to Mom for me.”

At two minutes to the hour, she found her conference room. It seemed that she was the last person they were waiting for, and as she sat, she lifted her chin higher and glanced surreptitiously around.

She was the only woman at the meeting, and she assumed that meant she was the only woman on the task force. Around the table she recognized Commander Harris, the imposing and serious man in charge of the task force as well as the superior who’d initially selected and interviewed her for the assignment.

Pete—her backup partner—caught her gaze and smiled broadly. Beside Pete were two other men that Lyndsay didn’t recognize. Commander Harris introduced them as Wesley and Simon. Wesley was a young, nerdy-looking camera technician. Simon was middle-aged and fierce, with a thick growth of scruffy beard and a tattoo showing on his neck above the collar of his dress shirt. He looked as if he’d be more at home on a drug enforcement or organized crime undercover task force. Lyndsay knew that a burglary task force was tame compared to operations that the state police were known for. Frankly, she was glad for this one. She’d spent her time at the gun range and at the gym for martial arts class, and she was confident of her skills. But she’d rather not be undercover with violent people if she could help it.

“Pete has taken the information you gathered from your surveillance, Officer Fairfax,” Commander Harris was saying, “and he was able to ascertain that none of the principals were the likely perpetrators of the burglaries.”

Lyndsay nodded. That was good news—she’d been hoping that none of her new friends were involved in anything illegal. She had suspected that was the case, but that Pete had confirmed it made her breathe easier.

“Furthermore, I’m told that nothing out of the ordinary occurred to break your cover. Is that the case, Officer Fairfax?” Commander Harris asked her.

“No, nothing out of the ordinary happened,” she confirmed. Frankly, the assignment had been easier than she’d thought. She hadn’t even had to lie much, really, because it was true she’d been trained as an interior designer. Sort of, if one year of design school counted.

“You did good work,” Commander Harris said. Pete gave her a quick smile. Wesley blinked, but truthfully, he looked greener than she did. Simon didn’t change his expression—he still looked bored by the whole thing.

Licking her lips, she shifted in her seat, wondering if she should break in and ask questions. She was aching for a broader view of the case.

“Last night we had another burglary ten miles up the coast,” Commander Harris said, his tone grim. “Our fifth burglary since February. Same MO. Paintings and jewelry stolen, and a safe cracked and emptied.”

“Any signs of forced entry?” Pete asked.

“None. The homeowner had a surveillance system, but nothing registered as out of the ordinary. The alarm never triggered. And there was no evidence of forced windows or doors.”

Simon sat up taller in his seat. “Sounds like an inside job.”

“We’re considering that possibility,” Commander Harris replied. “I’d like you to check it out, Simon. The theft has been kept from the police blotter. There’s no media attention. These paintings were uninsured, so there will be no outside interference.”

Simon nodded. “I’m on it.”

Lyndsay shifted in her seat. Obviously, paintings were an important part of the common thread. She thought of Pete’s request. The Goldricks had indeed displayed one valuable oil painting—a modern landscape, which she’d dutifully noted to Pete. She hadn’t told him yet, but within the MacLaine home there were two huge oil paintings over the congressman’s fireplace, but she didn’t know if the paintings were important or valuable. They were both female nudes, of the same model. To Lyndsay’s mind, the congressman’s private possessions weren’t her business, and she’d known better than to offer her opinion. But, if all the thefts had been of paintings... Maybe she should say something.

I want to be a detective, she thought. Good detectives always get to the facts. She cleared her throat. “Do all of the burglaries to date involve stolen paintings?” she asked. “Sir,” she remembered to add.

Commander Harris glanced at her. “Yes. Cut from their frames.”

“Like a museum heist,” she blurted.

“A lot easier than that,” Simon muttered. “These homes aren’t the fortresses that museums are.”

“And the safes,” Wesley added. The team was really solidifying now. “Don’t forget the haul from the safes.”

“How much is that estimated to be?” she asked politely.

“From what we’re being told, tens of thousands in cash,” Commander Harris replied.

“Don’t know if I believe that.” Simon leaned back cynically and clasped his hands behind his neck. “Has to be a lot more. What business are these new vics in?”

Lyndsay turned to Commander Harris because she was curious about the answer, too. He seemed to be hesitating. All she knew about the MacLaines was that Paul MacLaine, recently retired as congressman, now worked part-time as a political lobbyist. Technically, he was a former congressman, but nobody around Wallis Point referred to him thus. Paul was quite wealthy. He hadn’t started out that way, but he had made money during the past decade by investing wisely. That was the scoop Andy had told her.

“All five burglaries are from private homes on the seacoast. No one was home during the burglaries, although three of the homes have live-in staff who weren’t on the premises at the time.”

The MacLaines didn’t have live-in staff. During her four days alone in the house, she’d seen and heard nothing suspicious. When she’d left the house yesterday, the two paintings were intact over the fireplace, and the wall safe behind the smaller of the two paintings was undisturbed.

“Line of business of the owners?” Simon pressed.

“Private businesspeople, as were the owners of the other four homes,” Commander Harris replied. “Nothing nefarious involved that we can see.”

“Or they wouldn’t have come to us for help,” Wesley pointed out.

“How did the task force start?” Lyndsay asked. Simon rolled his eyes at her question. She swallowed, but glanced to Commander Harris. “If you don’t mind my asking, sir, I’m unaware of the reasons for the formation and what our broader scope is.”

“You may ask all you want, Officer. You’ve played an important part thus far—and you will be playing a key part in the future.”

“Excellent.” She sat back in her chair.

“Pete, why don’t you fill in Officer Fairfax—Lyndsay—as to the history of our task force. Wesley, as well.”

“The first burglary occurred five weeks ago,” Pete said, leaning forward, his fingers interlaced. “I was a detective on the first case. When the second burglary occurred a week later, I noticed the similarities. About the time of the third similar burglary, Congressman MacLaine notified the governor.” Here, he glanced to Commander Harris.

Commander Harris took up the narrative. “The congressman was concerned that a more unified, centralized and elevated effort be formed, across agencies, to apprehend the burglars. So as of a week ago, we have a task force. The expense is not inconsiderable, and each of you will have clear, focused duties, which will continue for no longer than two weeks. At that point, the governor expects an arrest or arrests.”

