Undercover with the Enemy

by Christine Michels

  Court didn’t like the sound of the suddenness of Miguel’s departure. Miguel had taken an unscheduled vacation and Heather Buchanan had taken over his job—which planted her firmly in his household. It sounded a bit too coincidental, didn’t it?

  He needed to find out everything he could about Ms. Heather Buchanan—no matter how innocent she appeared. “Do you have a family, Heather?”

  Her hands stilled on his body, then, “No. I’m not married.”

  “Parents?”

  “My parents both died when I was a teenager.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. And he was. He didn’t like the thought of somebody who exuded innocence and vulnerability the way Heather Buchanan did, being alone in the chaotic and troublesome teenage years. “Any brothers or sisters?”

  Again her hands went still. A pause, then, “No.”

  She wasn’t being exactly loquacious, which suggested discomfort with the topic. He decided to try a different one. “So, do you enjoy working in physical therapy?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s all I ever wanted to do.”

  “Ever?” he echoed.

  “Mm-hm. Ever since I witnessed the misery my grandmother went through trying to claw her way back to a functioning existence after having a stroke. I knew then that I wanted to be able to help people.”

  Her response was more open. The truth, Court decided. “How old were you then?”

  “Hm,” her hands slowed as she thought. “I guess I would have been eight or nine at that time.”

  “That’s young for a career decision.” It indicated a goal-oriented personality. Probably self-sacrificing, too. Interesting. “So is your grandmother still alive?”

  “Oh, no. She passed away years ago. But, with the help of physical therapy and a strict diet, she was able to live about seven more productive years. She was a wonderful woman.” A pause. “What about you? Do you have family?”

  Court fell back on his cover story. “No. I was an only child, and my parents were killed in an accident some years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Conversation waned and Court relaxed again beneath the kneading ministrations of her hands as the scents of the warm oils she used on his body lulled him. Nice, he thought drowsily.

  “There!” she said a moment later. “All finished for this evening. The oil has been absorbed by your skin, so you don’t need to shower again unless you’re going out or something. It won’t negate the benefit of the massage.”

  “All right.” He rose, wrapping the towel firmly about his hips only to discover that Heather seemed to be studiously avoiding looking at him. He studied her profile curiously for a moment. “Thank you.”

  “For what?” she asked. Was there a breathless tone to her voice?

  He frowned. “For the massage. What else?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry I was thinking of something else.” She still avoided looking at him as she began gathering her supplies. “Of course…you’re welcome.”

  For a moment, he actually thought she might be disturbed by his partial nudity, but he discarded the notion almost immediately. She was a therapist and a masseuse, after all. Nudity would hardly bother her, would it? Writing off her apparent unease to mental distraction, Court’s thoughts moved forward to their next workout session. “I have an appointment first thing tomorrow morning. But I’d like to meet here to exercise my leg again as soon as it’s over. Say ten-thirty.”

  “Certainly. You’re paying me to be available at your convenience.”

  Once again, that wicked part of himself latched on to her words, twisting them, weaving an enthralling fantasy around them. Damn! His mind seemed to have gone into the gutter the minute Heather Buchanan had walked into his house. Or, perhaps the associates he’d been spending time with were finally getting to him. He cleared his throat. “Good. Then we’ll get in two exercise sessions tomorrow.”

  She nodded. “I don’t see why not. Ten-thirty. A break for lunch. And then again at two-thirty or three would be good.”

  He nodded. “Oh, did anyone speak to you about breakfast?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “It’s not structured, so you’re free to help yourself to whatever you find in the kitchen. There’s always a pot of coffee on, and Liz usually has some muffins or bagels made. There should be some fruit in the refrigerator, too, if you prefer.”

  “That sounds fine.”

  He nodded. “Good night, then.” He took a step toward the door and stopped. Now that the therapy was over, incongruously, he found himself loath to leave her. Which meant he should definitely get out of there as quickly as possible.

  It was after eleven when Court left the bar and returned to his car, getting into the back seat. He saw a large brown envelope on the floor where Edison had surreptitiously dropped it. Despite his impatience to see what Edison had discovered about Heather Buchanan, Court didn’t bother opening the envelope. He’d do that in the privacy of his study when he got home—just in case there were prying eyes in the night.

  Having spent a good two years setting up the current sting operation, there was no way he would jeopardize that in even the smallest way. Not if he could help it. Especially not when there were only weeks left until all their hard work paid off. Just a few weeks, and then he could get back to his own life.

  At midnight, Liz came into his study with a carafe of camomile tea and a couple of cups. She’d taken to doing that when she’d learned he wasn’t sleeping well. Setting the tray down on the corner of his desk, she turned to close the doors and then asked, “So, what did you find out?”

  “Preliminary investigation says she’s just who she claims to be.” Court shifted a few papers, scanning the information, and then read, “Heather Marie Buchanan, twenty-eight, was employed by the Northwest Hospital up until two weeks ago, now works at the Rockford Clinic. She lives with her younger brother, Desmond Buchanan, age nineteen, still in university.” He looked up. “She lied about that. Makes you wonder why, doesn’t it?” Without waiting for a response, he returned his gaze to the report. “No brushes with the law for either of them so far. At least nothing that came up in the search.”

