THE ENGAGEMENT ASSIGNMENT

While investigating a dangerous drug ring, Detective Chloe Brant witnesses a hostage situation...and gets pulled into a case that could make her career. But to bring down rival drug-dealing gangs, she has to pose as the fiancée of Detective Trent Henry—the man who broke her heart the last time they were undercover together. Trent’s been undercover so long, he can’t let anything blow this case...even his growing feelings for his temporary fiancée. But when Trent comes face-to-face with his past, a killer makes Chloe a target. And for the first time, the danger of his job is personal...because if Trent wants his pretend romance to become real, he and Chloe must stay alive.

They had targets on their backs.

And there was no way he’d let her come with him straight into the gang’s den.

“We’re partners, Trent,” Chloe said.

“Not anymore.”

She opened the door and stood there in full motorcycle gear. “You think I’ve never walked into a room full of criminals who’d kill me as soon as look at me?”

He shook his head. “My plan—”

“Your plan is going to get you killed,” she said, cutting him off. “You think they’ll really believe you’re so irresistible that you charmed a dedicated detective into spilling classified information without her knowledge?”

“I don’t have any choice.”

“Yes, you do.” Her hands snapped to her hips. “Here’s my plan. I walk in there and do what I don’t believe you can. Convince a room full of killers that I sold out my badge for you. That I’m your fiancée and that I’ve fallen head over heels for you.” She stepped closer and trailed a finger down his cheek. “Because if I don’t, we’re both dead.”

Dear Reader,

I can’t believe this is the tenth book I’ve written for Love Inspired Suspense. Did you know that Chloe was in my very first one, Killer Assignment? She’s the detective who interviews Katie.

I’m not sure which book is my favorite but I do know which book was the hardest: Headline: Murder. I was on my final draft when suddenly Trent and Chloe walked onto the page. They’re definitely two of my very favorite characters. Headline: Murder would go on to inspire both the True North Bodyguard and True North Hero series.

While I got a lot of ideas for this book from the Citizen’s Police Academy, I definitely took some liberties with police procedure to speed the story along. The hockey teams, colleges and sports center are fictional. But Bobcaygeon and Haliburton are both real and very beautiful small towns. The gangs and drugs are made up, too, and get their names from a very dangerous fish and mammal, and a rather harmless spider.

Thank you again to all my amazing readers who’ve gotten in touch with your thoughts and suggestions. The best place to reach me is on Twitter @MaggieKBlack or at www.maggiekblack.com.

I’m so thankful you’re sharing this journey with me,

Maggie

MAGGIE K. BLACK is an award-winning journalist and romantic suspense author with an insatiable love of traveling the world. She has lived in the American South, Europe and the Middle East. She now makes her home in Canada with her history-teacher husband, their two beautiful girls and a small but mighty dog. Maggie enjoys connecting with her readers at maggiekblack.com.

Undercover Holiday Fiancée

Maggie K. Black

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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“Come now, let us settle the matter,” says the Lord. “Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.”

—Isaiah 1:18

In memory of my grandfather, who taught me how to tell stories, and my grandmother, who taught me how to laugh. I miss you and I hope I made you proud.

Thanks as always to my agent, Melissa Jeglinski, my editor, Emily Rodmell, and the rest of the Love Inspired team, who encourage authors like me and bring stories like these to life.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

Extract

Copyright

ONE

The crash of exploding glass echoed up through the empty halls of the Bobcaygeon Sports Center, shattering the early morning peace and drowning out the melody of Christmas carols. Moments earlier, Ontario Provincial Police Detective Chloe Brant had been running in place as a treadmill cycled endlessly beneath her. Now she heard shouting. She yanked the treadmill’s emergency cord and grabbed the handles for stability as the belt shuddered to a stop beneath her feet. Her steady green eyes looked through the interior window of the sports center’s second-floor exercise room down at the lobby below, just in time to see a skinny figure in a rubber elf mask knock over the Christmas tree with the wild swing of a baseball bat.

What’s happening, Lord? What do I do to help?

The large window that had encased the front desk had been bashed in and was now a cobweb of shards held together by nothing but safety-glass coating. The first elf was joined by a second, who was holding a knife and seemed equally intent on mindless destruction, stomping on tree ornaments as they rolled across the floor.

At five thirty in the morning, the center was so deserted that the front desk and the coffee counter hadn’t even been staffed when she’d headed up to the exercise room. Hopefully that just meant destruction and chaos—not actual casualties.

If gossip around her police division was true, local Trillium Community College—where Chloe herself had spent a year over a decade ago—had a major drug problem the Bobcaygeon police were completely failing to deal with. Accidental overdoses had spiked last spring. A baggie containing thousands of dollars’ worth of a new designer pill, nicknamed “payara,” had turned up in the sports center locker room. Now, vice units across the country were hearing about payara being trafficked, in small amounts, through their own communities’ criminal networks. Seemed whoever was creating it was testing Canada’s appetite for a new illegal way to get high.

Some said local staff sergeant, Frank Butler, was going to find himself facing a major internal investigation if he didn’t figure out where the drugs were coming from, and fast. Butler had been Chloe’s first training officer. He was in his late sixties and, while they’d never been close, she had attended his wife’s funeral two years earlier and now hated the thought of a dedicated officer’s reputation being destroyed so close to the end of his career. Even if he had made a mistake, he deserved an opportunity to get help and fix it. Not to mention that if he was embroiled in a scandal, it could tarnish her own career and sabotage the promotion to detective sergeant she’d been striving for. She had a week off for Christmas and a house less than an hour away. She’d emailed Butler, asking if there was anything she could do to help. He hadn’t answered.

Chloe was the kind of person who took action while praying. So, for the past three days, she’d been scouting the sports center, just exercising, observing and asking God for guidance—never expecting the first hint of trouble she’d spot would come in the form of masked elves brazenly destroying the place.

Gang violence, probably. Especially considering the drug connection. Most ordinary criminals weren’t that brazen.

She glanced back toward the exercise room. There were two other people in there and both seemed to be college students. The blond jock on the treadmill was wearing a jersey from nearby rival college: Haliburton. He’d introduced himself as Johnny when he’d first walked in and made a cocky attempt at impressing her with some tale of being a tech genius and entrepreneur before quickly moving on to flirting with the dark-haired young woman on the rowing machine. Now both of them were staring in her direction.

She yanked her badge out of her sweatshirt and held it up on its lanyard. “Stay there. Don’t move.”

Before they could answer, she slipped off the treadmill and crept along the window for a better view of what was happening below. The faint outline of her reflection mirrored back at her. Six feet tall and lithe, she might’ve been mistaken for some kind of athlete. But with her long, flaming red hair often scraped back into a bun, she knew the overall impression she usually gave was more of a librarian, especially since she’d reached her midthirties.

The scene shifted below her. She saw a third, bulky elf shove the elderly security guard up against a wall as the shape of a young woman cowered behind Nanny’s Coffee counter. There was a gun in the elf’s hand. Chloe turned back to the students.

“I’m Detective Chloe Brant, OPP.” Her voice rang with authority. “There’s a disturbance on the main floor. At least three armed intruders wearing elf masks. I’m going to check it out. You’re both going to stay here and lock the door.” She pointed to the young woman, making the snap judgment she’d be the more responsible of the two. “What’s your name?”

