Wearing a fitted black wraparound dress, a heavy jacket, and a bold yellow scarf around my neck to cover the nasty bruise my attacker left on me, I walk beside Shawn toward the entrance to Velocity Airfield’s private club. My stomach churns, made worse by the fact that Shawn’s barely said two words to me since we left the house this morning.
He’s mad that I insisted on coming here, and I can’t say that I blame him. But what if all the answers are here? What if everything we need to know can be found in this place? Besides, even if Creed sent someone after me, it’s highly unlikely he would have circulated my picture.
And, if he was the one behind Paul’s death and my attack, wouldn’t he have been flagged the moment Jemma put my image in the system? Fake name or not, he would have known who I was and come for me again…right?
God, please let us be okay.I send up a prayer as I try to shift my attention back to the walk from our rented town car toward the glass doors.
Shawn is a picture of attraction in a three-piece suit, his blond hair styled perfectly on top of his head. There is no evidence of the detective beneath the façade, and he’s slipped into his persona so perfectly that I barely recognize him.
Meanwhile, my entire insides are on fire while I questioneverythingthat has led me here. What if I don’t want to find the truth? What if Paul was doing something illegal and I’m risking this honorable man’s life because I’m too afraid to see what’s right in front of me?
Shawn’s hand goes to my back. A steady reminder that I’m not alone. “It’s going to be great, Rebecca,” he says, his deep, gravelly voice a familiar comfort as it wraps around me when he calls me by a name that’s not my own.
How many times did Paul make this walk?
Was he nervous?
Did he know they were going to kill him?
My eyes start to fill, so I rapidly blink the tears away, grateful for the dark sunglasses shielding my eyes.I am Rebecca Andrews. Shep Andrews is my husband. I was born and raised in Connecticut, then went off to college where I met my husband. We moved here because he’s from Seattle. We spent a few years abroad before relocating back stateside.
I repeat the cover over and over in my head until it becomes even more real than my own back story.
The wind picks up, whipping the loose curls of my brown hair all over my face. I run my hand through them, careful not to smear the dark lipstick I chose over my signature red. As Shawn said, it’s relatively recognizable. Which is exactly why I wear it. To stand out in a courtroom and be remembered long after the final verdict.
Now, I need to blend in. Be forgotten.
The doors open, and a wall of a man steps out wearing solid black, an earpiece, and a large handgun holstered in plain sight. “Papers,” he growls.
“No need to get growly, big fella,” Shawn jokes, completely casual, as he reaches into his pocket and withdraws our invitations.
The man plucks them from his hand, and Shawn rests an arm around my shoulders. I warm at the contact, melting into him like warm butter.
“Mr. and Mrs. Andrews,” he greets, his demeanor shifting slightly. “Please, come in and check in at the registration desk.”
“Thanks.” Shawn takes my hand and threads his fingers through mine, guiding me inside. With every step we take, my panic grows. And as the doors shut behind me with a soft click, my heart rate jumps. “Smile, baby, it’s going to be a great day.” Shawn leans in and presses his lips to my temple.
I shiver, warmth spreading through my entire body like molten lava. It’s been a decade since I felt anything close to desire. But as Shawn plays his part so perfectly, it’s easy to imagine myself as Rebecca Andrews.
Wife to the handsome man standing beside me.
Except he’s not Shep. He’s Shawn. And this is what undercover work is all about.
I force a smile. “I know, baby. I am excited. Just ready to see inside.”
Shawn stops at the desk and removes his sunglasses as he fires a million-watt smile at the brunette manning it. She stands and grins right back at him. “Hey there, honey. My wife and I need to check in.”
“Of course.” She doesn’t pay me any attention as she turns her full focus to the man beside me. “Mr. Andrews?” she questions.
“That’s me,” he repeats with a grin. “This is my wife, Rebecca.”
I remove the glasses I realize I forgot to take off.
“It’s great to meet you,” she replies with a smile. “I’m going to need some identification for both of you, and a card to keep on file.”
“Absolutely.” He releases my hand and reaches into his pocket to withdraw a black leather wallet. After plucking both of our IDs and a black Mastercard out, he offers them to her, then turns to lean back against the counter. “Look at this place, baby.” He whistles. “They didn’t downplay it, did they?”
“No, they didn’t,” I reply as I turn to face the same direction. My entire body is trembling, nerves wreaking havoc on my system.How does he do it? Appear so absolutely comfortable in these surroundings? Especially when, at any moment, she could come back and tell us that the cover stories are blown and we’re going to be joining my late husband in death?
