Undercover Protector
Autor
Molly O'Keefe
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17,6K
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Special agent Maggie Fitzgerald has her mission. Go deep undercover as reclusive journalist Caleb Gomez's cleaning woman. Then swipe his intel on infamous crime lord Benny Delgado. Unfortunately Caleb is much more, well, everything than Maggie bargained for and she's this close to letting down her guard and revealing all. But how long can she lie to the man she's falling for? With Benny hunting for Caleb, Maggie's got to decide if coming clean with Caleb will put more than just her mission in jeopardy. It could kill any chance they have together, too.
CHAPTER ONE
âTHANKS, GORDON.â Maggie Fitzgerald took the cup of coffee from her favorite techieâs hand and weighed the pleasure against the pain of taking a sip.
Her doctor said she should cut back on the caffeine if she ever wanted to get rid of her ulcers. But the smell of coffeeâeven the crappy stuff from the bakery on the cornerâwas too much to resist. She tore open the small square on the plastic lid and took a sip.
She was so used to her ulcers at this stage, what would be the point of getting rid of them?
Gordon collapsed into the stiff reception chair beside hers and stared at Deputy Waltersâ closed office door.
âSo.â Gordon yawned but talked through it. âWhy do you suppose we got the royal summons at 6 a.m. on a Saturday?â
âYour guess is as good as mine,â Maggie said, watching the steam escape from the coffee cup.
âYouâre lying.â Gordon gestured with his cup and coffee sloshed over onto his brown corduroy pants. âYou are totally lying.â
Gordon was the best surveillance tech sheâd ever worked with and he wasâin certain lighting and on special occasionsâvaguely loveable. But not so much this early on a Saturday morning.
âWhat makes you say that?â She took another sip of sugary coffee. She was lying. She did have an idea why they were here. But she wasnât about to share that with Gordon.
ââCause you always know more than you let on.â Gordon shrugged and slumped deeper into his chair. âWhen youâre not around the guys in bank robbery call you the freaking Cheshire Cat.â
âI think Iâll take that as a compliment.â It was, after all, better than some of the things sheâd been called since entering the hallowed halls of Quantico four years ago.
âYou think itâs got anything to do with your brother?â Gordon asked.
âNo.â Her voice was cold, her heart colder. âI donât think it has anything to do with my brother.â
âBut with Delgadoââ
âI donât think it has anything to do with Patrick.â She looked at Gordon, feeling the bite of anger and grief that sheâd been fighting since the accident six months ago.
She was getting better. Most of the time those emotions only surfaced at nightâin disjointed dreams of her brother lost and cold someplace and her unable to find him. But sometimes she was ambushed by her feelings, caught unawares by the terrible reality that Patrick was dead. Gone.
Murdered.
âOkay.â Gordon raised his hands in truce. âBut I think youâre wrong.â
Maggie didnât say anything and they drank in stiff, uncomfortable silence.
âWhatever it is I hope Iâm being reassigned to the Delgado task force. Iâve had it about up to hereââ he held his hand about a foot over his head ââwith bank robberies and celebrity stalkings.â
Maggie smiled. They were in L.A., after all. Celebrity stalking, bank robberies and gangs composed about seventy-five percent of the workload.
âHow is it over at gang violence?â Gordon asked. âBetter?â
âI wouldnât say better. Iâd just say less mundane.â
He nodded his head. âI like less mundane. But since your brother got killed and that witnessââ
âGordon,â she said through tight lips, âshut up.â
âRight. Shutting up.â
She had the sinking fear that Gordon was right. She was here because of her brother. Maybe she would be removed from the Delgado case because of the media coverage surrounding Patrickâs death.
Nothing like a few headlines shouting Dirty Cop or, worse, Dead Cop Linked to Drug Lord to sully a whole familyâs name. No matter if they were true or not.
âHey, did you see the Lakers game yesterday? I swear I keep betting on the wrong teamââ
Luckily, Gordonâs small talk was cut short by the sudden opening of Deputy Waltersâ door.
Curtis Johnson, the agent in charge of the Delgado task force and the closest thing she had to a mentor in the Bureau, stood in the doorway like a huge black shadow in an ill-fitting suit.