“Poppy.” Her dark eyes were filled with fear but her voice was strong. “Did you say elves?”

“Yes, elves.” If this was somebody’s idea of a sick holiday joke, Chloe wasn’t laughing. “Poppy, please call 9-1-1. Johnny, look for ways to barricade the door.”

But the young woman was staring at her. “I know you, right? You’re dating one of my teachers. I think I saw your picture at the college.”

“Focus, Poppy!” Chloe ignored the ridiculous question. She’d assumed Poppy would be the better choice. It never ceased to amaze her how people’s brains seized up in shock. Relationships might be top of the mind for these young people but they were the last thing on hers. “I need you to call 9-1-1. Hand me the phone when they answer.” She held out her hand and waited while Poppy dialed.

She took the phone, gave Dispatch her name, badge number, cell phone number and a concise description of the situation. Then she handed the phone back to Poppy. “Stay on the line with them and answer their questions. They’ll tell you what to do.”

“But my boyfriend’s on the Trillium hockey team,” Poppy said. “He’s at the rink setting up the Christmas toy mountain with the coach and Third Line.”

Chloe took a deep breath. Okay, so that potentially meant even more people in danger. She’d spotted the dark hair and rather hunky broad shoulders of the bearded college coach pass by with a handful of players yesterday, but he’d left before she’d made her way downstairs or gotten a good look at him. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure they get out okay. What’s Third Line?”

“It’s the group of guys on a hockey team who hit the ice third,” Johnny said. “If they get to play at all, because they’re not as good as first-or second-line players. I play first line for Haliburton.” His tone implied he’d never be caught dead playing anything else. He stepped off the treadmill. “I’ll go with you.”

“No, you won’t,” she said. “Not unless you’re a cop or military. Are you?”

“No, but a friend of mine is.” His chin rose.

Right, and her sister was a journalist and her father was a con man.

“Stay here with Poppy,” she told him. “Lock the door behind me and stay away from the windows.”

She slipped out of the exercise room. The door clicked shut behind her. Her feet moved silently down the hallway, her fingers aching for her service weapon. But this was Canada and so, because she was off duty, her gun was in her car, safely unloaded and locked away.

She paused at the top of the stairs and looked down at the shards of red and gold glass spread across the floor below. She pulled out her phone, turned it on and made sure the ringer was on silent. It buzzed with a Missed Call notification. She glanced at it. Apparently she’d missed a call almost an hour ago. It was from a blocked number, but she was so sure she knew who it was from, his name might as well have filled the screen. Trent.

Detective Trent Henry of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police was one of the nation’s finest undercover detectives. Strong and rugged, with the kind of heart-melting blue eyes that hinted at a familiarity with danger, they’d worked together three times so far. They always clicked so well, she’d expected they’d stay in touch. But each time he’d dropped out of her life without even saying goodbye.

Then, suddenly, he’d called her a handful of times in the past two weeks, with the same curt and blunt demand. “Call me. We should get coffee.” No, thanks. She didn’t take orders from men like Trent, no matter how rugged their jawlines or how stellar their reputations. Not that she didn’t wish Trent was with her now. When she’d met him, he’d been undercover with the province’s most notorious gang, the Wolfspiders. Nobody knew more about Canada’s drug and gang operations than Trent Henry.

She reached the bottom of the stairs. The hallway was empty. She crept over to the coffee counter and crouched down. A pair of huge and frightened brown eyes looked up at her. The girl was wearing a black shirt and an apron that advertised Nanny’s Diner and Coffee. Her face was vaguely familiar in a way Chloe couldn’t immediately place. Her name tag read Lucy.

Chloe raised her badge. “I’m Detective Chloe Brant and it’s going to be okay. Where are the elves?”

“The ice rink.” Lucy’s voice barely rose above a whisper. “They asked the security guard where it was. The guard escaped. But I stayed hidden.”

“Probably smart,” Chloe said. “How about the players and the coach?”

“They’re hiding outside the rink, including my brother.” Lucy held up her phone. It showed a string of messages from someone named Brandon. The contact picture was a slender young man with a nervous smile. “But the elves have their coach. They’re going to kill him.”

“Not if I can help it,” Chloe said. If the elves were hunting hockey players, she hoped Johnny had done what he was told and stayed in the exercise room. She could hear footsteps in the distance now. Sounded like one of the elves was on his way back. “I need you to run out of here as fast as you can and don’t look back.”

Lucy hesitated.

“Hey!” A voice filled the air to her right. Chloe turned. It was the hefty elf. A knife flashed in his hand.

“Run!” Chloe sprang to her feet. “Don’t stop until you’re safe!”

The elf charged. Lucy ran. Chloe threw herself between them. She dodged as the knife slashed through the air inches from her stomach. She grabbed his wrist to wrench the knife from his grasp, but his wet boots slipped on the tiled floor. He fell backward. Chloe landed on top of him. The knife flashed in front of her eyes. She leveled a blow to his jaw, snapping his head back against the floor. As she twisted the knife from his hand, she noticed his tattooed wrist read GGB. It was a gang sign for the Gulo Gulo Boys.

The Gulo wrenched himself from her grasp, leaped up and ran after Lucy.

Chloe sprinted after him, ready to tackle him if that’s what it took to help the young woman escape.

She heard a clatter and watched as his cell phone bounced across the floor behind him. Gotcha! She scooped up the phone, spun around and ran for the stairs. A roar of anger left his throat as he realized what she’d done. She almost smiled. A gang member was nothing without his phone. She sprinted up the stairs to the second floor, hearing his footsteps pound after her.

“Give me back my phone!” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the stairwell. “Or I’ll kill you!”

She lead him in the opposite direction of the exercise room, dodged behind a pillar and then turned sharply to head down a side hall toward the hockey rink. Had he seen where she’d gone? She didn’t know if he had another weapon on him and didn’t much want to find out. She ducked behind a Christmas tree and gasped in a breath, just long enough to look over the railing. The round foyer in front of the hockey rink lay beneath her, complete with a wooden platform stage and a giant mountain of stuffed animals towering almost all the way up to the second floor.

Four figures lay flat on their stomachs under the stage, their shadowy outlines barely visible through the slats below. But, even at a distance, she could recognize the Trillium College hockey jerseys. The two Gulos she’d seen earlier stood between them and freedom. One was swinging his bat at anything he could break. The other stood stock-still, his back to her and a gun in his hand.

Then he shifted and her gaze fell to the man kneeling on the ground in front of him.

It was the coach. The sweet-looking, bearded man was kneeling, his head bowed and hands outstretched, as he placed his life between the hidden students and the gang members. Something about his courage made it impossible for Chloe to look away. She could hear the other Gulo coming down the hallway toward her now. She had to run. She had to fight.

The gang member pressed the barrel of his gun between the coach’s eyes, execution style. The coach’s chin rose. Then his gaze turned toward her. Keen, piercing blue eyes met hers. Her heart leaped into her throat, stealing a breath from her parted lips.

It was Detective Trent Henry.

* * *

Trent’s heart sank as his eyes latched onto Chloe’s form crouched at the railing above. The feeling of dread in his gut was matched only by the frustration burning at the back of his throat. What was she doing here? First she ignored his calls and then she stumbled into his investigation? He’d called her to get some advice on his undercover assignment over a quick cup of coffee. Getting threatened by weapon-wielding Gulos had never been part of the plan.

