Colton's Deep Cover

by Elle Kennedy

  “Soon to be divorced,” Chloe told Piper in a firm voice. “And yes,” she said to Sawyer.

  This time, Sawyer seemed more intrigued by her first comment. “Wait—if you’re getting divorced, does that mean you’re going to marry Derek?”

  She faltered. “Um...”

  Sawyer frowned again, then turned to his brother. “Dude. You didn’t ask her?”

  Derek grinned. “I was too busy saving her life, Squirt. Cut me some slack.”

  Sawyer raised his eyebrows. “Well, you don’t look busy now.”

  Derek glanced at Chloe, who didn’t look the least bit put off by where this discussion had gone. In fact, she just grinned and said, “He’s got a point, Doc.”

  His lips twitched. “Well, I guess you’ve twisted my arm.”

  Her eyes widened as he sank to his knees in front of her. “Derek! I was kidding! You don’t have to—”

  “I don’t have to do anything,” he agreed, reaching for both her hands.

  His three siblings gawked at him as if he’d sprouted horns and a tail. Of course they’d be surprised, he realized. He was Derek Colton, after all, the least spontaneous man on the planet.

  But Chloe had brought out a side he never knew he had. Making love to her in front of a waterfall in the dead of winter. Having sex in his office. Going caveman on her and carting her off to his bedroom. She brought out his playful side, and not only that, she made him happier than he’d felt in years.

  “I love you,” he said huskily, tilting his head to meet her beautiful hazel eyes. “I love your big heart. I love your strength. I love your intelligence. I love every last thing about you. And I will never hurt you, Chloe. I promise you that.”

  “I know,” she whispered.

  “What I will do is love and honor you,” he said through the lump in his throat. “And I’ll save you whenever you need saving, sweetheart. Not because I’m a natural-born protector, but because I owe you.”

  She shot him a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”

  “You saved me,” he said simply. “You brought me back to life, Chloe. I raised a shield around my heart, and you knocked it right down. You showed me that it is possible to love again.” He stroked the centers of her palms. “Let’s start fresh together, sweetheart. Marry me.”

  “Yes.”

  There was no delay on her part. In fact, she spoke so fast he felt inclined to search her face. “Are you sure?”

  Smiling, she slid down to her own knees and cupped his jaw in her hands. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. I love you, Derek, and I want nothing more than to be your wife.”

  Joy soared through him, spurring him to yank her into his arms and kiss her. So long and deep that he totally forgot they had an audience until he heard Emma clearing her throat.

  He and Chloe pulled back sheepishly to find his siblings watching them. Piper in wonder. Emma with approval. And Sawyer in total disgust.

  “Dude,” his little brother grumbled, “that was embarrassing. The lovey-dovey speech and the smooching? Ugh. I’m never gonna get all moony over a girl.” He glanced at Chloe, then his sisters. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” they said in unison.

  Derek helped Chloe to her feet and wrapped an arm around her, then glanced at Sawyer with knowing eyes. “Talk to me in a few years,” he said wisely. “When it comes to girls, I bet you’ll be the biggest sucker of us all.”

  “Never!”

  Rolling her eyes, Emma clapped a hand over Sawyer’s shoulder. “Come on, guys, let’s go back to the main house. The lovebirds need some alone time.” A smile tugged on her lips. “Congrats, Doc. I knew you were smarter than you look.”

  As the three Coltons drifted off, Derek turned to Chloe. “You sure you want to marry into this family?” he teased.

  “Positive,” she said. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him again. “In fact, when it comes to you, Derek Colton, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

  Epilogue

  The motel was located on the outskirts of the city, an L-shaped building with a ramshackle exterior. Tate parked the Escalade on the gravel space in front of room eight. The top-of-the-line SUV was just one of the many toys at Ted Conrad’s disposal—Tate’s new persona definitely had some perks, though he did feel completely out of sorts in the tailored Armani suit, Gucci loafers and Hermes tie he was wearing. Definitely designer overload, but he was supposed to be a wealthy businessman, so he had to dress the part.

  He also felt unbelievably naked without his gun. Walking into this op without a weapon made him uneasy, but again, he had a part to play. These people were doing Ted Conrad a favor, allowing him to inspect the wares before he committed to a purchase. He doubted they’d appreciate their customer showing up armed and potentially killing them.

  Taking a breath, Tate got out of the car and approached the motel room door. It was bloodred, the paint chipped and the wood splintered.

  The door swung open before he could knock. Tate found himself staring into the hard, suspicious eyes of a tall African-American man with a shaved head.

  “Conrad?” the man barked.

  Tate nodded.

  “Got ID?”

  With another nod Tate reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and removed an expensive leather wallet. He extracted his brand-new driver’s license and handed it over.

  The bulky man studied the license for several long minutes before handing it back. He opened the door an inch wider, then peered beyond Tate’s shoulders and studied the parking lot. “You alone?”

  “Yes, just like you ordered.”

  The door opened another inch. “Come in.”