âCome on in,â he said in his deep baritone that sounded like the voice of God in the cartoons Maggie had watched as a kid. Gordon leaped up and Curtis stepped out of the way as Gordon walked past him. Maggie took her time, trying to catch Curtisâs eye before going in those doors, but she couldnât discern anything from his locked-down expression.
Her ulcers didnât like this one bit.
âRelax,â Curtis whispered as she walked by.
âEasier said than done,â she whispered back.
Curtis chuckled and followed her into Deputy Waltersâs inner sanctum.
Maggie took a deep breath and pulled the loose collar away from her throat. The oak paneling and oil paintings seemed to close in on her with every breath. Her father had this dream of her being the first female assistant deputy director of the West Coast Bureau, but if that meant working in this ever-shrinking room every day, dear old Dad could forget it.
Deputy Walters was a small man who looked far younger than his years and much too young to be the assistant deputy director in charge. He was dwarfed by the large oak desk he sat behind, which Gordon loved to make penis compensation jokes about. But there was no joking about this meeting.
Walters had held his position for five years and in the year since the Bureau had put Delgado on the Ten Most Wanted list, Walters had already gone through two agents in charge. Flores and Smyth hadnât managed to bring down Delgado and were now fielding bomb threats and UFO sightings at their desks.
Curtis had been put in charge a month ago and sheâd been angling to get on his team from the start. Two weeks ago, heâd brought her on board. And so far sheâd turned up nothing. Trying to get information on Delgado was like running into a brick wall headfirst. No one in the neighborhoods would talk. No one in jail would talk. Theyâd offered one convict reduced jail time on a twenty-five year sentence and the guy wouldnât budge.
Iâll take the time, heâd said. Better alive in jail than dead on the street.
They had thrown in relocation and protection to sweeten the deal, but heâd only scoffed. You canât take me where Delgado wonât find me.
Delgado ruled his syndicate with fear and brutal violence. Anyone even suspected of talking to the Feds was killed, their families were killed, their dogs were killed.
So far it had been a pretty effective deterrent.
âHave a seat,â Walters said with a smile that was about as warm as an ice bath. She and Gordon sat in the chairs across from him and Curtis stood to the right of the phallic desk.
âWhatâs going on?â Gordon asked, his eyes darting between Walters and Curtis.
âDelgado is on the move,â Curtis replied.
He turned and hit a button on his remote and the screen on the right wall was illuminated with the face of the handsome Hispanic man whoâd been all over the newspapers and television in the past few days.
âCaleb Gomez was released from the naval hospital in San Diego four days ago,â Curtis said and Maggie sat back, wondering what a Pulitzer-prize winning hostage survivor had to do with one of the most brutal gang lords in Los Angeles. âAccording to his press release, he is planning to spend time recuperating in New York City.â
Curtis clicked the remote and a bad surveillance photo of Gomez dressed out like an East L.A. native standing in front of a taco stand with Delgado filled the screen.
âWhatâs Delgado doing with a journalist?â Gordon voiced Maggieâs thoughts. âThatâs like suicide for Delgado.â
âOr the journalist,â Maggie added.
âThatâs what weâre wondering, too,â Curtis said and jerked his thumb toward the screen. âThis photo was taken three and a half years ago. According to Gomezâs editor at the Los Angeles Times, thatâs about when Gomez stopped taking assignments and was working on what he called his ânext Pulitzer.â The Times had commissioned Gomezâs mystery story to run in the fall of 2003, but when Iraq really started heating up, Gomez requested to be embedded with the troops near Baghdad. He spent the better part of two and a half years over there before the kidnapping.â He shrugged, a nervous tick he had, as though he was uncomfortable in his skin and constantly wanted out. âThe details of what happened to him there will be in your files.â
Maggie swallowed. The whole world knew many of those detailsâheâd been brutalized over there. Beaten. Tortured. For three days.
But their files would hold classifiedâand much more grislyâinformation, thanks to the military and medical personnel who had assisted in Gomezâs escape and recovery.
Her stomach turned.
Professional detachment could only take you so far in the face of the evil man could do.