Help me, God. This whole drug investigation has been a mess from the start and now it’s falling apart around my ears. Help me figure out how to get everyone out of here alive.

If Chloe got killed, or even hurt, he’d never forgive himself. The gun currently pointed between his eyes didn’t help matters much. He’d taken out quite a few Gulo operations over the years and the memories were especially vicious. He shuddered to think what it meant that they were staging something so blatant.

Seconds earlier he’d been praying for a diversion. Something simple and straightforward that would enable him to take out two gang members at once in a way that didn’t blow either his cover or risk the lives of his hockey players. Now, here the strongest, toughest and most infuriating cop he’d ever known had somehow materialized on the floor above him, making his job that much harder.

Her eyes were now locked on his face. She’d recognized him. He watched as shouts and footsteps suddenly sounded from above, giving Chloe barely moments to leap to her feet before a third Gulo pelted down the hall toward her. Chloe threw her shoulder into the Christmas tree and tossed it at the gang member like a football tackle. The Gulo grunted and fell under the force of pine needles and branches. Trent nearly whistled.

It was a gutsy move and impressive—not that he didn’t wish she’d run instead. But he could tell she’d also seen his players in their hiding place. Had he been right to tell them to hide instead of fight? Hard to know. The four young men weren’t the best athletes or experienced fighters. Hodge had gotten a text from his girlfriend, Poppy, saying there were heavily armed criminals swarming the building.

When Trent had heard the chaos and destruction moving through the halls toward them, he’d ordered his players to hide and not a single one had argued. Instead they’d all dived for the narrow crawl space below the platform. Later, he could worry about whether that meant anything to his case. He’d gotten used to thinking of the four of them as his suspects. So it was pretty ironic that a Gulo was now pointing a gun at his face and threatening to kill him if he didn’t spill the exact same information he’d spent the last three months completely failing to figure out for himself.

The Gulos wanted to know who was manufacturing the new designer drug and the location of their lab. So did Trent.

After three months of painstaking undercover work as the interim Trillium College hockey coach and sports education teacher, he was absolutely positive that the only people who could’ve possibly hidden that baggie stuffed with payara pills in the garbage can was one of the four third-line players now hiding under the platform behind him.

He had little doubt that the other three players might very well have coordinated their stories to protect whoever it was. Breaking through their wall of silence and finding out who was his core mission and would be the key to finding the manufacturer and unraveling the entire drug operation. He also knew, without a doubt, that none of the players—whatever their crimes—deserved the vicious evil the Gulos would mete out.

And as of right now, the only two things standing in the way of that was him and the magnificent, glorious, red-haired cop now fighting an armed criminal on the floor above. He watched, with his knees pressed into the floor and his hands raised, as Chloe spun toward the masked Gulo. The thug yanked a knife from his boot and lunged. Her leg shot out hard with a flying roundhouse to kick the weapon from his hand. It slid across the floor and wedged in the railing. The Gulo threw himself at her and then it was a battle of limbs as Chloe and the gang member struggled for dominance.

The masked man standing in front of Trent jabbed the barrel of his weapon into Trent’s forehead. “Who’s she?”

Now that was a complicated question and a pretty long story. Chloe was a stunning, difficult and complicated woman. The kind that would drive a man crazy if he let her, until he found himself lying awake at night, staring at the cracks in his hotel room ceiling, counting all the ways he wasn’t good enough for her.

The gun dug even deeper. “Is she with you?”

“She’s not with me,” Trent said. “I honestly don’t know what she’s doing here.”

Yes, he’d called her several times, including earlier that very morning. When he’d first taken this case, he hadn’t expected it to take more than a few weeks. He’d get the young men to confide in him, find out where the payara had come from, determine if it had a link to the local police division and then an official task force would be formed to take over and investigate further.

In fact, he was supposed to launch into prep for another much larger and longer investigation way up in the Arctic after Christmas. The substitute teacher cover story had seemed ideal. After all, he’d gotten violent gang members and criminals to spill their deepest secrets. How hard could gaining the trust of four college students be? But the real Trillium sports professor and hockey coach was supposed to return from paternity leave after Christmas. Trent’s excuse for being in Bobcaygeon and in these players’ lives was rapidly ending, and he was no closer to finding the source of the payara.

He’d needed help. He’d needed advice. School had never been his scene. But Chloe had lived in Bobcaygeon. She’d gone to Trillium College. She was book smart. Plus, she’d trained under the very same local staff sergeant who’d either bungled the case or was corrupt enough to be bribed. Trent wasn’t sure which it was, all he knew was that there was something off about Frank Butler. The staff sergeant had an agitation that rubbed him the wrong way. Not to mention that one of the third-line players was Butler’s grandson, Brandon. Chloe could help, if they all made it out of there alive.

He watched as Chloe tossed the Gulo off and rolled away, out of sight. Her attacker lunged after her. He stared at the empty space above, willing for some kind of sign that Chloe was okay. Sweat formed at his hairline. Lord God, please don’t let her get hurt! Help me get this gun out of my face so I can rescue her and the players!

A flash of brilliant red filled his view as he watched the Gulo grab Chloe and throw her against the railing. Her hair tumbled free from its bun in long loose waves that trailed down her back. Visceral pain pierced his chest as Chloe’s head snapped back. The Gulo lifted her by the throat and tried to force her backward over the railing. Every muscle in Trent’s limbs tensed to fight even as he felt the barrel of a gun holding him in place. If he got shot in the head, he was no use to her. But he couldn’t just kneel there and watch as she got hurt. He’d learned when he was thirteen what could happen if he let somebody down. The death of his only sister had been a very high price to pay.

That was it. He’d risk the bullet. He pushed to his feet.

“Get back down!” the Gulo in front of him ordered.

Trent stared into the bland, lifeless eyes behind the mask.

“You think I won’t kill you? You think you’re gonna save your own skin by not telling me where your players are? You know one of them is dealing payara?”

Well, Trent knew one of them had tossed the pills in the trash. But he wasn’t convinced that meant they were an actual drug dealer. Sure the third-line players each had their problems but none had struck him as gang potential. He’d know. He’d been fourteen and still angrily grieving the murder of his sister when the Wolfspiders had tried to tangle him into their web. And that was a secret about himself he’d keep to his grave.

“We’re here looking for payara!” The Gulo holding Trent hostage raised his voice. “Tell us where the lab is and who’s been making it. Or I’m gonna shoot your coach between the eyes.”

Trent gritted his teeth and prayed. Chloe’s feet kicked futilely in the air as her attacker lifted her higher over the railing. If only he’d solved this case earlier, none of this would’ve ever happened and Chloe wouldn’t be in this position.

God, please, don’t let Chloe die because of my failure.

Then a scream, bordering on a warrior yell, filled the air above him as Chloe flew backward over the railing.

TWO

Chloe’s body tumbled through the air. She tucked her head into her knees, braced herself for impact and aimed for the huge mountain of stuffed toys. The second she’d felt herself about to go over the railing she’d kicked the gang member in the chest with both feet and launched herself out of his hands. If that criminal had been so determined to force her backward, she was going to take charge of the moment. Life had taught her that much. She couldn’t always control whether or not she was going to fall. But she could control how she landed.

Her body hit the mound of fluffy stuffed animals, just like a kid cannonballing into a ball pit, sending toys flying. She gasped a prayer. Then she reached for her pocket and breathed a sigh of relief. She still had the Gulo’s cell phone.

