Kindle Edition
Undercover Elite
Too Close To Home
©Undercover Elite Series
Copyright © 2013 Suzanne Steele
Published by Suzanne Steele
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of Fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales, are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All other characters, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real. The author acknowledges the trademark status of various products and locales referenced to in this fictional work, which have been used without permission. The use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. All rights reserved. No part of this book can be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover photo © Dollar Photo Club
Cover Copyright © Suzanne Steele
Edited by Eda Price Editing
Cover Design by Mayhem Cover Creations
Formatting by Suzanne Steele
Thank you for downloading this e-book.
Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.
All content herein is protected under copyright law.
This e-book is Rated 17+
To the Reader
The men I write about are Alpha males in every sense of the word. They are the men society warns us about. They are dominant males with controlling tendencies. They are the men you know you should stay away from but are drawn to like a moth to a flame.
If you are looking for a sweet romance, you won't find it here. What you will find is dark passion. Many times my heroes carry what would be considered an obsession for the women they love. Each and every character I create has demanded their voice be heard. I have been true to that calling and I have stayed true to their personalities, which at times the reader may not always agree with. They are dark, they are gritty, and many times their love is dysfunctional but, nonetheless, it is real.
Stalk Me…
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Acknowledgements
First and foremost, I want to thank God; without him none of this would be possible.
I want to thank my family, who carry the weight of everything so I can write. I love you guys and I couldn’t do what I do without you.
I want to thank Eda Spivey Price, my editor, who came at a time when I needed her most. Eda, you are a Godsend and I will forever be grateful to you for believing in me at a time I wanted to give up. You were just what I needed to keep writing and pursuing my dream.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven
Chapter Thirty Eight
Chapter Thirty Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty One
Chapter Forty Two
Chapter Forty Three
Chapter Forty Four
Chapter Forty Five
Chapter Forty Six
Chapter Forty Seven
Chapter Forty Eight
Chapter Forty Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty One
Chapter Fifty Two
Chapter Fifty Three
Chapter Fifty Four
Chapter Fifty Five
Chapter Fifty Six
Chapter Fifty Seven
Chapter Fifty Eight
Chapter Fifty Nine
Chapter Sixty
Epilogue
Prologue
Thorn
He follows the black sedan at a discreet distance. Far enough to not attract unwanted attention, close enough to keep an eye on the car as it makes its way down the tree-lined, suburban street. As usual, neighborhood traffic is light at 4 p.m. He has a clear view of the sedan as it pulls into the driveway and comes to a stop in front of the yellow, two-story Colonial.
Like the other houses in the neighborhood, this one has seen better days but is well taken care of, all things considered. The old place is definitely a fixer-upper: the shutters have faded to a dull gray, a couple of bricks are missing from the front steps, and the yard is riddled with broadleaf where grass should be. But despite all the signs of gradual decay, someone has carefully arranged an assortment of cheery, yellow mums on either side of the front steps and an oversized wreath of fall leaves hangs on the front door.
Pulling in behind a white mini-van, he parks on the street and waits, scanning the surrounding yards for anything out of the ordinary. Might as well get comfortable. He relaxes into the leather seat, his right hand draped over the steering wheel. His left arm rests along the driver’s side window, bent at the elbow, his forefinger idly rubbing the dark stubble along his upper lip.
The routine is so predictable, it would be easy to become complacent, even lazy, and let some small detail escape his notice. He frowns at the thought; it’s his job to notice details. Even on this crisp, autumn afternoon in the heart of suburbia, there is no room for complacency in his line of work. There’s too much at stake, he thinks grimly. His lips thin and his jaw tightens as the car doors open.
The two occupants of the sedan step out onto the gravel driveway. The driver of the car is a middle-aged woman, nondescript in every way, right down to her brown cardigan sweater and sensible shoes. She opens the trunk and pulls out a small black case, gripping the handle securely before closing the trunk, the sound barely discernible from his position thirty yards away. She carefully hands off the case to her associate before striding briskly down the overgrown sidewalk and up the front steps. Her companion walks quickly to keep up while struggling to hold the case with both hands.
As he has done every week for the past year, he has followed this sedan across town to its current destination, where he will observe the subjects of his surveillance as they enter the house. Then he will watch and wait until they emerge, us
ually an hour later. From there, he will follow the car to a house three blocks away to watch a repeat of the same choreography as before, only this time they will stay put, not leaving the house until the following morning. After confirming that the home security system has been armed – easy enough to do from his phone, considering he designed and installed the system himself – he will call in his surveillance report to his client in a brief conversation that rarely changes.
