Undercover Lover

by Kylie Brant

  “I don’t make promises,”

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  Also by

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Copyright

  “I don’t make promises,”

  Sully said. He’d ceased believing in promises or much else when he was six. And he’d never uttered one. The thought of doing so now, to this woman, had panic licking up his spine.

  “I’m not leaving until you promise you’ll come back to me.” Ellie’s voice was resolute.

  There had to be a way out of this mess. Instincts honed by a lifetime of training told him that things with his job were about to turn deadly. Everything he’d been waiting for was about to break, and he had to get her out of here. He had to get her to safety.

  Ellie moved closer. Her palm glided up his back to stop at his shoulder. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut for a moment, as the familiar wanting, guilt and desperation warred within him. The waiting stretched between them. The words shouldn’t have been so difficult, so terrifying to speak.

  “I promise.”

  Dear Reader,

  The kids are on their way back to school, and that means more time for this month’s fabulous Intimate Moments novels. Leading the way is Beverly Barton, with Lone Wolf’s Lady, sporting our WAY OUT WEST flash. This is a steamy story about Luke McClendon’s desire to seduce Deanna Atchley and then abandon her, as he believes she abandoned him years ago. But you know what they say about best-laid plans....

  You also won’t want to miss Merline Lovelace’s If a Man Answers. A handsome neighbor, a misdialed phone call...an unlikely path to romance, but you’ll love going along for the ride. Then check out Linda Randall Wisdom’s A Stranger Is Watching, before welcoming Elizabeth August to the line. Girls‘Night Out is also one of our MEN IN BLUE titles, with an irresistible cop as the hero. Our WHOSE CHILD? flash adorns Terese Ramin’s wonderful Mary’s Child Then finish up the month with Kylie Brant’s Undercover Lover, about best friends becoming something more.

  And when you’ve finished, mark your calendar for next month, when we’ll be offering you six more examples of the most exciting romances around—only in Silhouette Intimate Moments.

  Yours,

  Leslie J. Wainger

  Executive Senior Editor

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Silhouette Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269 Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  UNDERCOVER LOVER

  KYLIE BRANT

  Books by Kylie Brant

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  McLain’s Law #528

  Rancher’s Choice #552

  An Irresistible Man #622

  Guarding Raine #693

  Bringing Benjy Home #735

  Friday’s Child #862

  *Undercover Lover #882

  *The Sullivan Brothers

  KYLIE BRANT married her high school sweetheart sixteen years ago, and they are raising their five children in Iowa. She spends her days teaching learning-disabled students, and many nights find her attending her sons’ sporting events.

  Always an avid reader, Kylie enjoys stories of love, mystery and suspense—and insists on happy endings! When her youngest children, a set of twins, turned four, she decided to try her hand at writing. Now most weekends and all summer she can be found at her computer, spinning her own tales of romance and happily ever afters.

  Kylie invites readers to write to her at P.O. Box 231, Charles City, IA 50616.

  For Brian, Vicki, Dick, Barb, Gary, Karen, John,

  Carla, Mike, Glennis, Paul and Aleta. Here’s to many

  more years of laughter, craziness and memories.

  (Can’t wait for our retirement home!)

  Prologue

  “You screwed up big time, Bobby.”

  It wasn’t the words that had the cold snake of dread twisting through Bobby Ames; it was the flat, emotionless voice delivering them. Sweat trickled down his narrow shoulder blades, and he rubbed a grimy hand over his stubbled chin, trying to still its trembling. His own rank odor drifted around them, a souvenir of the long minutes he’d spent hiding in the Dumpster. He’d congratulated himself for evading the man, but he hadn’t crawled out of the stinking filth five minutes before he’d caught sight of his stalker again.

  The cool air blasting through the Miami shopping mall was only partly to blame for Bobby’s shivering. His eyes darted about frantically, thoughts of escape colliding with the dull certainty that to move was to die. The slim ceramic knife wasn’t visible right now, but he knew it was there, slipped inside its casing in the man’s boot. He was never without it, and his skill was legendary.

  “I swear to God, Roarke, I din’t rip ya off. I mean—” he tried for a laugh that came out a nervous titter “—do I look crazy to you?”

  Those cold gray eyes turned on him then, and Bobby began to shake in earnest. “To me? No, you don’t look crazy. You look like a dead man.”

  Fear clawed its way through Bobby’s skinny body, icing his heart, sending freight trains through his pulse. “C’mon man, don’t say that. I’m the best runner ya got.”

  “You’ve been using.” Roarke drew a cigarette from the package in his shirt pocket and put it between his lips. Then he bent forward, and Bobby’s breathing stopped until he saw the tip of the cigarette glow.

  If Roarke had gone for his knife just then, his movements would have been little more than a blur. The cold bastard was capable of doin’ him right here, he thought bitterly, with no more thought than he’d given to lighting his smoke. Roarke was capable of anything.

  “No, I ain’t. I swear I ain’t.”