She pushed her way up through the mound and looked at Trent. He was still down on his knees, with the barrel of a gun against his skin, and his face pale as he scanned for her. Her gaze met his and a visible wave of relief swept over him.

But still she could read the question floating in his blue eyes.

She nodded, feeling the sliver of a smile brush her lips.

He grinned and turned back to the Gulo, who was staring at Chloe in shock. Trent struck. With one quick motion, Trent snapped the gun out of his hand so quickly the gang member gasped in shock.

Chloe grinned. Yeah, there was nothing quite like seeing Trent in fighter mode. Too bad she couldn’t afford the time to stick around and watch. She tumbled from the stuffed animals. Toys cascaded across the floor. She allowed herself just one more glimpse of Trent’s strong form now fighting for all their lives against not one but two Gulos. Her fighting style was precise and tactical, based on an understanding of anatomy and physics. But Trent was a blistering force, all power and instinct.

She rolled to the platform and peered under. Four pairs of stunned eyes met hers.

“Come on!” she said. “We’ve got to get you guys out of here.”

“You’re Coach’s fiancée, right?” The whispered question came from a young man with curly brown hair and a composure that implied this wasn’t his first crisis. Under any other circumstances she would’ve laughed.

“No, I’m a cop.” She pulled her badge out and pushed it in front of his face. “You are?”

“Aidan. I’m the center for Third Line.”

So, the hockey equivalent of a third-string quarterback then.

“Okay, Aidan. I’m going to crawl around to the other side of this platform, and you four are going to meet me there. We’re all going to stay really low and head down the hallway. Once I give the word, you’re going to jump to your feet and sprint to the exit as fast as you can. Nice and simple. Got it? Now let’s go.”

She turned to crawl away but felt a hand grab her ankle. It had to be Lucy’s brother, Brandon. Dark hair falling over an angular face, his earnest eyes were deep with worry. “I have to find my sister, miss. She works at the coffee counter.”

Being called “miss” grated. She preferred Detective or Officer. But she couldn’t begin to imagine how he must be feeling and now was no time to quibble. “You’re Brandon, right?”

He nodded. “Brandon. Brandon Butler.”

She blinked. Frank Butler’s grandson? She vaguely remembered seeing his grandchildren from a distance at their grandmother’s funeral. “Your sister’s okay. She made it out safely.”

“Thank you.” He let out a long breath and closed his eyes for a split second as he whispered a prayer. But the anxiety in his face didn’t fade. “What about Coach Henri?”

He pronounced the French version of “Henry” like the letter H was silent, so it almost sounded like “Enry.” Seemed Trent hadn’t strayed too far from his real last name on this cover. But as Trent liked to say the best covers always contained a hint of truth.

“Don’t worry. Your coach is going to be okay.” Now, to hurry up and get them all out of there before they noticed just how okay he was doing.

Trent was still battling two Gulos at once. He was such a strong fighter he seemed almost invincible, except that she happened to know he’d dislocated his shoulder once or twice in the past. She prayed it wouldn’t happen this time, and would come back to assist him once she got the civilians out.

She crawled flat on her stomach around the side of the stage, where the students were already making their way out from under the platform. The second-floor Gulo was nowhere to be seen. She waved a hand at the hockey players and started toward the wall, her body low as she moved across the floor on her forearms. The players followed. They reached the wall and she waved them on, putting herself between the young men and the gang members, praying the Gulos wouldn’t see them.

The sport center’s main hallway lay long and empty ahead of them in a maze of destruction and broken glass. The doors shone at the end as headlights blazed in the darkened parking lot, sending a blinding white glow against the glass, punctuated by dashes of moving red and blue. Emergency services had arrived.

Gunfire and vile shouts sounded from above. A huge decorative snowflake crashed to the floor ahead of them and shattered. They’d been spotted.

“Run!” She leaped to her feet and ran forward, pausing just long enough to make sure each and every member of the team had made it to their feet and was moving. Bullets rang behind her. The youths sprinted down the hallway. Chloe ran behind them, taking up the rear and urging the boys on.

The doors in front of them opened. Cops leaned in, reaching out for them. The young men ran through, guided by police. One by one they disappeared into the parking lot. Thank You, God! They were going to make it. Every single civilian Trent had been protecting was going to be okay.

Footsteps pounded down the hall behind her as the last player tumbled through the door. A hand grabbed her neck and yanked her backward so suddenly she felt her feet slip out from under her. A plastic mask pressed against her cheek. A rough voice barked past her ear, “Stay back! This pretty little thing is mine!”

The cops stepped back. The door closed. For one quick moment her eyes searched the hallway behind her. Two Gulos lay on the floor where Trent had been fighting just moments before. Trent was gone. Her body was pulled backward into an office. She looked up into the cold, plastic stare of an old-fashioned goalie mask.

She’d been taken hostage and Trent had left her to fight for her life alone.

* * *

Trent watched through the eyeholes of the vintage goalie mask as fear filled Chloe’s face. A gasp slipped through her lips. He winced. Didn’t she know it was him? Didn’t she understand that he just needed to grab one quick moment to tell her what she needed to know about his undercover investigation before she ran into a mob of local cops? The security cameras in the center might be so bad they were practically nonexistent, but that didn’t mean he wanted a phalanx of officers—let alone Butler—seeing the local hockey coach yanking a provincial detective away for a private chat.

“Hey, it’s okay.” He let go of her body and reached up to pull his mask off. He didn’t get the opportunity. Chloe’s strikes came hard and fast, beating him around the head and sending the mask spinning until he could barely see through the eyeholes. “Chloe! Stop! It’s me—”

A strong, precise and determined kick caught him in the gut and sent him flying back against the wall. She’d knocked the air right out of his lungs. He could barely make himself heard in this stupid mask. Or she was so determined to fight she wasn’t even listening.

Her fists flew toward him again. Enough! He could hardly get this stupid mask off if she kept attacking him. He ducked her blow, swung her around and pressed her back up against the wall. He braced his forearm across her chest, pinning her, and yanked the mask off his face. “Chloe! Stop! It’s me!”

“Trent?” The fear and the fight fell from her face. Her eyes went wide.

They were standing so close his arm was the only thing keeping her chest from touching his, and he could feel her heartbeat radiating through it. For a moment he couldn’t tell if she was tempted to slap him or to hug him. He stepped back and raised both hands in front of him before either could happen. “I can’t believe you didn’t know it was me! Don’t you remember when we first worked together undercover, I called you a ‘pretty little thing’ and then you pretended to be mad at me.”

“That wasn’t pretend.” She blew out a long breath. “Not that I expect you to understand that.”

He didn’t know what she meant by that, but now was hardly the time for arguments. “Are there any casualties?”

“Not that I know of,” she said. “There are two college students in the upstairs exercise room—a young woman named Poppy and a hockey player from Haliburton named Johnny. They’re on the phone with 9-1-1 and barricaded themselves in. I also helped Brandon’s sister, Lucy, escape. She told me the security guard had gotten out, too.”

“And hostiles?” he asked. “I disarmed three.”

“I only saw three, too.” She touched her right sweatshirt pocket with the back of her hand, like she was checking to make sure something was still there. “Look, I don’t know what you’re playing at, Henry, but you have exactly sixty seconds to explain what’s going on. Because now, thanks to you, there’s probably a whole parking lot full of cops thinking that one of their own is being held hostage by a goof in a goalie mask.”