“They arrived safely, sir.”
“Good. And the security system’s armed?” the older man asks in an urgent whisper that can barely be heard over the strident voices in the background. “Did they retrieve the case? They forgot the damn thing last time, and it caused no end of drama the next day.”
“Yes, sir,” he assures his anxious client. “They arrived at their destination without incident. The case is safely inside the house and they have settled in for the night. Nothing out of the ordinary to report.”
“Thank you, Thorn. I know very well how this looks. Paranoid. Controlling. But there’s absolutely nothing more important to me than that little girl’s safety…”
“I understand, Dr. Fairchild. I feel the same way.”
Every Tuesday, it’s the same. Because Tuesdays mean violin lessons. He grins and shakes his head as he thinks ahead to the less savory aspect of this particular assignment: enduring the muffled screeching of her violin lesson from start to finish. Even from where he sits in his black SUV, the noise – and that’s exactly what it is, as far as he’s concerned – is usually enough to peel the paint off the side of the house. But he gladly suffers through the weekly lesson to give his client – and himself, he has to admit – peace of mind.
For now, though, he watches as the woman rings the doorbell. The door opens and she steps inside, leaving the child alone on the front porch. He straightens, watching her with narrowed eyes, his fingers tapping out a slow rhythm on the top of the steering wheel. Sure enough, the little girl stops just outside the door and slowly turns, her sharp gaze scanning the street before settling abruptly on his black SUV -- the car he had so discreetly parked across the street. He’s completely concealed behind the tinted glass, but her dimpled grin and jubilant victory dance on the front porch make it abundantly clear that she knows he’s there. Nonetheless, he remains completely still, refusing to be the one to blink in today’s round of cat-and-mouse.
Grinning from ear to ear with all the bravado of the precocious 8-year-old that she is, she hugs the violin case to her chest with one arm. She raises her other hand and wiggles her fingers at him in a smug greeting. Little minx, he thinks, shaking his head and chuckling softly, his hand still resting on the steering wheel as he wiggles his fingers back at her. Sure, she can’t see him; but that doesn’t stop her from sticking her tongue out at him before turning and scampering inside the house. Glossy, blonde braids swing against her back as the door closes behind her.
Windy
Six Years Later
As I stand just outside the door of my father’s study, I can hear the low, muffled sounds of two men talking. Dad is meeting with Thorn, the man I think of as my own personal superhero. To put it simply, the man is every fourteen-year-old girl’s dream. It doesn’t take raging hormones for a female to be mesmerized by the strong, quiet presence of the man sitting in my father’s office. With his rugged good looks, thickly muscled frame and towering height of 6’4”, Thorn commands every room he enters. Most people find him intimidating – but not me. To me, he’s everything a girl could ever want.
I’m careful to stay well back from the door as I listen, waiting for any cues that the conversation is at an end. I don’t want to miss my chance to talk with him before he leaves. Thorn doesn’t seem to be around much these days, I think with a frown. It’s been, what, three months since he attended Dad’s Memorial Day cookout?
I hear my father’s quiet voice from where he sits in his leather club chair by the picture window. “Being behind a desk is a very different experience than being in the thick of things in the E.R.,” he says wistfully.
“I’m sure it is,” Thorn replies, his husky voice lower than usual, probably in an effort to keep their conversation within the confines of the office. “And not nearly as exciting, no doubt. But wasn’t that the point when you took the Medical Director job at the hospital? A desk job means less drama, less risk – for everyone. And you still get to make a difference in people’s lives. Looks like everything’s turning out the way you wanted. It was a good move.”
What could possibly be risky about being an emergency room doctor? As I often have over the years, I wonder how my dad ended up with a superhero as a friend? I lean in a bit more, trying not to miss anything as Dad replies.
“I agree. But even a year in, it’s still a tough adjustment after a lifetime of split-second decisions and lives hanging in the balance.” He chuckles, but it doesn’t sound like he finds anything funny. “Of course, the lives hanging in the balance were always the problem, weren’t they? The unexpected death of a loved one can be too much for some people to cope with. Especially when they’re gangbangers and drug dealers.”
He pauses and I know he’s looking out the window at my old swing set that sits in the backyard, weather-beaten and unused for several years now. I’ve seen him staring out the window at that view so many times over the years, lost in thought. “I think I’ll always miss the fast pace,” he continues with a sigh, “but the peace of mind is worth it. In the end, it was the only way.”