âYou think he infiltrated the Delgado gang?â she asked, shoving thoughts of torture aside. âYou think that was his mystery story?â
âThree years ago, Delgado was just entering our radar. It was before he murdered Hernandez and took over his syndicate in East L.A.â Curtis shrugged a massive shoulder and clicked ahead to the next photo. A closer image of Gomez and Delgado in front of the taco stand. Delgado was clearly smiling at something Gomez was saying. âDelgado was far more accessible then. He was just a soldier in the Hernandez syndicate. If a good journalist was going to get in on the ground floor, that would have been the time to do it.â
âGood and crazy,â Gordon muttered and Maggie had to agree, but things still didnât add up.
âThatâs a huge conclusion to jump to,â Maggie said. âMaybe they just happened to be in line together at a taco stand.â
âWell.â Curtis grinned like the Cheshire Cat her colleagues claimed she was and clicked onto the next imageâmug shots of two of Delgadoâs top men. âHernando and Boyer were spotted in New York City yesterday outside of the apartment Gomez used to rent.â
All the short hairs on Maggieâs neck stood straight up.
This smelled like a break in the case.
She could see Gordon beside her, grinning in the half dark. âDelgado must think Gomez knows something or why would he send his two best thugs all the way to New York?â Gordon asked.
Curtis nodded.
âSo where is Gomez?â Maggie asked. If he was in that apartment, he was as good as dead; however, a certain gleam in Curtisâs eyes indicated that wasnât the case.
âSummerland, California.â Curtis turned and smiled at her while he advanced onto a photo of a stucco house behind high hedges. âHeâs renting a house in the foothills.â
Curtis set down the remote and turned on the light behind him. Maggie could feel the electric hum of excitement radiating off him. It filled the air and she breathed it in with relish.
This was a gift. A break. A possible crack in an un-crackable case.
Now, if only it didnât require her to go undercover again, then things would really be looking up. But she didnât get called into this kind of briefing to do surveillance or research.
She was undercover. And she was supposed to love it.
He lifted the three files from the corner of Waltersâs desk and handed two of them to Gordon and Maggie. The third he handed to Walters.
âWhatâs our angle?â she asked.
âWell, Delgado is going to find out heâs got his two dogs standing outside an empty apartment in New York City and start looking elsewhere.â He arched an eyebrow. âAnd we know it wonât take Delgado long to find him.â
âSo Gomez as bait? We just wait for Delgado to find him? Send some guys to kill him and hope we can implicate Delgado?â She hated even saying the word bait. Putting an innocent man in grave danger was an ugly way to break a case. And the odds of its success werenât high. Delgadoâs men wouldnât roll on Delgado.
âThatâs one option.â Curtis nodded.
âWhatâs the other?â Gordon asked.
âWe find out what Delgado is clearly ready to kill Gomez to keep hidden.â
âDoes that mean going undercover?â Gordon grinned like a kid being taken to Walt Disney World.
Maggie felt an inevitable tide at work here and she tried not to fight it. Tried to get excited about her role, her job. She looked down at her hands.
One more time, she told herself. For your brother. You can go undercover one more time.
For Patrick she would do anything.
She would sell off a little bit more of her soul.
âThatâs the plan. Gomez has called a housecleaning service and is interviewing candidates today. Weâre sending in two decoys and then weâre sending in Fitzgerald.â Curtis tapped her folder.
âWhy two decoys?â Gordon asked.
âTo make Fitzgerald irresistible.â
âThanks a lot,â Maggie groused.
âIn any case, you get in and during the interview, you plant three surveillance bugs. Hopefully you also get the job, allowing us broader access to Gomez.â
She nodded and bit her lip against a satisfied smile. Finally, finally she was getting close to nailing the man responsible for her brotherâs death.
âSounds good.â
Walters leaned back and ran his hands over his thick brown hair and laughed, though the sound was not funny. Maggieâs satisfaction dimmed and Gordonâs smug smile fled.
Walters was going to give them a reality check.
âBefore you kids start thinking youâve cracked this case, letâs look at what you are up against.â He took a deep breath through his nose and it seemed to Maggie that he sucked all the air out of the room.