A goof?

“What are you even doing here?” he asked. Trust Chloe to barge into the middle of his undercover investigation and start demanding answers. “You just happened to be hanging out in a random, small-town sports center when gang violence broke out?”

“I’ve been popping by here to work out,” she said, without meeting his eyes. “I have the week off work, and I own a house in the country about half an hour from here. This is the closest gym that has a pool and equipment room.”

He didn’t doubt she was telling the truth. The Chloe he knew would never lie to him, and it wasn’t unheard of for people in rural parts of Ontario to drive even farther for a grocery store or bank. Other college athletes and teams came from all over the area to use the facilities and rink. But, he also knew her well enough to know that there was more to it than just that. Fine, if she wanted to keep things to herself, so could he. His eyes traced down her slender throat to the lanyard she wore with her detective’s badge.

“You identified yourself as a cop,” he said.

“Of course I did. I had to rescue multiple people, report a crime in progress to the authorities and fight for my life against a Gulo gang member. So, yeah, I was going to pull on everything I could to get through.” Her arms crossed over her badge. “And your minute is down to thirty seconds.”

He let out a long breath and ran one hand through his hair. It was a lot shaggier than he liked, not to mention a bit of white had started to creep in at the temples right before he’d turned thirty-six. Then he ran his hand over his beard. That had taken some getting used to, too.

“I’m undercover—”

“I got that. You’re Coach Henri.”

“And a teacher at Trillium College,” he said. “And you’re here because of the payara investigation, aren’t you?”

“Not officially,” she said. “But I won’t deny I’ve been very curious. Gossip’s running pretty thick that Butler’s botched the investigation so badly so far that some people think he’s corrupt.” Her tone implied she wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t sure what Butler had done to earn such loyalty from her.

“And you’ve been hanging out here because you thought he could use your help?”

Something flashed in the depths of her eyes. “Well, I’m guessing you think you could, too, considering you kept calling me.”

“Maybe,” he said. He crossed his arms, too. “I’m undercover, trying to find who’s been making payara. Yes, I wanted your input. But, no, that doesn’t mean I wanted you to barge in and snoop around. All I wanted was to go out for a simple coffee—”

“Because you’re so good at showing up for coffee.”

Yikes! She was still upset about that? Yes, he knew last time they’d spoken, months ago, he’d made plans to meet up with her at a diner. But then he’d gotten a new, immediate assignment and it had seemed easier just to leave than to go through the messiness of explaining he didn’t know when he’d be able to talk to her again. Looks like he’d made the wrong decision.

“I apologize for that. Standing you up was a mistake.” Asking her out in the first place had been an even bigger one. What had he been thinking? A woman like her was way out of his league, and the nature of his work made it all but impossible to form real relationships. “I could give you a long explanation, but it would all come down to the fact that I had a new case to start and had to disappear. If you want a longer explanation it will have to wait for another time. You’re a cop. I’m a cop. All that matters now is dealing with the mess we’re in.”

She didn’t answer, but she also didn’t argue. He took that as a signal to keep going.

“Yes, a baggie of payara was found in the hockey team locker room garbage can a few months ago,” he went on, talking as quickly as he could. “It contained thousands of dollars’ worth of pills. It’s like nothing our drug guys have ever seen before. And, as you know, a drug can’t be properly banned until its exact chemical compounds are analyzed and made illegal, which means anyone arrested for dealing it is at risk of bouncing. I’m told it feels like a superhigh burst of adrenaline and endorphins without a crash afterward, which makes it popular with students and athletes. Also makes people aggressive, highly suggestible and wrecks their impulse control.”

“So, it’s your job to figure out how the drugs ended up in a small little town like Bobcaygeon?” she asked.

“The opposite. Bobcaygeon is the source. We’ve never busted anyone with more than a few pills on them. So a great, big baggie-full turning up in a sports center locker room is the biggest break we’ve had in the case. We suspect one of the third-line players you rescued left it there. The assistant coach had them skating laps the night the drugs were found. There was no payara in the locker room when they walked into it and thousands of dollars of it in a baggie in the garbage can when they walked out—”

“By who?” she interjected.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. And he should. He’d cracked much harder cases in much shorter periods of time. “Either nobody knows but the one guy who threw it there, or the others have chosen to keep it secret to protect each other. I don’t know which. Police apparently couldn’t get them to crack, so I went in undercover to try to build a relationship with them.”

Light dawned in her eyes. “No wonder people think Butler is corrupt if there’re only four possible leads and one of them is his grandson Brandon.”

He almost smiled. This was the Chloe he’d missed. The one whose brain was so quick and sharp he could almost feel it sharpening his. “I’ve spent a lot of time with Third Line and none of them strike me as criminal material. Not to mention I still have no idea where in town the drug lab is or who’s making the drugs.”

“Why do I get the impression this is urgent?” she asked.

“One way or the other, my cover job finishes after Christmas. I’m supposed to start a much larger gang-related investigation in the new year.”

“Wow. Ticktock.” Chloe slid past him, filling his senses with lavender and wood smoke. She always smelled far better than any cop had business smelling. “So, what’s the plan?”

“The fact that everyone knows you’re a cop is going to complicate matters if we’re seen together.” He ran his hand over the back of his neck. Further complicating matters was the fact that he had a picture of them together, smiling and hugging like the happy couple they sometimes pretended to be, displayed prominently on the desk in his office at Trillium. Fictional relationship ties were an important addition to an undercover persona, and he’d happened to still have the photo around from an undercover case they’d worked together. Thankfully she didn’t know about that. “You go out there and do what you do. I’ll wait a few minutes and come out after you. Then hopefully we can meet up later and talk further.”

A smile curled at the corner of her lips. “And what exactly do I do?”

“You know. You say the right things. You make everything work the way it’s supposed to. You fix things.” He didn’t know how to explain it, let alone define it. She was just smart about seeing the bigger picture stuff. He tended to fight in the moment.

“And how do you expect me to explain to the police how a mild-mannered teacher and hockey coach took out three Gulos?” she asked.

“One has a dislocated shoulder and mild concussion from trying to throw a bad punch that didn’t land quite where he expected.”

“You should be thankful you didn’t dislocate your shoulder again,” she said.

Despite himself, Trent chuckled. “Another was accidentally shot by his buddy whose aim was off, and a hockey coach kindly checked his wound and told him to put pressure on it. The third was already pretty badly roughed up in a fight with a brave and beautiful lady cop. All I did was make sure he tripped while running down the stairs after her. They were all very clumsy.”

“Real cute, Trent.” Her lips pursed and he could tell she was impressed, despite herself. “But if you ever call me that again, I’m decking you for real.”

His face paled as his brain caught up with what his mouth had said. He’d called her beautiful. She had to know she could make a guy’s tongue forget how to form words just by walking into a room. But why had he said it? “Sorry.”

“Fine. But don’t ever let me hear you call me Lady Cop again. It’s Detective Brant. Got it?”

“Got it.” Relief swept over him. Her hand slid back to her pocket. It was that move people made when trying to check something was still in their pocket, and it was the second time she’d done it. He could feel his detective instincts buzzing at the back of his brain.

“You were right,” she said. “I was here working out because I’d heard about the payara and I wanted in on the investigation.