  Tate was surprised by how easy that was, but he suspected the players in the ring had already vetted the hell out of his recently acquired identity. Besides, the entire time he’d stood on that stoop, he’d felt eyes burning into his back, which told him the entire motel was being watched and every arrival was being observed.

  As he followed the beefy man into the room, the scent of mildew, pine cleaner and urine filled his nostrils. Tate wrinkled his nose, about to make some haughty, rich-person complaint, when his gaze landed on the bed.

  And his breath caught in his lungs.

  It took every iota of willpower not to react to the sight before him.

  Three young women were huddled on the bed, donning blank, glassy expressions that hinted of the drugs coursing through their systems. All three wore slinky white nightgowns, the kind you saw in those tawdry boudoir portraits or really cheesy pornos. Two of the girls had dark hair and brown eyes.

  The third was a redhead.

  Agony burned a path up Tate’s spine.

  He tried not to show too much interest in any one girl, but his gaze kept returning to the redhead. Focusing on those big, blue-gray eyes. The angelic features. The perfect alabaster skin.

  Hannah Troyer.

  God, she was here. She was alive.

  “You can touch if you’d like.”

  Tate swiveled his head in time to see a second man step out of the bathroom to the right. Also boasting a shaved head, this man had olive-toned skin, a bushy goatee and a leer on his face.

  “Give those asses a squeeze,” Goatee Man offered, wiggling his eyebrows. “Fondle a breast or two.”

  Tate almost gagged. Choking down his revulsion, he pasted on a cool, indifferent look. “I’ve seen all I need to see.”

  Tearing his gaze off the woman who’d been haunting his dreams for weeks now, he moved back toward the door. “Tell your employer I’ll be in touch,” he said brusquely.

  Without a backward glance, he left the motel room and got back into the Escalade. His hands were steady as he drove out of the lot, his breathing regular as he made his way down the dark one-lane road, his heartbeat steady as he put distance between himself and the motel.

  It wasn’t until he reached a stop sign that he unraveled like an old sweater. Hands shaking, breaths ragged, pulse off-kilte
r.

  Gasping for breath, Tate rested his head on the steering wheel, resisting the urge to turn around, drive back to that room, carry those sweet, victimized girls away and then return to murder the bastards who’d dared to touch them.

  Not yet.

  He let out a shaky breath. Right, not yet. If he tipped his hand now, he’d wouldn’t be able to touch the ringleader. He’d save three innocent girls. Three. Leaving the bastard at the head of this sex ring to hurt dozens of innocent girls.

  I’m sorry, Hannah.

  Choking down the acid coating his throat, he kept driving, trying to erase the image of Hannah’s big, empty eyes from his head.

  But he couldn’t erase the rage burning a hole in his gut.

  Or the all-consuming need to bring down every last bastard who’d dared to hurt Hannah Troyer and all the others like her.

  * * * * *

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  Chapter 1

  The bright sun felt warm on his skin. If he’d been here for no reason other than a desire to enjoy the weather, Mac Riordan would have stopped and turned his face up to let the bright rays try to heat blood that these days always seemed chilled. Instead, he glanced around while keeping his quarry in sight, taking in the lush greenness of the park crowded with citizens enjoying the early spring air.

  He couldn’t believe the hunter’s rush he felt at this planned-for encounter. Finally, after all this time, he’d meet the woman who had, inadvertently or not, stolen everything he had left to live for.

  He’d planned this carefully, just happened to take a stroll along the tree-lined, paved walking path when the very woman he’d come to town to find strode past him on her daily walk—Emily Gilley. He’d been watching her for a week, after all, and figured an accidental meeting in the park would be a great way to meet her.

  True, if he wanted this to appear unintentional, keeping up with her confident pace without looking as though he was stalking her might prove difficult, though not impossible.

  He doubted she’d find him suspicious. From what he’d heard about the east Texas town of Anniversary, everyone was friendly and trusting and looked out for each other. If this was true, then Emily Gilley would have no reason to worry about a friendly stranger.

  He allowed himself the slightest of grim smiles. If only she knew.

  So far, he’d been careful. After all, he’d only been in town for three weeks. It was just long enough to establish his brand-new trucking business and to put out a few feelers about her, the woman he’d spent several years trying to locate: Emily Gilley, twenty-nine-year-old widow of one of the most notorious drug dealers on the Eastern Seaboard. She’d changed her name, taking back her mother’s maiden name Gilley, and altered both the cut and the color of her hair, all to help her disappear. But for someone with the far-flung resources to which he had access, finding her had been a matter of time and a tenacious effort. He was fortunate to still have a lot of the tools from his law enforcement days at his disposal.

  Her long, blond locks were now dark, short and spiky. Instead of designer fashions, she wore clothing that looked off the rack at a big bin department store. She’d gone from a glamorous life in Manhattan to this: a tiny lakefront community ninety miles east of Dallas.

  As he hurried around a bend at the end of the trail, trying not to appear in too much of a rush, he nearly ran into her. She’d stopped at the weathered wooden bench that marked the entrance to the paved parking lot of Sue’s Catfish Hut, which was crowded with lunchtime patrons.

  She was stopped and turned to face him, apparently willing to wait for him to catch up.