âThree years ago,â Walters continued, âin the span of a week, Delgado takes down every drug dealer, racketeer, arms dealer and money launderer in Los Angeles who poses any kind of threat to him. He murders Hernandez and takes over his syndicate, has every Latin King from here to San Diego bowing to him.â
He paused as if waiting for confirmation and Maggie, Gordon and Curtis all nodded.
âAnd now, thanks to this journalist, weâve got two options. One, baiting a trap with Caleb Gomez in the hopes of maybe, possibly catching Delgado. Or two, finding out what information Gomez has that Delgado is ready to kill for then somehow using it to bring him down.â
âThat sounds about right,â Curtis said. âItâs the biggest break weâve had in the case in a year.â
âWhat do we know about Gomez?â Walters asked and Maggie could have sworn Curtis got red under the collar.
âNot much,â he admitted. âHe was brought in for questioning regarding a burglary ring about six years ago. Heâd gotten some information from one of the men for a story he was doing on the federal penitentiary system. When the Bureau tried to subpoena him, he raised such a stink he was labeled uncooperative and that the whole thing was dropped.â
Thatâs not good, Maggie thought.
âWhat kind of stink?â Gordon asked.
âOp-ed pieces in every major U.S. paper regarding the FBI and the swiftly diminishing civil rights of Americans.â Curtis cleared his throat. âIt wasnât good.â
âThatâs our guy?â Gordon asked, almost laughing. âHeâs going to love us going undercover in his house.â
âWell, thatâs why I brought in Fitzgerald.â Curtis nodded, though the director seemed very unconvinced. âSheâs good.â
âShe better be or heâll be dead and weâll be no closer to catching Delgado.â
âYes, sir,â Curtis said and Maggie and Gordon stood.
âYou have one week,â Walters said, âto turn up anything that proves this isnât a wild-goose chase and then Iâm pulling the undercover operation. After that, weâll plant some protection outside his house.â
âWeâve tried that, sir, and it doesnât work. Six months ago the female witness was killed in the safe house with two armed guards right outside her door,â Curtis said. âThe assailants had killed one guard and disabled the other and slit the witnessâs throat. The Bureau, the LAPD and ATF had huge mud on their faces for that one. We ended up with more bodies and no evidence. Thereâs every likelihood that the Gomez case would end the same way.â
âOr not. Either way youâve got the Bureau out on a limb going into this guyâs house. Heâs a public figure right now, a public figure with no respect for the necessary investigative measures the Bureau takes. This has the potential to go bad in a big way. You got me?â
âYes, sir,â they said in unison.
Before she turned toward the door, Waltersâs brown eyes bored into hers and she felt like a bug under glass, skewered and exposed. âFitzgerald?â
âYes, sir.â
âYour brother was the copââ
âYes, sir.â Maggie interrupted before he could finish. As always it was on the tip of her tongue to explain Patrick had been set up, but sheâd screamed her throat raw trying to get people to believe that without proof.
Walters studied her and she did not flinch. Did not blink. He could look for any sign that she was as flawed and corrupt as everyone thought her brother was. He could look for any weakness, any soft spot that might be used against her or the Bureau.
He wouldnât find them.
Walters smiled again and a chill danced down Maggieâs spine.
âWhat year did you graduate?â
â99-92,â she said giving the year of her graduation and the class number.
âShe was top of her class in investigation and fitness,â Curtis said, leaping to her defense. She gave him a quick half smile of appreciation.
âYou were a part of the hydroponics farm drug sting last year,â Walters asked.
She nodded again.
âWell, Fitzgerald. Letâs hope you can do the job.â
âYes, sir.â She nodded.
There wasnât a doubt in her mind that she could do this job. Even in one week, she could do this job.
Â
FOUR HOURS LATER Maggie, Gordon and Curtis were in place, the three of them and thousands of dollars of surveillance equipment wedged into a white utility van parked at the bottom of Gomezâs street.
âYou all right?â Curtisâs hand on Maggieâs shoulder felt like a ton of bricks, a million pounds of expectation.
âIâm good,â Maggie answered. âReady.â
She had been ready for this moment for six months. Since the very moment she and her family found out Patrick had been killedâexactly two weeks before he was supposed to give testimony against Delgado.