“When I trained under Butler, he was so sharp. I can’t begin to imagine why he hasn’t solved the payara case yet. But I’m putting my name in for a detective sergeant’s job this spring and don’t want the fact that I trained under Butler wrecking that for me. Hopefully, I can help clear him. If not, maybe I can confront him in a way that’s respectful of his long career.

“Either way, I’m asking you, Trent, cop to cop, to find me an official role on the case. Nothing undercover or in your way. I can chase leads, conduct interviews or review evidence. Whatever you need. Just let’s call our bosses and get me officially assigned to assist you from behind the scenes.”

He laughed. It was a reflexive, defensive move and one he immediately regretted. Hadn’t she heard him? He was down to his last week before this entire assignment had to end. And now he was supposed to ask for a provincial officer to be assigned to his federal case and find something for her to do? “No. Sorry. I’m not bringing someone else in officially at this stage. I want unofficial advice from you, nothing more.”

Chloe took a step back and pulled out a cell phone. “I took this off one of the Gulos.”

Trent felt his heart stop. She was holding a drug dealer’s cell phone right out in front of his nose, and he needed it. They both knew how easily he could slide his hand around her slender wrist and take it from her, and that if she were a hostile, or a civilian, or someone other than Chloe Brant, he just might. Instead he watched as her fingers tightened around it.

“You know as well as I do, I’m under no obligation to hand this over to you,” she said. “I could log it through the OPP and let you make an official request for the data, which we both know could take a while to go through. After all, I haven’t received official confirmation of anything you’ve told me. All I’ve got to go on right now is trust. Nothing more—”

There was the crash of glass doors shattering. Loud voices shouted in the hall behind him, announcing police presence. Chloe slid the phone back into her pocket. “I’ll find you and we can talk later.”

She stepped out into the hallway, her badge held high.

Trent counted slowly backward from a hundred. Then he stepped out into the hallway. A cop stood in front of him. She was young, blonde and wearing a bulletproof vest. She pointed her weapon at Trent. “Hands up! You’re under arrest!”

THREE

Trent raised both hands above his head.

“I’m Coach Travis Henri,” he said, giving his undercover name. “I’m the Trillium College hockey coach. Who are you?”

“Constable Nicole Docker.” She didn’t even blink. “Hands behind your head.”

Trent held his tongue and complied, letting her cuff his hands behind his back and then lead him into the main foyer. With each step he fought the urge to remind her that she hadn’t told him what he was being charged with or informed him of his rights. It was his job to figure out where the drugs were coming from. Incompetent cops weren’t his problem. Not unless they were making or selling payara.

“Constable, let him go!” an authoritative voice barked to their right, accompanied by the sharp sound of footsteps. Trent looked up. A tall, uniformed man in his late sixties was striding down the hallway. It was Staff Sergeant Frank Butler. “And get those ridiculous handcuffs off him!”

Trent watched the staff sergeant approach as the female officer removed his cuffs. Butler was an elder by cop standards, with short-cropped white hair, a healthy outdoor tan and the kind of athletic build that looked like he could easily take on men a third of his age and win. But he was jittery, too, with a slight but telltale shake to his limbs that Trent usually associated with people who had something to hide. “It’s Coach Henri, from Trillium, right?” he said.

Trent nodded. “That’s me.”

“I’m Frank Butler, Brandon’s grandfather,” the staff sergeant said. He stretched out his hand. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve ever been properly introduced.”

The handshake was a little too firm and Trent couldn’t help but notice that Constable Nicole Docker had seemingly evaporated.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Trent said. Despite nodding to each other at hockey games, Trent and the staff sergeant had never actually had much of a conversation. That was on purpose. Trent had learned long ago that when he was trying to maintain a cover, the less time he spent talking to local cops the better.

“I apologize for all that.” Butler frowned. “I imagine that was your first time in handcuffs. Must’ve been quite the shock to the system.”

Trent laughed. It was a safe, noncommittal response. He’d been handcuffed and arrested more times than he could count. It had usually been as part of his undercover work. But the first couple of times he’d been an out-of-control teen, just on the edge of the Wolfspiders gang’s grasp and dealing with the fact that his twelve-year-old sister had been killed when he’d failed to show up to walk her home from school.

“They were under orders to be on the lookout for someone matching your description,” Butler continued. “We saw someone in a mask and mistakenly thought it was a threat. But Detective Brant explained that it was all just a silly misunderstanding and that you’d been trying to help. Next time, keep your head down, stay out of trouble and leave matters to the professionals, all right?”

“Understood,” Trent said. He wondered if there was a reason Butler was pushing him away from the case, beside the fact that he presumed he was a civilian. “Brandon and the other third-line players got out okay?”

“They did, thankfully,” Butler said. “Thank you for telling them to hide.”

“You must’ve been worried sick,” Trent said.

“To be honest, I had no idea he was even in there until he came running out the front door. The young men are saying you stayed behind to fight the gang members?”

“Well, they jumped me, so I fought them off the best I could.” Trent chuckled self-consciously. “Guess my inner hockey brawler came out. I was a bit of a fighter in my youth. Not the kind of stuff I’d ever tolerate from my players, but handy in a situation like that. My dad always said I was all instinct and no common sense. Told me I’d get myself killed one day.”

That was more truth than he liked admitting, but he’d always believed truth made the best cover. His dad was a farmer who hadn’t quite known how to handle his second eldest son. What he’d actually told him, more times than Trent could count, was that if he didn’t learn to take a breath instead of flying off the handle, he’d get himself or somebody else killed. Then, a teenaged Trent would come within an inch of shouting back, “You mean like I killed my sister?” before running off and doing something stupid like punching a hole in the barn wall.

He shook off the ugly memory.

“One of the masked men asked me if I knew where he could score some drugs,” Trent added. “The name sounded a bit like ‘pariah’ or ‘piranha.’ But, like I told him, I honestly have no idea what that stuff is made of, let alone where to get it.”

“Just remember to leave things like that to the police in the future,” Butler said again. “The last thing we need is civilians running around the place trying to be heroes. Now, if you can please head outside, somebody will take your statement.”

Dismissed, Trent walked outside. Cold, wet air hit him like a wave. The sun would be rising soon, but snow was now pelting down in sheets. Emergency vehicles and camera crews filled the parking lot. People huddled together in pockets around a tall fir tree decked in Christmas lights. They were so shrouded by winter gear and emergency blankets he could barely tell who was who. More specifically, he couldn’t see Chloe anywhere.

A slender hand came out of nowhere, grabbing him firmly by the arm and pulling him under an overhang. He blinked. Chloe had pulled the furry hood of a jacket up over her head. It framed her face perfectly and made her look years younger. Wisps of red hair flew around her face. The overall effect was kind of adorable.

“You infuriate me, Henry,” Chloe said. “You really do. You’ve been calling me for days and you didn’t once think to mention what you were calling me about? Why were you even calling me if you didn’t want me involved with this investigation?”

He was beginning to think it might actually have been because he’d missed her.

“I told you,” he said. “I’m undercover at your old college. Bobcaygeon is your hometown. You worked with Butler and you live half an hour from here.”

“Trillium is not my college.” She frowned. “It’s just a community college I happened to go to, before getting into the police academy. Bobcaygeon is not my hometown and owning a house somewhere I crash at between cases isn’t the same as living there.”