  “Parents?” Liz asked.

  “Both deceased. Have been for ten years.”

  “How?”

  “Doesn’t say.” He frowned. “I’m going to have Edison do some more digging. I’ve still got the feeling that something’s not right here.”

  “Me, too. But, you know…I like her.”

  Court nodded. “I know what you mean, but that could just make her more dangerous. Edison left a note to say that he’s circulating her picture to our people to see if any of them have seen her. So far, nothing.”

  At that moment there was a discreet knock at the door, and Ernest poked his head in. “Court, I think you might want to see this.”

  “What?”

  “The security cameras in the hallway of the bed room wing show little Ms. Buchanan in the starring role of snoop. And she just made her way into your room.”

  Court’s face darkened as he leapt to his feet. “Damn! I hate being right all the time.”

  Minutes later, he stood in what they called the “control room”—actually just an extra bedroom—simultaneously viewing the surveillance screen showing his closed bedroom door and the rewind of the tape of Heather slipping surreptitiously down the hall. He watched as she checked over both shoulders before hastily turning the knob and slipping into his room.

  The evidence was pretty damning. Heather definitely had ulterior motives for being here. He glanced again at the current surveillance screen just to assure himself that she was still in the room, then looked grimly at Ernest.

  “So, what do we do?” Ernest asked.

  Court shook his head thoughtfully. “My first instinct is to confront her, find out who she’s working for, then get her the hell out of here. The problem with that scenario is that it’s reliant on making her talk. And from what I’ve seen, Ms. Buchanan is pretty good
at thinking on her feet. She might refuse to tell us anything. And we need to know what’s going on here.”

  Ernest nodded. “Agreed. So…we watch her.”

  Court nodded. “Like a hawk. She’s got to meet with someone sometime. And then we’ll know who’s behind planting her. Once we know that then, hopefully, we can determine the motive. It’s unlikely that whoever it is really knows anything or they would have moved on us more decisively.”

  Ernest nodded. “I hope she meets with him soon, whoever it is. We don’t have a lot of time.”

  Court nodded solemnly. “And keep your fingers crossed that there hasn’t been some kind of a leak. At this stage of the game, that could prove disastrous.”

  “Yeah,” Ernest agreed sourly as he turned back to the screens. Still no sign of Heather.

  Heather quietly closed the medicine cabinet in Court’s bathroom. He wasn’t on any prescriptions that she could see. With the exception of the most common headache medication, some antiseptic and gauze, the shelves were empty. She examined the surface of the vanity. He seemed to like a fairly large variety of colognes and used an electric razor.

  Big deal!

  There had to be something here that would satisfy DiMona’s demand for information at least temporarily. She moved back into the bedroom. She’d done a quick examination of it when she’d first entered the room and hadn’t even found Court’s identification—so, tonight he must have been carrying it on him. Still, perhaps there was something she’d missed.

  The room, done in shades of royal blue and gold, was neat and tidy. Mrs. Kaiser’s doing, Heather surmised. There wasn’t so much as a shoe or a shirt out of place. So where should she look? She’d checked the polished walnut dresser and bureau. She’d checked the nightstands. And, she’d checked under the bed.

  Darn it anyway! She couldn’t spare much more time without risking getting caught. Nerves had her checking over her shoulder to make certain that the door to the room remained closed.

  The closet again? She hadn’t really given it a thorough search. Maybe she’d better check it more carefully.

  Her decision made, she opened the closet doors and dragged a chair over so that she could stand on it to check the top shelf, continuing her search. Jeans. A stack of sweaters. A camera. An umbrella. A…wait a minute. What was this?

  She picked up a small black book and flipped through it. An address book. Only there were no names and addresses in it. Frowning, she studied a few of the entries. Each one had two or three letters which could have been initials followed by, in most cases, a ten-digit number. Phone numbers? Possibly. But the numbers had been run together in one long number. Strange!

  Still, it could be something.

  Taking out the pen and small pad of paper she’d brought along for just this eventuality, Heather hastily recorded a few of the entries. Then, replacing the address book, she hopped down off the chair. Quickly setting the room to rights, ensuring that she’d left no evidence of her entry, she made her way to the door, opened it and peered cautiously into the hallway.

  All clear. But she wouldn’t heave a sigh of relief until she’d made it safely back to her room in the next wing of the U-shaped house.

  She was just turning the corner when she collided with something solid, or rather someone. As her heart all but leapt out of her chest, she made a choked sound that barely contained her terror and raised her gaze to meet Court’s hard amber eyes.

  Oh, no!

  “Heather!” he said, raising a brow in surprise as he grasped her arms to steady her. He glanced beyond her, into a corridor in which she had no business being, before looking back at her. “Are you lost?” he asked.