She nodded. “What has everyone been doing so far?”

“Lyndsay—” Officer Harris addressed the others “—has been undercover as interior designer Lyn Francis. She has a complete online persona as Lyn Francis, thanks to Wesley.” Here, Wesley smiled at her. “Lyn Francis is the only person on our task force with an undercover alias, and we will get to her mission in a few moments’ time.”

She couldn’t wait to hear it.

“Pete,” Commander Harris continued, “has been investigating the background of area contractors as flagged by Lyndsay. We have reason to believe that locals are involved, and Lyndsay’s efforts here are crucial. Pete is also serving—and will continue to serve—as backup for Lyndsay. Simon has been following up on crime scene investigations, as well as investigating insurance company reports, alarm system company personnel, and staff at burgled homes. Wesley is with us part-time. He will be installing cameras at the congressman’s home, but we’ll get to that later, as well.” He turned to Wesley and nodded.

It seemed to be a signal, because Wesley tapped at the keyboard of a laptop before him. On a wall screen, a photograph of Congressman MacLaine appeared.

“This is Congressman MacLaine,” he said unnecessarily. The congressman’s familiar long face and full head of thick, brown hair, was a common fixture in the local media. Lyndsay hadn’t actually met him or his wife yet. She also hadn’t dared to poke about too much in their possessions in any of the twelve rooms of their oversize beach cottage.

“Lyndsay,” Commander Harris said, “the congressman has specifically requested that you stay in his cottage, beginning Monday, for the next two weeks while he and his wife are away on a cruise vacation. There is a guest room that looks over the street, and you may set up in there.”

Her mouth was open. She hadn’t expected this order, at all.

“Wesley will be there on Sunday evening,” Commander Harris continued, “to place a network of hidden cameras in the MacLaine home, which will give a complete picture of the surrounding grounds as well as the rest of the street and the three mansions facing them. While he is there, your job will be to cover and assist him.”

She blinked. “Do you expect the congressman’s home to be targeted? Has there been a tip?”

“Not at this time. The congressman has requested the cameras. If his home is to be targeted, he wants evidence. He’s funding this part of the effort, though that is not to be made public knowledge.”

She nodded. “Of course.” But still it niggled at her. What was she supposed to do there? “With all due respect, sir, what will I be investigating?”

He gave her a censorious look, so she folded her hands and waited. Sometimes it was difficult to follow the dictates of the chain of command.

“Officer Fairfax, your primary mission is to maintain your cover. Do not break it for any reason. I repeat, for any reason. Not even the local authorities have been made aware of your presence, or of the existence of our task force. If you are so much as stopped for a traffic ticket, you will give them your cover name. If necessary, you will allow yourself to be arrested and even locked up.”

She gaped at him.

But Simon was nodding. “Been there, done that,” he muttered.

She glanced at Pete. He was shrugging.

“This isn’t a game, Officer Fairfax.” Commander Harris gazed sternly at her. “You’re to keep your eyes and ears open. You will remain at the MacLaines’ home, and your backup officer will maintain contact with you by phone. Additionally, you two will conduct a short daily meeting at a nearby rendezvous point.”

Pete leaned over and murmured to her. “There’s a convenience store nearby, just a walk out the back slider and down the beach. I’ll fill you in later.”

“But what police work will I conduct?” she asked Commander Harris. She’d already gathered the names of the local contractors. She couldn’t imagine what else he needed her to do, just sitting idly at the congressman’s home all day, watching and waiting for a break-in that might never come.

“Your daily investigative duties will be up to your backup officer,” Commander Harris said. “Rest assured, your undercover presence is extremely valuable, and we have more than enough work to keep you occupied, if you will listen for one moment.” He sent her another censorious look, so she pinched her lips together and waited.

Commander Harris nodded to Wesley. The computer technician pressed a button for the next slide. A picture that looked like a driver’s license photo flashed on the screen—a female who looked to be Lyndsay’s age. She had shoulder-length, dark red hair, and a direct, fiery gaze. “This is Kitty MacLaine.”

Interested, Lyndsay straightened her spine. She hadn’t seen a photo of the congressman’s wife before. Information about the congressman’s private life was woefully scant on the internet. She knew; she’d searched for it.

Kitty looked quite a bit younger than the congressman, but Lyndsay knew better than to make a comment.

“Kitty is not aware of the task force. She’s not aware, Lyndsay, that you are an undercover police officer. But she is aware of you as Lyn Francis.”

“Oh,” Lyndsay murmured.

“On Monday morning at nine, your assignment is to meet with Kitty MacLaine in her home and review your design plans with her.”

“What?!” Lyndsay nearly exploded. Her design plans? She hadn’t expected that any of her computer renderings would be seriously considered by anyone. She swallowed, a vain attempt at tamping down her panic. “But I’m not a professional designer, sir. Surely, she will see through that.”

“You have to trust us,” Commander Harris said, his tone sharp. “As you know, you’ve been given an internet cover as a designer working under Karen Talbott, owner of the DesignSea company. What you didn’t know was that Ms. Talbott’s seacoast home was the first one burgled, and she’s been eager to assist us. She’s also a friend to the congressman, and it was his influence that got her onboard with us.”

“So...I’m to meet with Ms. Talbott first?”

“I recommend it, yes,” he said calmly. “Although Ms. Talbott is pleased with your ideas and feels you have talent.”

Someone snickered—Simon, it sounded like. Lyndsay knew her face was red, but she didn’t give him the satisfaction of turning to look at him. She focused on Commander Harris. “I don’t know anything substantial about Kitty, or her desires and needs,” she protested.

Commander Harris looked blankly at her. As did Pete.

“For example, is she the congressman’s first wife? How long have they been married? I understand they don’t have children, but—”

“Is that relevant?”

“Certainly. I know from—” from Andy Hannaman, but it wasn’t relevant to mention his name “—from a longtime local that the congressman’s beach home has been owned by him for almost twenty years, but that during the past five years or so, he was rarely there. Then suddenly this past autumn, after he retired, he started visiting more often.”

“And?”

“And, An—the local,” she corrected herself, “said that he was with a wife he’d never seen before.”