That moment had created this moment, which she knew would create the moment Delgado either rotted away behind bars or was given the lethal injection.
These were the only possible outcomes.
She took a deep breath of the humid air in the van and held out her hand. Curtis dropped the three surveillance bugs in her palm and she slipped them into the special pocket in her khaki pants.
âHow come no one asks me if Iâm all right?â Gordon whined from his station in front of the monitors; his brown hair glowed red from them. âMaybe Iâm a little nervous. Iâm sweating my ass off and Iâm starvingââ
âShut up, Gordon,â Maggie said out of habit more than anything.
Curtis leaned close, his broad sweaty face illuminated by the red and green monitors. âThis guy is smart, Maggie.â
âI know.â According to the file, Gomez had spent more time undercover than she had. His investigative journalism had taken him to some pretty scary places and the man always got out alive and with the story.
âAnd tough,â Curtis added.
âNo kidding.â Gordon whistled through his teeth. âHe wouldnât even tell the Iraqis his name until they broke his arm in four places.â
Maggie swallowed and looked down at her clenched hands. He wouldnât even tell the Iraqis his name. She could hardly fathom that kind of pain. Or that kind of strength.
âDonât for a minute underestimate Caleb Gomez or let your guard down.â
âI got it, Curtis.â She tried to keep her frustration to a minimum. âLet me do my job.â
She was good undercover. She had the ability to turn her real self off. Maggie Fitzgerald disappeared and instead she became an instrument, a camera. Something sharp and smart that collected all information and stayed solidly in character. It made her a highly sought after undercover agent.
She was good. Now it was time for her to be the best.
Caleb Gomez was not going to be a problem.
âHey.â Her boss grabbed her hand where it rested on the back door of the Municipal Utilities van she had spent way too much time in already. âI donât need to tell you whatâs at stake hereââ
âCurtis, I was at the briefing. Benny Delgado is after Gomezââ
âNo,â Gordon interrupted. âHe means whatâs at stake for us.â
The two men stared at her and she tried not to roll her eyes. These two could be so damn dramatic sometimes.
âWe blow this and weâre back at robberies or celebrity stalkings,â Curtis said.
âAnd I canât afford the pay cut,â Gordon added. âDaddy just bought a new car.â
These guys didnât know the half of it. Failing to bring Delgado down would result in things far more devastating than losing this plum assignment.
âSo, go in there andââ Curtis started to say.
âBe nice?â She tried to joke around, to lighten the heavy air in the van.
âWell, thatâs a bit of a stretch.â Curtis grinned and Maggie didnât take offense. She often wasnât niceâit wasnât part of the job.
âHe was going to say shake your ass. Gomez has got to be lonelyââ
âShut up, Gordon.â Curtis yelled over his shoulder. âI was going to say just try and get the job.â
Maggie nodded, opened the door and blinked in the bright California sunshine.
She stepped down from the van and the door slammed shut behind her, somehow putting a special emphasis on how alone she was at the moment. Those guys in the van werenât going to have to look Gomez in the eye and lie to him. This case hinged on her performance.
Fine by me, she thought. She did her best work alone. Always had. Always would.
She crossed the narrow residential street to the small hatchback that was her car or rather, Margaret Warrenâs car.
Margaret Warren, a single mom who wanted nothing more than to raise her son away from the crime and congestion of Los Angeles.
Margaret Warren who had recently moved to Summerland and signed up with a local housekeeping service.
Margaret Warren who knew nothing about the seedy underbelly of the largest Los Angeles crime syndicate other than what she saw on the ten oâclock news.
And she had no idea that Caleb Gomez was the key to bringing it down. That was the bait in a complicated mousetrap.
Thatâs all. Margaret Warren, housekeeper.
Maggie checked the camera/microphone hidden in a tiny gold and rhinestone angel pin on her collar.
A housekeeper with a superstitious belief in guardian angels.
âYou boys there?â she asked.
âLoud and clear.â Curtisâs voice was in her right ear thanks to an imperceptible receiver. The guys in the van would be able to hear everything she said and still give her instruction. She could do without the voices in her head, but Curtis was good and tweaked about this case, so she made the compromise. For today. If she got the job, there would be no camera and definitely no receiver. She couldnât work this way.