  She gulped a breath and stepped back, out of his grasp, as she groped desperately for a response. “No. No, of course not. I was just—” she paused, waving an arm in the direction from which she’d come “—checking to see if I could get to the pool from this wing. It would be closer.”

  “Hm,” he returned, scrutinizing her in that way that made it seem he could look into her soul. Then, reaching out one long-fingered hand, he smoothed a tendril of hair off her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. “You know, Heather, sometimes people get lost and don’t realize it until it’s too late to even attempt to retrace their steps. I wouldn’t want that to happen to you.”

  Her face tingling from his gentle touch, Heather stared at him. What was he talking about? Aloud, she said, “Right. Well, um, thank you.” Stepping around him, she escaped down the hall, all but racing to her bedroom door as she replayed his cryptic comment in her mind. It sounded vaguely like a warning.

  Slowly, she reached up to touch the spot that still tingled from his touch.

  It felt like an assault on her senses.

  Chapter 5

  A night and a day had passed since Court had learned that Heather Buchanan was indeed in his household under false pretenses. Now, Court lay in bed staring into the darkness. Yet he could find no real reason for his insomnia. Unable to sleep, his thoughts turned to his therapist. Although he had yet to learn definitively what her true purpose here was, he could surmise a couple of scenarios—neither of which was good for him.

  And, because of his inability to drive as of yet, the decision to follow Heather wherever she went necessitated bringing in another person—because Ernest could well be with Court when Heather left the house. Rather than being additional hired help—which might be stretching the budget a bit even for a lawyer of his supposed stature—Dave Pirello was going to be Ernest’s nephew, here to visit his uncle and help out where he could. In his first year with the DEA, Dave was young, idealistic and eager. According to Edison, he would be arriving tomorrow morning.

  As his thoughts returned to Heather for the umpteenth time, Court found himself wishing that he didn’t like the woman so much. She’d actually yelled back at him during their afternoon exercise session. He liked that. He hadn’t met a woman who could stand up to him since he’d left home.

  Home.

  God, he missed it sometimes, the ranch, his family. His little sister, MacKenzie, who was not so little anymore. She’d been a beautiful young woman the last time he’d seen her, a researcher and information broker who stayed tied to the world via her computer despite her physical isolation in the wilds of Montana. Heck, she seemed to know more about what went on than some of the politicians in Washington. He worried about her sometimes, though. About her solitary existence and the way she’d withdrawn from men. He hoped that someday, despite her heartache, she’d find the man who was right for her.

  Then there was his younger brother, Chase, who still slaved away on the ranch in Montana that they’d grown up on, and loved every minute of it. Had the backbreaking work helped him to heal? Court wondered. The murder of Chase Morgan’s young wife, Rayna, had been the talk of Flint County for a long time. Probably still was. And yet, in the two years since it had happened, not a single clue had surfaced that would have helped them solve it. Court had even taken time off of work to do a little investi gating of his own just after it had happened, but it hadn’t helped. He wished he’d been able to find something, some way to ease his brother’s mind, his pain.

  With a sigh, Court threw back the bed covers and sat up, gouging at his eyes with thumb and forefinger as he muttered an earthy curse. He was tired, but it wasn’t the tiredness that came from lack of sleep—though there had been precious little of that lately. Rather, it was a bonedeep weariness generated by having heard and seen too much.

  Rising, keeping his knee locked, he limped to the window, seeking a distraction, any distraction to draw him from the monotony and pain of his own thoughts. He found it when he noticed the lights on in the solarium.

  Strange. It was after midnight.

  A minute later, he caught a flash of emerald green and saw a lithe female body, silvered by moonlight, slice the water. Well, well. It looked like Ms. Buchanan was having trouble sleeping, too. Maybe they’d be better off not-sleeping together. He really didn’t
like the idea of her wondering around the house alone again. Not that there was much to find, but still he needed to know the truth about why she was here.

  Heather was biding her time until she was certain the house was asleep before going on a midnight sleuthing expedition. She was supposed to contact DiMona the evening after next, and so far, other than the cryptic data she’d copied from the address book the previous night, she had almost nothing to give him. She’d hoped the swim would calm her, prepare her for what she had to do. It hadn’t. Now she dried herself, rubbing at a few tendrils of sodden hair that had escaped the clip on top of her head, and tried to focus on what lay before her. She needed to get into Court’s study.

  “Having trouble sleeping?”

  With a startled cry, she whirled in response to the deep masculine voice, coming out of the shadows.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “I… It’s all right.” Swallowing, she draped the towel around her neck and watched Court advance across the blue-patterned tile floor of the solarium. He was wearing a royal-blue bathrobe, left to hang open, over a pair of red boxer-style swim trunks. At least she thought they were swim trunks. “I just wasn’t expecting anyone else to be up.” Not to mention the fact that the sense of guilt she was already feeling was making her jumpy.

  “I was having trouble sleeping,” he said by way of explanation. Not that he owed her one. “Thought I’d have a nightcap. You want one?” He moved toward the bar in one corner of the solarium and leaned his cane against the wall near at hand.