The commander sighed.

“Also, does he have any children by any former relationships? I wasn’t able to tell from his internet profiles, but I assume not.”

“No, the congressman has no children,” said Commander Harris wearily.

“I know you assume this is all peripheral to the task force,” she said to the room at large, “but I really should be clear with these details.”

“Karen Talbott,” he said in a no-nonsense voice, “will fill you in with what you need to know from the design standpoint.”

“And then I’m to review the design plan with Kitty MacLaine on Monday? What exactly are her expectations?”

From the short silence, Lyndsay wondered if Commander Harris had fully thought this out. She waited.

The room was quiet. Everyone was staring at her, it seemed, waiting for her to say something.

Finally, Pete leaned forward. Maybe he felt responsible for giving her a good recommendation. “I’m sure that Kitty is expecting her interior to be redesigned,” he said gently.

“But that is not police work.”

“We have approved contractors we’ll send to assist you. And you’ll get a budget, courtesy of the congressman, to implement the design.”

It dawned on her that they assumed that the one year of design school she’d had under her belt, years before she’d joined the force, was enough to fulfill this crazy cover story. She shook her head, exasperated.

“We’ve invested in you,” Commander Harris chided her. “The task force needs you to continue the cover for two more weeks.”

She resisted the urge to throw up her hands in defeat.

But was it defeat, really? She would be doing investigative police work, as well. That was the most important thing. There was always the hope that she could catch the criminals in the act and make a collar. The potential upsides were too good to pass up.

Besides, she really couldn’t refuse them now.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll do it. I’ll call Karen Talbott this afternoon and set up a meeting.”

“Just keep your cover,” Commander Harris repeated. “Whatever you do, it is imperative that you not compromise your cover.”

* * *

JOHN UNLOCKED THE front door of his family’s restaurant, then flipped the window sign to Open. Outside, the sun was rising, although clouds were gathering on the horizon. Across the street, he saw the vacant public parking lot and behind that, sand dunes. In the far distance, across the blue-gray sea, were fishing vessels and the season’s early lobster boats, chugging out to check the baited traps.

He drew a hand through his hair. Another summer coming. Every morning was the same. The years and seasons were all starting to run together. He felt like he was spinning his wheels here, but he didn’t know what else to do.

From the corner of his eye, he heard his brother cough softly. Patrick slouched on a bar stool, electronic device in hand, absorbed as he played a video game. The soft glow of the screen in the early morning gloom lit up his pimply face and scraggly hair.

John could never get too mad at Patrick. His brother was young. He’d been at home when all the bad stuff in their family had gone down.

“You want to help me start the coffee?” John asked. “Andy’s crew will be coming soon.”

Patrick pretended that he didn’t hear him. Or maybe he wasn’t pretending, because he was wearing earbuds. He reached down to scratch his lower leg, which made his pants ride up. The ankle bracelet, placed there by the county court system, showed clearly.

John stalked over and pulled his brother’s jeans back into place. “People will be coming in,” he said tersely, once his brother had removed his earbud to glare at John. “You need to help us in the kitchen.”

Without a word, Patrick sullenly got up from his chair. The game went into his back pocket. Patrick shambled into the kitchen. When he was gone, John leaned over, head in hands. Sometimes he had no idea what to do with his brother beyond getting him through his next court date without incident. June 5. Just get through to June 5. The goal was to get Patrick released from court-ordered house arrest without prison time. Since he’d been through a rehab session successfully, the lawyer had told them that Patrick’s release was a strong likelihood, as long as John could help Patrick keep to the conditions set forth by the court.

If John wasn’t successful...

His mother poked her head from the kitchen. “I’m thinking of making clam chowder today.”

“Sounds good, Mom,” he said wearily. “I’ll write it up as a lunch special.”

She nodded and disappeared. She seemed okay this morning, and that was good.

When John had first returned home, she’d been upset about his dad and his brother—understandably—and he’d had to calm her on nearly a daily basis, it seemed. Only lately did she seem like herself again. She was humming an upbeat tune in the kitchen, and he was glad for it.

The rumble of a truck engine sounded outside. A quick glance told him that Andy’s crew had arrived for breakfast—his mother’s special muffins and their morning coffee fill-up. His mom made everything from scratch; even the coffee was from freshly ground beans. Andy was a longtime customer, and he knew their routines. He knew about what had happened to John’s brother Justin, of course, and John’s dad, but John wasn’t sure how much Andy knew about Patrick’s recent legal problems. From what John could tell, Andy wasn’t aware of the arrest and conviction, and John’s promise to the court to watch his brother. John hoped Andy didn’t know, anyway.

Feeling wary—always wary—he met Andy at the door. Wordlessly, still sleepy, Andy handed over the large insulated coffee carafe, followed by the empty plastic cooler that John filled with lemonade for them each working morning.

“Gonna be a nice day, even with those clouds,” Andy remarked.

“Yeah. Summer’s coming.” But no sooner had John let the words out, then a familiar black Audi pulled off the coast road and into their little lot. The hot blonde driving made her habitual, tight, three-point turn, then backed her two-seater into an equally tight space between Andy’s van and the restaurant’s front door.

John closed his eyes briefly and groaned silently.

“Look who’s back,” Andy said cheerfully. “The congressman must’ve liked Lyn’s designs.” He winked at John. “Go. Talk to her. Give her a chance.”

While Andy headed inside the restaurant, whistling loudly, John folded his arms, kept silent, and watched. Andy was wrong about her, he felt it. Something was definitely off—something suspicious—and if she was an investigator of some sort, then that was trouble his family didn’t need.

He stepped outside the restaurant and approached her car. Planted his feet.

Lyn Francis—or whatever her name was—had hopped out of the Audi.

John caught a quick glimpse of the sleek leather interior before she shut the door. The shelf where the back seat would have been was stuffed with fabric samples and paint-chip wheels. Could be part of a cover story. He felt his nails dig into his palms. When she finished locking the door and turned, noticing him standing there, she smiled. But her gaze lingered on his face, and her smile died.

Yeah, he was irritated—mainly that he needed to even do this in the first place, that his brother’s criminal behavior had put him in this position. He was aware that his mood likely showed all over his face. He’d been told he had a look, a scowl that he used on enemies as if shooting at them in a firefight, and yes, he was pretty sure he was giving her that exact look now.