  The man’s eyes were without mercy. “You’re a liar. I knew that. But you’re a thief, too. I can’t let that go, Bobby. You understand. I’ve got a reputation.”

  Rivers of sweat streaked down his body, and it got harder to breathe. “Roarke, I swear to God it was just a taste. Really. And you can count on me from now on, I swear ya can. Man, I’m beggin’ ya. Give me another chance.”

  The acrid smell of smoke swirled up around him, and the next words sounded his death knell.

  “I don’t give second chances.”

  Pride, if he’d ever had any, was long forgotten. “God, no, Roarke, don’t. I’ll work for free a month, how’s that?”

  The bright Florida sun poured through the overhead skylights, gilding the dark gold in Roarke’s hair, clubbed back in a short ponytail. His hard, expressionless face never changed, just as it never changed after drinking a beer or slicing a man to pieces. Bobby had seen Roarke do both; he’d heard of him doing more. Much more. Rumors grew fast on the street, but there were few he didn’t believe about this man. The thin, pale scar under his chin was supposedly a legacy from a dealer who’d crossed him years ago. The dealer, the story went, had died a particularly hideous death. Bobby had no way of knowing the truth of the story, but he did know that people who crossed Roarke disappeared. That was fact. Right now every deadly thing he’d ever heard was racing through his brain, and he knew he’d never been closer to death.

  His nose seemed to run continuously these days, and he wiped it with the back of his hand. Resignation flowed through him, his fate certain. He raised his red-rimmed eyes to the
man beside him, ready to make one last plea, knowing it was as useless as a prayer.

  But those empty eyes weren’t trained on him anymore; they were directed over Bobby’s shoulder. Not being the focus of that ruthless gaze relieved the tight knot of nausea in his belly a fraction. And then the other man moved, and Bobby recoiled, face averted. The expectation of that narrow, deadly blade was so real he could feel the first slice, the burning agony soon to be followed by a blessed numbness. He was sobbing in earnest now, pleas and promises tumbling incoherently from his lips.

  Moments ticked by before reality crept in. Bobby looked up, and then around. He was alone on the bench in the mall, still surrounded by crowds hurrying along. He was invisible in the way street people sometimes were, his bizarre behavior repelling, rather than attracting attention. It took a few more moments for his heart to remember to beat again, for his lungs to begin drawing air.

  He didn’t see Roarke, and the opportunity to escape beckoned. He looked from side to side wildly, unable to believe that the threat, so certain only moments ago, was gone. More likely it was a trick, one designed to get him out of the mall into a place where his death would go unnoticed a while longer.

  But then his fearful gaze focused on that familiar form again, standing across the crowded mall. In morbid fascination he remained where he was, staring as the tall man spoke to a woman with long dark hair. As Bobby watched, Roarke put his arms around the woman, and she buried her face against his chest.

  Shock held him frozen in place. Not that it was strange to see Roarke with a woman. He had plenty of women, plural, as many as he wanted. They’d always meant as little to him as a man’s life, easy to pluck, easy to discard. But Bobby had never heard of one that was capable of stirring any real feeling in the bastard. A flicker of curiosity lit inside him as he watched Roarke pat the woman’s narrow back.

  Reality crept in, and the ice in his veins thawed a little. As odd as the scene was, he’d just been handed a reprieve, and he felt like a cat on its ninth life. Furtively he looked around and rose from the bench on legs still inclined to tremble. He sidled into the throngs of people, which parted automatically for his rank form. He swiped at his nose again as his pace quickened. He was getting a chance that most never had, and he was going to make good on it. A few minutes’ hot-wiring a car, and he could be on his way out of Miami, away from Roarke, away from the knife that had so many lives dripping from its lethal blade.

  He thought longingly of his one-room apartment. He didn’t own much; he preferred to put his money up his nose, but thanks to the last delivery he’d made, he had a nice little stash there that would have lasted him another day or two. He could feel the beginnings of the craving poke its head out of the dark caverns of his soul.

  With rare, clear thought he shook off the beginning of the temptation as he scurried through the crowds. The nose candy that had begun to rule his life was like a god to him, but life itself was dearer. He needed to be sure that he was well away from Miami, from the state, before he stopped running. Even then he knew he’d never be able to stop looking over his shoulder. The look in Roarke’s eyes, the moment his own death had seemed certain, would linger in his nightmares for the rest of his life.

  Chapter 1

  Six months later

  Elizabeth. fished around in her purse, fingers scrambling for her keys. Her job at the Miami Gallery of Art was satisfying and interesting, and filled her with a quiet sense of accomplishment. But she’d been anxious to get home that day. The design for a new piece had been dancing in her head all afternoon, and her hands itched with the need to sink into the damp clay.

  Absently she pushed back her sheaf of heavy, dark hair, tucking one side behind her ear for a better view into the jumbled contents of her purse. Spying her keys, she snatched them up and fit one into the front door of the old apartment building. Inside she used another key to open her mailbox and extracted the contents.