“Well, we always knew this day would come. It’s been a pleasure, and you know I’m just a phone call away. ” After a long pause, Thorn’s voice becomes somber as he says very deliberately, “I mean it, Dr. Fairchild. Anything you need. One call and the team will be at your disposal. I’ll see to it personally.”
As I stand there in the hall, I wonder what he means by that. In the years to come, I will learn several things that forever change my understanding of that conversation: that my superhero is, as I have long suspected, a champion of good for those who can’t fight their own battles; that he is my dad’s defense against his enemies; and that he is one very dangerous man. But today, I know him only as the object of my mostly innocent affections, and as my father’s long-time friend.
Dad’s voice interrupts my thoughts and brings me back to the present with a jolt. “Thank you, Thorn. You’re a good man, the best. I can never thank you enough.”
It sounds like the conversation will soon be wrapping up, so I move away from the door, only to lurch forward awkwardly to avoid stepping on my cat, Cuddles, as she leisurely winds her way between my ankles. As I struggle to regain my footing, I freeze, cringing, certain that my cover has been blown. My dad continues to make small talk; however, one look in Thorn’s direction confirms that he didn’t miss a thing. His eyes twinkle in amusement at my predicament, so I grin back at him playfully like I always do. His gaze lowers abruptly to the floor, his eyes narrowing as my white Persian cat slinks her way into the office, her quarry firmly in her sights.
Confirming my belief that all females find Thorn irresistible, the cat never misses an opportunity to rub herself all over him. I guess she thinks he’s a superhero too. She makes her way to where he sits, his massive frame filling the delicate Queen Anne sofa. She leans against his leg and makes a few leisurely turns around his ankle, then leaps onto the sofa and curls up on his lap. Thorn doesn’t move a muscle as he watches the cat lick her paws and fastidiously groom herself. She wants to look her best, and, really, who can blame her? The man is hot.
Unfortunately, the affection is not mutual. I learned many years ago that my superhero is not a cat lover. As I watch Thorn awkwardly rub the top of Cuddles’ head, I try, unsuccessfully, to stifle a giggle. He shoots me a sideways glance, arching an eyebrow as he slowly shakes his head.
The thing is, I know Cuddles won’t be satisfied with less-than-enthusiastic affection. The only way to appease her is to give her a thorough scratching behind her ears, which I proce
ed to pantomime for him from where I stand just beyond the doorway. That earns me a scowl. Then, with a resigned sigh, he reaches a single finger behind the cat’s left ear and, reluctantly, scratches.
Instead of sending Cuddles on her way, his half-hearted gesture only inflames her affections. Thorn leans away from her enthusiastic purring and back arching with wide, horrified eyes. Dad comments indulgently, “Even the cat doesn’t forget a kindness, does she? She knows her hero has stopped by for a visit.”
“Looks that way,” Thorn replies stiffly.
“It’s a sight I’ll never forget,” Dad laughs out loud at the memory. “Coming home from work to find you perched on the ledge outside that second-floor window, trying to coax Cuddles back inside while Windy – was she ten, maybe? – shouted instructions at you from the driveway…”
Thorn cuts his eyes to me and holds my gaze, this time with a twinkle in his eye. “Yes, sir; I had shown up for our meeting early and there was Windy, standing underneath that window, crying like a baby while the cat wandered around on the roof. She was impossible to refuse, even then.” At that, I felt my cheeks grow hot, which only made his eyes twinkle even more.
“We had a happy ending that day, thanks to you. Hey,” Dad said quickly, snapping his fingers and pointing at Thorn good-naturedly. “That was when she became your little Wonder Windy, wasn’t it? You found yourself with a sidekick whenever you met with me,” Dad reminisced, his voice wistful.
“Yes, sir. I don’t know what I would have done without her help that afternoon,” Thorn drawls, prompting both men to laugh. All the while, Cuddles’ tail slowly swishes back and forth, back and forth, as she gazes up at him like he’s a big bowl of yummy cream.
“Just one of the many good turns you’ve done for this family over the years, Thorn. We’ll always appreciate it. Cuddles certainly seems to,” Dad chuckles, fully aware of Thorn’s discomfort with the cat’s rather lavish attentions.
It sounds like their visit is finally wrapping up, so I hurry back into the kitchen to grab the plate of the cookies I spent the afternoon baking. There’s no way I am letting my superhero leave without speaking to him.
Undercover Elite (Undercover Elite Book 2) Page 1