She swallowed, as if surprised that he was angry with her. But he gave her credit; she didn’t wilt under his scrutiny. Instead, she lifted up her rib cage, stiffening her back as she stared him down.

His gaze dropped. A bump showed at her waist, beneath her shirt. A gun. She was carrying a concealed sidearm—he was positive of that.

“Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed today?” Lyn gave him a saucy smile, oblivious to his thoughts.

He didn’t trust her. After what Patrick had put him through, John didn’t trust anybody on their word, not without his own verification.

He planted his feet wider and kept his gaze directly on her eyes. Pretty, soft blue eyes. But even pretty girls with soft blue eyes could be deceitful.

“You’re a cop,” John said roughly. “Aren’t you?”

CHAPTER THREE

IN THE SPLIT second when Lyndsay had first seen John standing before her with the sun behind him, outlining his erect stance and muscular arms, something within her had lifted. It may have been crazy of her, but she’d been genuinely interested in seeing him again.

What a mistake that was. Because now her systems were screaming in alarm. She was doing everything she could to face him as an actress would. A very good actress.

“You’re a cop,” he repeated.

Her vision swam, and the earth seemed to move beneath her feet, even hearing the accusation for the second time. But she managed to school her face into something resembling disbelief.

Talk him out of it! her mind screamed at her. Deflect him!

Keeping as steady as she could, she leaned against the hood of her car, splaying her palms flat on the metal, still warm from her drive.

It wouldn’t be hard to act flabbergasted over what he’d just said, because honestly, he’d thrown her off balance from the moment he’d peered into her car window that day in the parking lot.

“Why would you possibly think I’m a cop?” she asked, trying to sound incredulous.

And while he scowled at her, she gazed into his gray-blue eyes. The pupils were enlarged, making his eyes seem dark and hard.

She crossed her arms, shivering. She’d worn a thin sweater under her short woolen pea coat, but it wasn’t warming her.

“You’re not denying it.” He crossed his arms, too.

“Because you’re joking, right?”

“I never joke. You’re a cop.”

“I’m not a cop,” she spit, suddenly angry. She wasn’t going to let anyone stop her from doing her job. It felt good to be angry about that. “How can you say something so weird to me? You haven’t spoken to me before, not once, not even a ‘hello’ greeting, and I’ve been coming to your restaurant for almost a week now.”

He exhaled, and his breath made a small puff in the cool air. Briefly he glanced away. But then he was back, glaring at her again. “I’ve been watching you.”

“Yes, so I’ve noticed.”

“Because I have situational-awareness training. I was in the military. And you appear to have that training, too.”

“I haven’t had military training,” she said as calmly as she could.

“Cop training, then.” He cocked his head. “It shows.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” She met his gaze.

“It means that as much as you act friendly and chatty to everyone here, you’re always aware. You’re always looking around.” He pointed at her. “Last Thursday you couldn’t even talk on the phone without constantly looking around the parking lot.”

“So? Isn’t that painting it with a broad brush?” She jumped on his mistake. “Is everyone who is aware while they’re speaking on the phone—which, by the way, is a good thing—a cop?”

He snorted, not backing off. “I’ve watched you for days. Every time you’re here, you sit in the corner in the same seat, exactly the same seat that I would sit in,” he pointed out, completely changing the subject. “You sit in the power seat. The seat where you can come out with guns blazing if you have to.”

“Guns blazing?”

“You know exactly what I mean,” he said quietly.

She knew her mouth was hanging open. She’d already known he’d been in the Marines, but who was this guy?

Ironically, every ounce of her law enforcement training was telling her to keep the upper hand in the situation. She needed to be in charge.

But now, all she could seem to do was gape and stare at him, as if she was outside her own body looking in. Her hot, shocked body.

“But the real clue is the sidearm at your waist.” He nodded toward it. “You’re wearing a concealed holster, aren’t you? There’s an imprint of a small handgun. Right here.”

He reached to point at the outline of her Glock, and this time her training did kick in. Deftly, she reached out and blocked him before he could touch her pistol.

Her hand clasped his, inches from her weapon.

They both stared at each other, breathing hard. Her adrenaline was pumping. He was a danger. To her, to her mission.

She didn’t let go of his hand.

He blinked at her, at the surprise he must have felt, because he stared in confusion.

Stop this, she told herself. Let him go.

She dropped his hand, knowing she’d just outed herself by her actions. The fact that she’d grabbed his hand aggressively, as a police officer would, rather than just swatting his hand away, didn’t look good.

He opened and closed his fingers, shaking them. “Okay,” he said finally, speaking quietly again, “forget the handgun. I’m open-minded about that, and it’s best not mentioned anyway. But you can’t deny to me that you’ve had military-type training.”

No, she could not. Particularly after the way she’d just crushed his fingers.

She needed to tell him something. Something logical and true, while still concealing the whole story.

“My father was a police officer.” She hadn’t wanted to tell anyone this, but she was fast seeing it was her only way out. “Maybe that makes me different from other women you’re used to, but my dad didn’t have sons. He had me, his only daughter.”

John nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“He taught me self-defense maneuvers. And to observe my surroundings. And to sit in corners of rooms in order to better check for danger. But I am an interior designer, not a cop.”

He seemed to be assimilating the information. “Did your father want you to be a cop?”

“No.” She couldn’t help smiling. When she’d been young, her dad had thought her hopeless that way. She’d been a girly-girl, drawn to all things feminine. She participated in Girl Scouts. Cheerleading. Heck, she really had signed up to go to interior design school.

“So, the way he was, it just rubbed off on you,” John stated.

She nodded slightly, wondering what was happening. The conversation was turning into a mix of half-truths and half-lies. None of it comfortable. “I...should really just grab a coffee and then get back to work.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” But he wasn’t taking his eyes from her.

This...wasn’t good. Yes, he’d seemed to buy her story, but in convincing him, she’d exposed herself, too. And he hadn’t said a thing about himself.

“Why were you watching me, anyway?” she asked. “Do you watch everybody to see if they’re police officers? Do police officers worry you or something?”