  She avoided the temperamental elevator and walked up the four flights of stairs. The walls of the stairwell were cracked, but they sported fresh paint and glowed from the day’s scrubbing. The steps were well swept and free of debris. Mr. Abrahamson, the odd little landlord, was a demon about dirt. Unfortunately he wasn’t as conscientious about needed repairs around the building.

  She flipped through the three items she’d received that day, two bills and a letter from her mother. A pleased smile crossed her lips, and she hurried even faster up the next three flights. She forced herself to wait until she was inside her apartment to open the letter. It was a small pleasure to be savored, and anticipation made it sweeter.

  She walked down the quiet hallway toward her small one-bedroom apartment and unlocked her door. Automatically she glanced at the answering machine. Its message light wasn’t blinking, so she continued by it. Shrugging out of her blazer and stepping out of her pumps, she dropped cross-legged on the love seat to read her mom’s three-page letter. It was chatty, full of news about the win at bingo Wednesday night, and the wonderful restaurant she’d visited with friends. Smiling tenderly, she imagined her mother writing it, sitting at the small table in her tidy kitchen, penning the words in her neat, careful hand.

  A shadow loomed over her then, blocking her light. Her gaze flew up in alarm, her heart jolting straight to her throat. It took a moment for recognition to filter through the panic, and another for relief to follow.

  “Sully! My God, you scared me to death!”

  The splinters of late-afternoon sun turned the man’s hair a brighter shade of gold, while leaving his face partly in shadow. For an instant she had the fanciful notion that he looked like an avenging archangel, a broad-shouldered rescuer of the downtrodden. And then he shifted into the light, and the image shattered. Although it sometimes seemed as though Sully had appointed himself her personal guardian angel, there was nothing saintly about his hard face. She hadn’t realized until that instant just how much she’d missed seeing it.

  She dropped the letter and bounced up to hug him, brushing a kiss against the faded scar beneath his chin. “Welcome back! How was your trip?”

  “Okay.”

  He was stiff and still in her embrace, as always, his arms motionless at his sides. Not for the first time she was reminded of a wary animal that had been kicked once too often and now mistrusted human contact even as he needed a friendly hand. At least she thought he needed it, though he would be the last to admit it. He was a man who seemed to exist on the outskirts of society, always looking on but rarely joining in. She’d made it her mission long ago to coax him back inside.

  She tilted her head back and surveyed him, her arms still linked around his waist. The hug was an affectionate gesture between friends, and one she’d repeated dozens of times. His skin was warm beneath her touch, his body heat radiating through his clothes and warming her in a curiously sensual transfer. Her fingers flexed involuntarily at the unexpected sensation, and she felt her cheeks flush. Hastily she dropped her arms and stepped back. That flash of awareness was unfamiliar, and somehow seemed a violation of their friendship.

  He swept her with a considering gaze. “You look a little shorter. Did I scare a couple inches off you?”

  Her hand went to her heart in a gesture of shock that was only partially feigned. “That sounded amazingly like a joke, Sullivan. Is it possible you picked up a sense of humor in the last few days?”

  He shook his head, and held up the small packet of tools he’d taken from a drawer in her kitchen. “What I picked up was a new lock for your bathroom window. I used my key to let myself in so I could install it before you got home. Didn’t look like Abrahamson was ever going to get to it.”

  She nodded in mock seriousness. “I owe you a big thank-you for that. I can’t tell you how worried I’ve been that some enterprising bad guy will scale the outside wall, squeeze through that foot-wide window and force me to defend my virtue using only the deadly bathroom plunger.”

  Not surprisingly there was no hint of humor on his
face. If there was one thing Sully took seriously, it was protection. “Your problem is you don’t worry enough. I’ve told you before—”

  She held up a hand to stern the certain lecture, having heard it often enough to recite it for him. She did so, in singsong. “I know, I know. I shouldn’t take my safety for granted. I have to be on guard at all times. I can’t predict the lengths others might go to get what they want.” A mischievous smile played across her face, and she peeked up through her lashes at him. “How am I doing?”

  It didn’t draw an answering smile from his chiseled lips—smiles were much too hard to come by—but one corner of his mouth twitched. “If you could just follow those instructions as well as you can repeat them, I’d die a happy man.”

  She grinned and moved toward the compact kitchen. “Well, I don’t want to start measuring you for a toe tag just yet, but believe it or not, I am careful. I’m just not paranoid. And before we get into a discussion of that particular topic, why don’t I get you something to drink. Are you thirsty?”

  “What are you offering?”

  “I don’t suppose you took up tea drinking while you were gone?”

  He snorted, and she heard rather than saw him relax into the recliner that was placed next to the love seat. It was a mismatched piece, but it suited his large frame much better than her other furniture. She’d passed it in the window of a used-furniture shop on her way to work one day, and she’d had a sudden vision of him in it. Without a second thought she’d gone inside the shop and bought it, bullying two of the men who’d worked there to deliver it for her after work.