Well, obviously that bothered her. But he had no idea why. “So, you’re not from here, then?”

“I thought you knew me better than that, Cop Boy. I’m not from anywhere.”

“Cop Boy? I can’t call you Lady Cop, but you can call me Cop Boy?” Despite himself, she’d just made him laugh. Yeah, he had missed her. He’d missed this. The light teasing. The verbal sparring. The sense that he always had to be on his toes around her. “How can you possibly be from nowhere? Everyone’s from somewhere.”

“Not me. My little sister, Olivia, and I grew up in the back of a station wagon, squished between suitcases. I don’t know if our dad’s intentionally a con artist, or just the kind of man who’s really good at temporarily hiding the fact that he’s a jerk and convincing people he’s good at things he’s not. But he has the kind of attitude problem that makes him think that nobody is ever treating him well enough. His charm makes him great at landing jobs. But his sense of entitlement makes him terrible at keeping them.

“So we’d land somewhere new, get settled in, live there for a few months, and then he’d get into an argument with someone and back into the station wagon we’d go. Bobcaygeon happened to be where I was for the last three months of high school and I entered Trillium because moving twice in grade twelve had killed my ability to get a student loan for university. That doesn’t mean I belonged here.”

That had been a defensive monologue he hadn’t expected. What had gotten under her skin? “Then why do you own a house half an hour from here?”

“When my mother finally decided she’d had enough of my father, she had no bank account of her own and a divorce lawyer wasn’t much help in taking half of my father’s nothing. She begged me to cosign on a mortgage for her. So I did. I was twenty-two.” She crossed her arms. “A few years ago, she decided she wanted to move into a retirement building in Southern Ontario, so I took over the mortgage. I tend to rent a place wherever I’m working, so I just use it as a place to crash and leave my stuff. I’m sure you know exactly what I’m talking about and expect you’re in the same boat.”

The huge warm Henry family farmhouse where he’d be celebrating Christmas dinner swept into his mind unbidden. He could almost feel the warmth of the fire in the living room, smell the hay in the barn and hear the rattle of cutlery and the babble of voices in the dining room as his parents and three brothers passed dishes around. No, he knew exactly what it was like to be from somewhere. He also knew what it was like to feel like he didn’t really belong there. He blinked and the thought was gone, replaced with the pale light, snow and Chloe’s eyes on his face.

“I hear you,” he said, waiting for his mind to catch up with his words. “But, like I told you, I’m on borrowed time. My cover was never supposed to drag out this long and is now nearing its expiration date. I have to figure out who’s making the stuff. That means finding who’s selling it, and I’ve spent three months completely failing to make the kind of inroads I need to with these students.”

“Hey, Officer Brant!” a female voice shouted. They turned. It was Poppy, an outspoken and dark-haired student he vaguely knew from one of his classes. She was running across the parking lot, dragging Hodge, one of his third-line players, after her.

“Poppy!” A smile filled Chloe’s face. “Glad to see you got out okay.”

“Yeah. Johnny and I piled some weights up against the door, and we stayed low until the police came for us.” She propelled Hodge forward.

Trent couldn’t help but notice that the young man wasn’t exactly smiling. Jeremy Hodgekins, better known as “Hodge,” was a giant, with a sturdy six-foot-three frame and a bright future, if he could figure out how to stay out of trouble long enough to make it through college. As far as Trent knew, he was the only member of Third Line to ever find himself in the back of a police cruiser, but only for throwing punches and nothing that had earned him more than a warning. “This is Hodge.”

“Hey,” the young man said. “Thanks for your help.”

“No problem,” Chloe said. “It was a team effort. Your coach really saved our lives and had our backs.”

Hodge didn’t look convinced.

See, this was Trent’s problem. He could walk into any dangerous and dingy bar in the country and demand immediate respect because people knew in a glance what he was capable of. But these students? He’d never give them a reason to fear him and they’d never have a reason to trust him. Poppy whispered something in Hodge’s ear. He ran his eyes over Chloe.

“Yeah, maybe,” Hodge said. He nodded to Trent. “That’s your fiancée, right? The one whose picture you showed us. Aidan thinks so, anyway. Why didn’t you tell us you were marrying a cop?”

Heat rose to the back of Trent’s neck. He forced a grin on his face and didn’t meet Chloe’s eye.

“Well, like I told you guys, she works in northern Ontario,” Trent said. “But she came through when I needed her.”

Hodge nodded like that was enough of an explanation. The students wandered back into the crowd. Trent turned to Chloe. “I can explain—”

“You don’t need to,” Chloe said quickly. “You’re undercover. You used an old picture of me as a prop for your cover identity. It makes perfect sense.”

Did it? There was something he couldn’t quite place in her tone. Then again, something about being this close to Chloe threw his radar off.

“I just hope the fact that they now know I’m a cop won’t hurt your cover,” she added.

So did he. He took a deep breath and prayed. Lord, You’ve been the one consistent presence through everyone I’ve ever been or pretended to be. I asked You for help. Is Chloe showing up Your answer?

“We can work with it,” he said. “I need that cell phone, and I could honestly use a second brain on this case. I used that old fake-engagement picture of us taken on the gondola at Blue Mountain to bolster my cover. It was an impulse more than a grand plan, but now that you’re here, we can use it to our advantage.

“You’ll go undercover for one day as my fiancée. Tomorrow’s the twenty-third and the last day of school before the holidays. It’s the last hockey game before Christmas, too. I’ll take you to the college with me, then we can do the team dinner and you can come to the game. Maybe you’ll spot something I’ve missed. Coach Henri is a big softy, so you’ll probably want to play your cover as sweet, cute and kind of gushing. It’s not ideal, but it’s the only option I can think of and I’m not up for complications right now. So, how about it, Detective? You willing to pretend to be crazily into me in exchange for an official assist on this case?”

Her lips parted. A look floated in her eyes that was so raw the only word he could think to describe it was personal. She looked at him like they weren’t just two cops—one provincial and one federal—who sometimes worked together on joint assignments. No, she was looking at him like they were close friends or even former sweethearts, and like he’d once done something to hurt her. Then she blinked. The look was gone. “Thanks, but no. I appreciate why you used my picture for your cover. But I’m not looking to go undercover with you like that again.”

What? He thought she’d wanted in on this case. All she had to do was to pretend to be in a relationship with him for a day.

“I know it’s not ideal. But my cover is already set and there’s only so much I can change at this point. Plus, we’ve pretended to be a couple before. We play those roles well.”

Maybe even a little too well. There’d been a moment at the end of the last case where he’d almost wished he’d had an excuse to drag it out a little longer, which is what had led to him asking her out for coffee. “It will only be for a day. Just one day. After that, you’ll take the ring off your finger again and we’ll go our separate ways.”

But Chloe was still shaking her head. Then she reached into her pocket, pulled out the cell phone and pressed it into his hand. “Here. Take it. I’m off duty and you identified yourself as the lead officer on the scene. If you need me to write a report about what happened tonight, get someone to contact my superior officer.”

This was unbelievable. The Chloe he knew was tenacious. But here she was just handing him her only leverage and leaving. “But I thought you wanted to be in on this case!”

“So did I.” Her hand brushed his shoulder, sending odd and unexpected shivers up his spine. “But I think I was wrong. Take care of yourself, Trent. I really hope this works out well for you.”