He looked sharply at her.

“What is it?” she pushed him, tilting her head to see his expression better. “You’re allowed to question me, but I can’t question you?”

“I’m a Marine veteran,” he said forcefully.

She knew that, but he didn’t know that she knew that. She gazed steadily at him. “So you’re no longer active duty? Are you a reservist? Or are you transitioned out?”

“I’m out.”

“Were you honorably discharged?”

He scowled at her. “For several years now.”

“How many years?”

He thought for a moment. “Four.”

He would have been active duty while Jason was still alive.

“Were you in theater?” she asked.

His jaw worked. “Iraq and Afghanistan.”

So had Jason.

The thought made her reel. What if they’d known each other? It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility.

She felt...even more off balance than she’d been. She’d prepared as best she could for this assignment, but being faced with the possibility that someone here had known her late husband hadn’t been part of that. Without thinking, she leaned back against her car, felt the door handle on her backside.

“Are you okay?” he asked. Her reaction would make anyone suspicious. To keep him off the trail, she had to throw him another kernel of truth, however painful for her.

“My late husband was in Army Special Operations. I can’t really talk about it, but he...” She shook her head. A raindrop spattered down on her face. It had gotten dark outside. It looked like it was going to rain harder.

“Can we get in the car and talk for a few minutes?” he asked.

“I’d rather not. I’m fine.”

“It’s raining, Lyn.” His look had changed to one of concern. She realized that it had worked, that he believed her, that she’d deflected him from accusing her of being a police officer. He’d even called her by her undercover name.

It had taken the truth to do that. And now he wanted to really talk. Just great.

She shook her head, then turned and fumbled with her door handle, opening it and rushing inside. The rain seemed to pour from the sky, hitting the windshield, running down it in quickly gathering streams.

She heard her passenger door open, and she glanced over, startled. John was getting in, too. He sat on the leather seat and ran his hand through rain-spattered hair. He still wore his short, military-style haircut. She should have realized this about her initial attraction to him.

“When did it happen?” he asked her. “How?”

He had such a direct way about him. She’d sworn she wouldn’t go there. But she was cornered, and it was easier to tell him the truth, or something with a kernel of truth. That seemed to be working.

“Six years now,” she murmured. “Jason died in a training accident.” She clamped her lips shut. Too much information. Too much of it true.

All of it was true.

He was gazing at her with such tenderness. She’d never have guessed him capable.

Don’t say you’re sorry. Please don’t say you’re sorry. Everyone says they’re sorry...

“You’ve made a big sacrifice,” he said.

Something about his tone made her pause. “Are you married?” she asked.

He gave a short shake of his head. In response to her unasked question, he explained, “Divorced.”

“Oh.”

“I’m fine.”

“Ditto,” she murmured.

But she rubbed her hand over her eyes. He just put her so off balance. She glanced away from his wry smile and the T-shirt that fit his wide chest in such a nice way. “Well, the rain has slowed now. I’ve got to get to my job site. Please...don’t tell Andy what I said, all right? I don’t want people to gossip or feel sorry for me or anything like that.”

He made a cross sign over his heart, then pressed it to his lips.

He had such nice lips.

Without a word, he turned away and opened the door. The rain had petered to a misty drizzle. Without saying goodbye, he got out of her car and walked into his bar.

Lyndsay turned on the engine, threw the shifter into Drive and headed for her meeting at the MacLaine home, her morning coffee put off.

As she careered down the coast road, she blew out a breath. Had she just screwed up? Or had she done the right thing?

All of this was new to her. She couldn’t get her mind wrapped around it. Yes, it was true there was something about him—she respected his forthrightness and the fact that he noticed things about people. But John noticing too much about her put the operation at risk. She needed to be extra careful where he was concerned.

CHAPTER FOUR

Congressman MacLaine’s Beach Cottage

Wallis Point Beach, NH

FORTY MINUTES LATER, Lyndsay’s weapon was secured inside her glove box. She sat inside her car, engine idling, in the driveway of the MacLaine cottage, waiting for Kitty MacLaine to show up for their morning appointment. Kitty was twenty minutes late.

Though the rain had stopped, the sky was nevertheless gray and overcast. The wind was brisk, and the clouds moved quickly—a volatile weather pattern.

When she’d arrived here, she’d still felt volatile. Her mind kept wandering over her encounter with John. To save her cover, she’d had to confess so much truth to him. She couldn’t help thinking about Jason, too. She’d had no idea what she was getting herself into when she’d first been drawn to him. It had been at a party during her first year of college—a lifetime ago, it seemed. She’d been sheltered and naïve, out in the world on her own for the first time. She’d fallen head over heels in love and had done an impulsive thing—she had married the soldier in her hometown that summer. Her parents had supported her decision—eventually—but it hadn’t been easy at first, because then she’d moved across the country with her new husband. She hadn’t even finished her college degree until years later when she was a young widow not knowing what else to do with her life.

Well, she knew what to do now. And that’s what she needed to focus on. Her professional assignment.

She pulled out her phone and dialed Pete.

“Lyn?” His voice was scratchy, but he was alert, even at this early hour. That was a good sign.

“Hi, Pete. I need to tell you something. I met with John Reilly and—”

“Oh, hey, I was just going to call you about them.”

She paused. “What’s happened?”

“I’ve got information about the background checks.”

“Go ahead. I’m listening.”

“Margaret—Margie Reilly is a widow. As you know, she’s co-owner of the Seaside and lives next door to the business.”

“Right.”

“Patrick Reilly is the interesting case. We’re pretty sure there is a juvenile criminal record, which is closed. Probably related to drugs, because a stint in drug rehab does come up on the adult record.”

She remained silent. Drug use among area teens was a terrible problem.

“What’s interesting is that Patrick is currently on home detention, wearing a court-ordered ankle bracelet.”

She sat up, shocked. Maybe this explained why John was on edge. Why he so carefully watched anyone who came into the family’s establishment.

“What’s the charge?”

“An assortment, all boiling down to possession of drugs.”

“Is he pre-or post-judgment?”