  This was going even better than he’d hoped, he thought with some satisfaction. And then he got a look at her annoyed expression.

  Hands on her hips, she glared at him, her brown eyes full of anger mixed with only the barest hint of fear. “What do you want? Stop following me! If you’re trying to creep me out, you’re succeeding admirably.”

  He dipped his chin, sending her an abashed smile he hoped she’d find reassuring. “My apologies. I had no idea this was a private trail.”

  Instead of growing flustered, she shook her head, sending her shaggy spiked hair rippling. “It’s not. But I walk here every day on my lunch break, and I know almost everyone in town. Every time I look up, you’re right behind me. You never pass me or fall back. And while this is the first time I’ve seen you here, you have to understand how such behavior can make a woman feel threatened.”

  “Threatened? Interesting choice of words.” He crossed his arms. “I’m new here, and I mean you no harm. I wasn’t aware being a newcomer and taking a walk were crimes.”

  Narrowing her eyes, she studied him, apparently not buying his too-easy, confident patter. In his experience, overly suspicious or outright paranoid people usually had something to hide. But then again, she had a point. He was a stranger who was following her, and her former husband had been a drug dealer. No doubt, looking over her shoulder had been deeply ingrained in her psyche. She’d be foolish not to worry. And one thing he’d learned about Emily Gilley, formerly Cavell, was that she was anything but stupid.

  Finally, she took a deep breath, exhaling it slowly.

  “Look,” she said, her tone reasonable this time rather than furious, “you’ve been following me way too closely. What matters is that you’ve made me very uncomfortable.” Swallowing hard, she studied him, her caramel gaze unflinching. “And even though this is a small town, one can’t be too careful.”

  It was especially true for a woman like her, with so many secrets to hide.

  He nodded, feigning chagrin. “Again, I apologize. If I’d known I was frightening you, I would have dropped back or—” he grimaced ruefully “—I would have tried to pass you.”

  Rather than accept his apology, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “You said you’re new in town, right?”

  “Yes.” Relieved and slightly surprised that getting to know her was going to be this simple, he gave her a practiced, easy smile, holding out his hand. “Mac Riordan.”

  Instead of a handshake, she simply continued to stare him down. Only when he’d dropped his hand and frowned did she speak again in a cool, measured tone. “Welcome to Anniversary, Mac Riordan. I don’t know who you are or what you want, but in the future, please leave me alone.

  Tamping down shock, he feigned confusion instead. “Ma’am, I—”

  Backing up slightly, she tilted her head and peered up at him. “Let me ask you something. Are you the one who mailed me the note? It was postmarked Dallas. Is that where you’re from?”

  “Note?” He eyed her warily. Had someone tipped her off about his arrival? “What note? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You didn’t send me an anonymous note? Cut out letters on white paper?”

  Was this a joke? Then, as he realized what she’d said, his former cop instincts made him ask, “Is someone sending you threatening notes?”

  Again he got the sharp, brown-glass stare, as if she thought if she tried hard enough she could read his mind. Since he’d been looked at all kinds of ways by all sorts of people in his previous life in law enforcement, he let her. Silence was often the best interrogation method of all.

  “You didn’t answer my ques
tion. Are you from Dallas?”

  “No,” he fired back. “Albany, New York. Now tell me about this note.”

  “That’s none of your business,” she said calmly, her spine so rigid he thought it might snap. Then, apparently considering he might in fact be harmless, she swallowed, still eyeing him warily.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so rude. I’ve got to go.” She mouthed the words, sounding anything but. Without another word, she marched off, her spiky dark hair ruffling in the breeze.

  Watching her slender, lithe body as she went, he couldn’t help but respect that she knew enough to be wary. Because if their situations had been reversed, he’d have done exactly the same. People on the run from former lives couldn’t afford to befriend curious strangers.

  This was exactly the reason he had to make sure he gained her trust—no matter what it took.

  * * *

  Even as she hurried away, Emily Gilley felt the tall, dark-haired stranger’s gaze boring into her back. She felt flushed and hot, though not entirely from her brisk walk. Instead, she worried about the man with the striking cobalt eyes. At first glance, the tinge of gray in his hair had made him look older by at least a decade. But up close, his rugged face appeared to be only a few years older than she. Mid-thirties, perhaps, a handsome, muscular man who moved with easy grace. Any other woman would have been intrigued by his blatant masculinity, his self-confident virility.

  Not she...she knew better. Sex on the hoof didn’t last past the morning, and men like him were nothing but trouble. After all, she’d been married to one once.

  This man singled her out. Why? She couldn’t help but wonder if this attempt to appear older was deliberate, an effort to camouflage who he really was—or what he was.

  He was a threat. She couldn’t believe his sudden appearance the same day after getting her first threat since moving here was a mere coincidence. How could it be?

  The unsigned note that had appeared in her mailbox that morning had been similar to the ones she used to get back in New York. Letters cut and pasted from a magazine, the three sentences read exactly like the ones she’d received before. Her stalker—and Ryan’s, for the note always mentioned her five-year-old son by name—had somehow found her here, in an innocuous small Texas town.