His mouth opened but he couldn’t think of any words to fill it. Chloe was walking away and he didn’t know what to say or how to stop her. The phone was in his possession. He’d just won the argument. So why did it feel like he’d just lost something much more important than that?

* * *

Chloe’s cell rang. Headlights shone against her living room window, filling it with a brief flash of light. Then the glass went dark again. She sat up and looked out. Snow beat against the pane. Wind shook the glass. The clock read a quarter to seven in the morning. She picked up her cell and glanced at it to see a missed a call from a blocked number. It had to be Trent. But he was the last person she wanted to talk to right now. It was bad enough she’d just turned down the opportunity to work on the payara case and mitigate the damage an investigation into Butler could do to her career, the last thing she wanted was to try to explain to him why.

He’d asked her to pretend she had feelings for him.

Chloe sighed and lay back on the couch. She’d been wired after leaving the sports center. She hadn’t spotted Butler at all after walking away from Trent, so she hadn’t had the opportunity to really talk to him except for the few rushed words they’d exchanged in the moments after she’d first run out the sports center. The brief conversation she’d had at the scene with a rookie female officer named Nicole Docker hadn’t told her much of anything. So she’d gone for a drive, then shopping and finally a long walk through the woods surrounding her rural, country house.

All the while she’d felt the problem of Trent and the payara investigation moving through her mind like the tumblers of a lock she couldn’t quite open. When she’d told him she wanted in on the investigation, she’d envisioned something strictly professional—something that wouldn’t involve staring longingly into his eyes while he pretended he had feelings for her.

But something about standing there with him in the early morning light as he’d asked her to act like she was crazy about him had sent her heart pounding like she was cresting the top of a roller coaster without knowing how big the drop was on the other side. She was done with chaos and the men who caused it. Working undercover with Trent was like eating a six-scoop ice-cream sundae with whipped cream, bananas, caramel and chocolate drizzle. It was an incredible thrill, which made her feel like she was working at the very top of her game. That was, until he’d left her sitting alone in a coffee shop wondering how she’d fooled herself into thinking he actually cared.

Her fake engagement ring from their last undercover mission lay on the coffee table. She’d dug it out of her jewelry box when she’d gotten home and wasn’t quite sure why she’d bothered keeping it, considering it was probably only worth a few dollars and she’d never be able to wear it without thinking of Trent. She picked it up and twirled it around in her fingers. It was a heavy, solid ring inlaid with intricate strands of imitation diamonds and emeralds. It felt expensive. Not that she believed for a moment it was anything more than a good piece of costume jewelry. When Trent had given it to her at the start of their last assignment, he told her he’d fished it out of a mud puddle at a truck stop.

Headlights moved past her window for a second time. She looked out. It was a dark pickup. Was it the same driver passing twice or just a coincidence? Her cell phone buzzed again, and this time her sister’s contact picture flashed on the screen. She dropped the ring and answered it. “Olivia! Hi!”

“Chloe!” Her sister’s voice was breathless, almost flustered. “Hi! I hope this isn’t too early. Abby’s been teething. Molars, I think. So time has lost all meaning.”

“No problem. Now is perfect.” Besides, she was thankful to have something to replace the dangerously attractive picture of Trent that still floated at the edges of her mind. Instead she thought about Olivia. Five years younger and almost a foot shorter, both Olivia and her one-year-old Abigail had the same startling green eyes and red hair that Chloe had. A journalist, Olivia lived with her bodyguard husband, Daniel, two hours away. “Everything okay?”

“You asked me to let you know if I heard anything about Staff Sergeant Butler’s OPP division in Bobcaygeon. There was a major gang shooting there yesterday—”

“I know.” Chloe cut her off. “I was there. I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.”

Olivia’s voice froze midstream as it switched tone between journalist and sister. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Chloe said. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you earlier. Can we talk off the record?”

“Okay. But just so you know, the newspaper will be launching a major investigation into rumors that Butler botched a drug investigation. We’ll be starting it the first week of January. We’ve been hearing it from several sources and this gang violence has given us a pretty strong hook.”

“Got it.” Chloe blew out a long breath. Torchlight News would be thorough and fair. And Chloe could no more ask Olivia not to run a news story than Olivia could ask her not to investigate a crime. “I saw Trent Henry.”

“Wow,” Olivia said. “And?”

“He asked me to help him out on an undercover case.”

“You said yes, didn’t you?” Olivia sighed. “Clo, you’ve got a rescue complex.”

“No, I don’t.” True, there’d been a time when a simple phone call from her sister would be enough to make her drop everything and rush to help her, because her sister wasn’t as strong and steady as she was. But Olivia had Daniel now, plus a whole team of bodyguards who worked for him.

“So says the woman trying to save her former training officer’s career,” Olivia countered.

“That’s different. Butler trained me. I owe him some loyalty for that. Not to mention it won’t exactly be great for my career if he’s thrown under the bus.”

Although seeing how little faith Trent apparently had in Butler was worrying.

“I told Trent no. I don’t need the headache of Trent Henry right now. I mean, I’d like in on the specific investigation. I can’t go into any details on what it’s about, obviously. It would be great for helping me land that promotion. But Trent said it would mean posing as his fiancée and when he said that something inside me just balked. Something about pretending to be dating Trent wrecks me emotionally every time. Plus, I don’t want him thinking he can just sweep into my life, disrupting everything, whenever he thinks he needs me and then just disappear again.” She liked order. Trent was chaos. And, if she did have a rescue complex, it was clear Trent didn’t want to be rescued.

“But you like him,” Olivia said. “And he likes you.”

“So? We’re not teenagers. I’m not picking a buddy to do a book report with. And even if I was, Trent’s the kind of guy who’d ditch class the day the report was due because he suddenly had something else come up.”

“You could bring him for Christmas dinner,” Olivia said. “It’s going to be a big shindig. We’re inviting all of Daniel’s Ash Security colleagues and their partners. Both Josh and Alex are newlyweds. Zoe’s fiancé has two amazing daughters. Abby adores them.”

Was her sister even listening to what she was saying? It was like she was having a completely different conversation.

“Trent Henry is the last person I can imagine sitting around a table at Christmas dinner,” Chloe said. “He doesn’t want a relationship with me. He wants to pretend to have a relationship with me when it suits him, and then walk out of my life without saying goodbye.”

She couldn’t begin to get her head around why that was so much trouble for her heart. She just knew that it was.

“What do you want?” Olivia pressed.

“A cast-iron heart that he can’t even dent,” she said. Headlights flickered past her window for a third time. She tossed the blanket off and stood. It was the same truck. “I’ve got to go. Just pray for me, okay? And I’ll see you at Christmas.”

“Will do.”

The call ended. Chloe shoved her feet into boots and yanked her arms through the sleeves of her jacket. It was probably nothing. But she’d slip through the woods by the road and watch for the truck to drive by again, just in case, and then search the plates.

She opened the door. It flew back instantly, knocking her hard in the chest and throwing her off balance. A large man—huge, bald and shrouded in winter clothes—shoved his way into her living room, kicking the door closed behind him. Her hands rose to protect herself. But it was too late.

He pushed her down onto the couch, tossing her like a rag doll. One hand clenched her throat. The other held a handgun to her cheek.

“I don’t know what your game is,” the man hissed. “But you took a cell phone off a Gulo yesterday, and you’re going to give it to me.”

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