“He pled guilty, but his status is presentencing. The hearing is scheduled for June 5. The John Reilly you reported, the Marine veteran brother? Well, he’s on record as being a court-appointed sponsor. He’s signed a statement promising to supervise his brother as he’s allowed out of the family home to work in the business. Otherwise, Patrick can’t leave the two properties. There’s a notation about him working in the kitchen.”

Which would explain why, as a patron, she’d never seen him.

Then it occurred to her. “Should I investigate Patrick as potentially being involved with the burglaries?”

“Simon already did that. The bracelet tracking indicates he’s never been past the boundaries of the family home or restaurant. Evidently, the brother watches him like a hawk. He also has a court-appointed counselor who drops by to give drug tests unannounced. Patrick has never tested positive.”

“I understand.” Yes, this explained John’s protective behavior. “Tell me, Pete, is there anything I should do in relation to Patrick?”

“No. In general, keep your eyes and ears open, but don’t attract undue suspicion.”

“Right.” She glanced up as the rumble of an engine sounded, then snapped to attention. From her position facing the street, she saw Andy’s van head up the hill. Raising her hand, she waved, wondering if he knew the story about John’s brother. Probably. Andy knew everybody in town, it seemed.

He waved back. His son, AJ, sat in the front seat; their helper, Moon, followed in his pickup, the sides dirty. Both vehicles turned into the driveway next door.

“Okay, Pete, I need to go.”

“Has Kitty arrived?”

“No, she’s late. I hope she’s still coming to meet me.”

“Want me to check for you?”

“Not yet. I’ll call Karen if there’s a problem.”

“Keep me posted.”

She watched Andy’s team hop out of their vehicles. They were late for work, too. Maybe they had stopped at a building supply store, or maybe they were freshly come from the Seaside Bar and Grill, perhaps even quizzing John about just what she and he had been discussing inside her car.

Enough. Her future course was clear: no more lunches spent at John’s establishment. Not for the foreseeable future, not until the morning’s incident had passed from memory.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning at our meeting point,” she said to Pete. They’d agreed on the market down the beach.

“Good luck with the congressman’s wife.”

“Not a problem.” She hung up.

Frowning, she kept her gaze forward, scanning the street, waiting for Kitty MacLaine’s vehicle. Lyndsay hadn’t mentioned the encounter with John to Pete because John’s concern made sense to her now. If she saw him again, she could handle him. Still, it really would be better to avoid the Seaside for a few days. Let John cool down. Let him think that he’d upset her, talking about Jason.

Her immediate mission was clear: convince Kitty that Lyndsay was a capable interior designer. In no way should people suspect otherwise.

I have to live here, she thought. Two weeks, while the MacLaines are on their transatlantic cruise.

Fourteen more days and nights—mornings and lunch breaks and evenings—working in the house beside Andy’s crew. They were going to wonder why she didn’t head to the Seaside with them for lunch. She needed an excuse. Maybe Kitty could give her one—if she showed up.

Her mobile phone trilled. Pete again. Connecting to the line, she said, “Yes, Pete.”

“I’m down the street from you, headed up the coast to meet with an insurance company. Thought you might like to know that the congressman’s wife just zoomed past. She almost hit me—the woman is a menace. My guess is that she’ll be at the house in no time.”

“Thank you.” She really was thankful that Pete was alert and looking out for her.

“No problem. Remember, Lyn, keep your cover.” The phone clicked off.

As he’d warned her, up the street roared what had to be Kitty MacLaine, driving a cherry-red Mercedes SUV. Kitty exceeded the speed limit by at least fifteen miles per hour—Lyndsay would’ve been hard-pressed not to issue her a ticket, had she been in uniform.

Kitty parked her vehicle in front of Lyndsay’s and hopped out with a saucy wave. Lyndsay felt the smile on her lips and waved back. Given the petite woman’s attitude, she surely would’ve talked Lyndsay into a warning instead of a ticket.

Kitty reminded her of a firecracker. Flaming red hair, a petite, straight-up-and-down boyish build and a manner of walking that fit about three quick steps into what Lyndsay usually took as one long stride.

With a blazing smile on her face, Kitty met her at her driver’s door. Lyndsay gathered her oversize purse from the seat beside her and stepped outside. The salty air felt sharp and fresh to her nostrils.

“Lyn Francis? Are you Lyn?” Kitty asked in a loud, clear voice. The words were fast and crisp and seemed to run on in sentences that made Lyndsay strain to keep up. “’Cuz I am so excited to get started today. I’m honored to have you here. I’ve been a huge fan of DesignSea, your firm, and I can’t believe that Paul commissioned you as a surprise for my birthday!”

“Oh, happy birthday, Mrs. MacLaine,” Lyndsay said, feigning innocence. In Lyndsay’s presence, Karen had conducted a phone call with Kitty’s husband on Saturday. The congressman had filled them in as to what he wanted to do for his wife.

“Call me Kitty. And I already checked you out online on the DesignSea website. What a beautiful portfolio you have.”

“Thank you, Kitty.” Lyndsay tried not to gulp. When Commander Harris had said that Wesley had made her a plausible background story, he hadn’t been kidding.

Lyndsay followed along as Kitty wove her way past a picket gate, down a pathway edged by beautiful beach landscaping with rambling beach roses, not yet budded, and clumps of local grasses planted artfully in between white pebbles.

“I can’t wait to see the finished home,” Kitty said. “I’ve been staying with my sister in Maine while Paul finished up work in DC. Well, let me get out my keys.” Kitty fumbled with a jangly, oversize key ring. Picking out the appropriate key, she unlocked the front door, then squinted at the panel that housed their home-alarm system.

All of the micro-cameras that Wesley had installed last night were well hidden. Lyndsay knew—but Kitty didn’t—that they covered every angle of the exterior of the home. In fact, Wesley might be watching them both entering the home now, for all Lyndsay knew.

“Just a moment while I let us in. But you already know about the security...” Kitty keyed the numerical code into the panel with one finger. Lyndsay stayed respectfully back until Kitty waved her way inside.

The foyer never failed to take Lyndsay’s breath away. It was the bank of windows straight ahead that gave the most beautiful, calming view of the beach and sky that Lyndsay had seen from any home, ever. She would love waking up to those windows in the early morning, watching the majestic white seagulls fly through the air. The cloud formations over the wavy blue-gray ocean at dawn. The expanse of soothing beach sand.

“Sit down, let me take your coat,” Kitty urged. Lyndsay complied, and sat on the beige leather couch in the downstairs living room.

“Your purse is so beautiful,” Kitty cooed.

“Thank you,” Lyndsay said. It was made of the softest almond-color Italian suede, and she hadn’t been able to resist it. “It was a splurge, but I have a weakness for pretty things.” She stroked the soft suede. It was nice to feel like a woman sometimes. These past years, she hadn’t seemed to receive that pleasure enough.

“May I?” Kitty asked.

“Of course,” Lyndsay replied, and the congressman’s wife stroked her hand over the suede.

She looked at Lyndsay and smiled. “I love your plans for the upstairs sitting area.”

Lyndsay felt the flush of pleasure spread in her chest. That had actually been her idea, not Karen’s, though Karen had warned Lyndsay that the final detail approvals were to be all Kitty’s, of course.

“I know that Paul helped by showing you ideas of my tastes,” Kitty said, “but honestly, I never would’ve thought of that style of flooring. And enlarging the closets is a wonderful idea.”

Lyndsay’s heart seemed to slow. “Closets?” she asked. There had been nothing of the sort in the design plans.

Kitty stared at her directly, as if waiting for Lyndsay to contradict her.

“Let’s talk about the back terrace,” Lyndsay suggested. “I understand that’s where we’re starting.”

Kitty’s hand stilled on Lyndsay’s purse. “No, I don’t think so.”

A crew was already lined up to pour concrete and to bring in plants. There was to be an undercover officer working alongside the legitimate laborers. The task force had set this up.

“Perhaps we should review the plan as discussed with your husband,” Lyndsay said.

Kitty’s face darkened. “No. I’m happy with the back patio as it is. I like the outdoor hot tub. Instead, I’d prefer that the master bedroom suite and the upstairs living area be updated. You and I will keep it as our surprise for Paul.”

If she were a real designer, rather than a police officer, Lyndsay would be terribly concerned. But her job, above all, was to keep Kitty happy, and therefore unsuspicious. Her only real concern with the design plans she and Karen had decided upon was to keep her police-employee laborers busy with a cover story. She needed to fit them in to Kitty’s plans somehow.

“Very well,” Lyndsay said calmly. They would skip the concrete pouring, but keep the plants. They were on order, with a police planter set to install them. Also, the hot tub would stay.

“Tell me about the master suite, Kitty. It’s been locked, and Congressman MacLaine asked that I not enter.”

Kitty waved her hand. “Probably because his safe is in there.”

“His safe?” Her heart beat faster. No one had said a word about a second safe. Had the congressman even mentioned this to her commander?

“Should I be worried? About the liability,” she explained.

Kitty shook her head. “That’s not a consideration.”

“Okay.” Lyndsay kept her voice cheerful. “It sounds like we’ll be going against what your husband ordered, then.”

“This is my project for my birthday. And I’ve wanted it for a long time.”

“How long have you lived here?” Lyndsay asked conversationally. In the academy, she’d been taught that when a person got upset, that it was best to keep him or her calm.

“We haven’t lived here much since we were married. I never liked that he lived here with somebody else. It reminds me too much of...not me.” Kitty’s jaw moved.

Ah. So here was the point of tension.

“And this is your first renovation on the house?” Lyndsay asked gently.

A short nod. There was an internal anger to her that Lyndsay could sense. A resentment against her husband, perhaps.

Lyndsay directed a bright smile at her. She could calm a person in a bad mood. It was one of her strengths. Besides, she felt compassion for Kitty, moving into a house that her husband had shared with another woman.

Kitty wasn’t exactly acting in concert with him. Beneath the smiling surface, she seemed unhappy. Maybe she usually hid it behind a manic, enthusiastic persona. That march of busy-busy-busy. Lyndsay recognized that particular coping mechanism, as well. Being lonely, she did it herself sometimes.

Lyndsay stood. “I’d love for you to walk me through the house, Kitty. When your husband hired my firm, we spoke about your tastes over the phone, and he filled out some questionnaires for us, but obviously, it’s preferable to hear about your wishes directly from you. I’d love to see what you feel about everything. Hear what you have to say.”

Kitty’s mouth pursed in thoughtfulness. “What exactly did Paul say to you about my tastes?”

“You like blues and greens, ocean colors. You want a clean, contemporary design that uses natural materials. Much like what DesignSea specializes in,” she said hastily.

Kitty nodded. “He did do a great job choosing the design firm,” she admitted.

Excellent. Lyndsay silently praised Commander Harris for that decision.

“Why don’t we head upstairs?” Honestly, Lyndsay was dying to get into the master bedroom suite and investigate that safe. The team needed to be informed.

“First, let me tell you what I want done with this room,” Kitty said. “Right now it’s just a big empty space with a couch and two chairs. I want to keep the pictures of me—” she pointed to the two nudes over the fireplace, and Lyndsay recognized Kitty right away “—but not on white walls. And we’ll need to replace the cracked tile floor. I’d prefer nice vinyl flooring—not wood—since we are at the beach. I really want to see a nice, inviting space with color and modern floors and furniture.”

“Of course. I’ll make sure that this room is painted and decorated to give it a beachy feel.”

“Yes, like what you did in your design. I want you to fix up the whole house like that.”

“We only have two weeks,” she gently reminded Kitty. “And I have to do something with the outside terrace because I already ordered the plants and the crew, but I’ll tell you what, I’ll leave the hot tub and anything else that you want me to keep. And for now, besides the living room, we’ll choose one other room to transform, exactly as you’d like it. But just one. Which would you like?”

She prayed Kitty didn’t choose the kitchen, because then she would have to refuse her. But if she’d said that upfront, then Kitty might have chosen it. Kitty seemed to have a perverse streak in her, and Lyndsay, while she felt compassion for her obvious unhappiness, had no desire to tap it.

“All right. Let’s go upstairs.” Kitty set her chin. She stood, walk-marched over to the curving staircase to the second floor and motioned Lyndsay to follow.

Lyndsay knew the floor plan well, having already worked here for four days. Honestly, what needed the most work was the guest bedroom suite, the rooms where Lyndsay would sleep, which were a wreck, with peeling paint and old, stained carpeting.

Of course Kitty did not choose the guest bedroom suite. Lyndsay followed her down the hallway toward the master bedroom.

Lyndsay paused. Curiosity made her stay quiet.

Kitty tried the handle, but the door didn’t open.

“It’s locked,” Lyndsay said. “I was asked not to enter.”

“Well, I want it updated. I hate our furniture, I hate our window treatments, I hate the paint color.” Kitty pulled out her key ring again, and flipped through the keys. Dramatically, she opened the door and stepped inside, waving Lyndsay after her. “Isn’t it ugly?” she asked Lyndsay.

A king-size bed. Two nondescript dressers—his and hers. Two windows with messy old blinds, drawn. That same white paint that was in every other room. Builders’ grade.

Wordlessly, Lyndsay entered the small hall that led to the door into the master bath. Also in the hallway were two walk-in closets.

The safe must be inside one of them. She would check that out later. Turning, she saw a small alcove built into the corner of the room. Here were two more original paintings. Watercolors, smaller than the oil paintings of Kitty downstairs. She peered closer. There was a woman in both paintings, but she didn’t look like Kitty. She sat on the beach in front of this cottage, frolicking with two golden retrievers.

“I want this entire master bedroom area updated,” Kitty was saying, “including new furniture and bedding. And of course I want the master bathroom remodeled by the time I return from my trip. The open sitting room at the top of the stairs, too. So in summary, I’d like the downstairs living room painted and both main floors, up and down, need to have flooring installed. Of course, that is in addition to the master bedroom and bathroom update.”

“Kitty...” Lyndsay warned. It was inconceivable that she could manage all that in two weeks, plus act as an undercover detective.

Defiant, Kitty moved to stand beside her. “I know you have our credit card on file. I know you have a generous limit and more than enough time to implement these small changes for me.”

I can’t do all the flooring, or the master bathroom tiling, Lyndsay was about to say. But Kitty was gazing at the two watercolor paintings with a strange look on her face.

Lyndsay stilled, watching her.

“It wouldn’t be a bad thing if these went missing,” Kitty spit.

“What do you mean?” Lyndsay asked, her heart beating faster.

Kitty turned and gave her a cryptic smile, then lowered her lashes. “I’m sure they’re insured.”

Whoa. The cop in her was straining on the leash, eager to interrogate Kitty.

“Who are they?” Lyndsay asked instead, casually. “The woman and the dogs, I mean.”

Kitty snorted. “The less said about that, the better.”

What did this mean? Lyndsay bit her cheek. Had anyone on the task force interviewed or considered Mrs. MacLaine? Lyndsay would bet not.

“Your husband is an art collector?” Lyndsay pressed. She leaned closer to the paintings. The signature was an illegible scribble. “Who’s the artist?”

Kitty laughed. “It’s not important. The important thing is that I’m trusting you with the key to this room. But as a reminder, only you are to enter inside. Absolutely no other people can.”

“No movers? Or tradespeople? I can’t change the furniture or paint the walls in that case.”

“Well, then you must be with them at all times, no exceptions. My husband prefers this door be locked. No one should be left in here alone.”

“Understood.” Lyndsay nodded. She was most excited about the knowledge of the two previously unknown watercolors, and about Kitty’s strange reaction to them. Lyndsay realized she was leaving a whole lot of questions on the table, but she didn’t want to make Kitty suspicious, and there were other avenues she could take to find answers. The investigator within her was chomping at the bit, in fact.

Still, with all this reno work to supervise, it was going to be a very busy two weeks. Good thing she liked to keep busy. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you,” Kitty said. “I’ll be excited to come home and see what beautiful things you’ve done for me.” She gave Lyndsay a heartfelt, happy smile.

And Lyndsay couldn’t argue with that. She liked to see people happy. Who didn’t?

She needed to get the information she’d learned about the paintings to the task force. She would discuss it with Pete during their meeting.

On the plus side, all this work gave her the perfect excuse to skip a few lunches at the Seaside with Andy and his crew.

“You’re a hard driver, Kitty. But thank you for trusting me with your home. You have a good trip, and I’ll have the big reveal ready when you return.”

* * *

KITTY’S RED SUV wasn’t gone from the driveway thirty minutes when the front doorbell rang. Putting down the laptop where she had been looking for anything related to the watercolor paintings—and coming up empty—Lyndsay reluctantly headed to her guest room, where she had a commanding view of the street.

Andy’s van was parked in her driveway. AJ sat in the front passenger seat. Moon in the rear. The engine was idling.

Sighing, Lyndsay headed downstairs and pulled open the door before Andy had a chance to ring the doorbell again.

He met her with a grin. “You’re still here. That’s a good sign, right?”

Unable to hide her own smile, she grinned, too. It had made her quite happy to have some detective work to attend to.

Andy hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “We’re heading to the Seaside. Wanna join?”

Where she would come face-to-face with John Reilly again? Not on his life.

“Wish I could, Andy,” she said cheerfully, “but I’m swamped. Mrs. MacLaine loaded me with work. Would you mind bringing me back a sandwich?”

“Okay. You want an Italian sub?”

“Um, yes, please.” She really wasn’t hungry, but she might be in an hour or so. “Hold on, let me get my wallet.” She held up a finger and dashed to the kitchen before Andy could protest. In two seconds, she was back again. “Here’s a twenty. I forgot to pick up supplies, so if you could throw a few bottles of water into the bag, I’d be grateful.”

Andy took the bill and plopped it into his shirt pocket. Peering at her, he asked, “Is everything okay with you and John? I saw you guys talking this morning. It looked kind of heated.”

She forced a smile. “Everything is okay. Really.”

“Okay. If you say so.” Andy tipped his hat. She remained at the door until Andy hopped back inside his vehicle, then backed the van into the street. From the back seat, Moon gave her a wave.

Smiling to herself, she waved back. But it wasn’t until she’d closed the door that she felt truly relieved.

She could only wait and see what John would do now, then deal with it as best she could. Hopefully the background alias that the task force had built for her would be enough to cover her.

It had fooled Kitty. Pray that it fooled John, too.

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