âAll right, just try and keep it down,â she told them.
Maggie drove up the hill toward Gomezâs house. He was nestled in the foothills, away from the more popular properties closer to the beach.
I bet heâs got a great view, she thought. She was able to catch glimpses of the wide blue ocean on her left between the flowering mountain laurel. On her right, wild sage and yellow wildflowers crawled up the mountain. She thought for a brief moment of her apartment and her view of Mr. Sayerâs garbage can.
The views of the middle of nowhere sure beat the views of city living.
The road ended in a cul-de-sac and Maggie pulled into the only driveway, between two large jasmine bushes that provided nearly impenetrable privacy.
His house was a one-story ranch with a typical stucco exterior. She faced a garage and a nondescript back door. There were no windows on this side of the house. Just cracked white stucco and red bougainvillea growing wild.
The lawn, what there was of it, was neglected and turning brown in the heat.
Reports indicated Gomez had a dog. A big one. The last agent who supplied surveillance information said the dog was a âfreaking monster.â
Maggie looked around for the freaking monster but there was no sign. Hopefully, Gomez had the good sense to lock him up for their interview.
âWhatâs the holdup, Fitzgerald?â Curtis asked.
âLooking for that dog.â
âForget the dog and letâs get the show on the road. Your appointment was for one, itâs now five after.â
Maggie rolled her eyes and got out of the car.
She took a deep breath, adjusted the pin on her lapel and rang the doorbell. From inside the house she heard the deep bellowing of a dog.
She could also hear a distinct slide and thump sound that got louder as it got closer to the door.
She closed her eyes and sent a quick promise heavenward.
I swear, Patrick, Iâll make good on everything that was done to you.
Maggie wasnât sure how to react when Gomez opened the door. Margaret Warren would have no idea that the man whose house she had been sent to by the agency had been disfigured in a fire.
Maggie Fitzgerald, of course, had seen the Army medical reports.
The door swung open before she had a chance to decide her course of action.
âMargaret Warren?â A man, a big man wearing blue jeans and boots, stood in the shadows. She couldnât even see the top half of his body thanks to the dark hallway and the very bright glare from the bay of windows twenty yards behind him.
âOh, for crying out loud,â Gordon said in her ear. âWe need a better picture than that.â
She blinked and shielded her eyes. âYes, Iâmââ
âLate.â Gomez took an awkward step back with the help of his metal cane and waited. Perhaps it was because she couldnât see his face, but there was something about Gomez, an energyâher sister would call it an aura. Whatever it was it knocked her off her stride and she hesitated at the doorway.
âYou can come in,â he finally said, his deep voice laced with humor. âI only eat people who are early.â
She smiled and stepped into the tiled foyer. The foyer was shadowed but the great room and the kitchenâvisible from where she stoodâwere bathed in light from the floor-to-ceiling windows that faced the ocean.
âMr. Estradaââ She called him by the name heâd registered with the agency. It was a fake and a bad one at that, but she could hardly tell him that.
âIâm telling you the guy is nuts. Who uses a fake name like Estrada?â Gordon said in her ear.
âShut up, Gordon,â Curtis said.
Maggie bit back a smile.
Gomez laughed, apparently very entertained with his little inside alias joke. âYou can call me Caleb. Caleb Gomez.â
So far so good, she thought. âItâs a lovely house.â She turned as if admiring the view and used the chance to case the place.
Phones. Two units. One in the kitchen beside the refrigerator. Another cordless beside the couch, facing the windows. The hallway, directly across from her and through the great room, led to three shut doors. Office, bedroom, bath was her guess.
âItâs a pigsty,â Gomez said and lurched away, leading her into the great room. âI wish I could claim all this mess as my own, but I rented the house unseen and the landlord didnât clean after the last tenants. Iâd wondered why it was so cheap.â
Youâre a housekeeper, she reminded herself. Act like one.
âIâve seen worse,â she said. Not really. There was some clutterânewspapers covered the sofa, a moat of coffee mugs surrounded the overstuffed chair. But dust bunnies so big her mom could use them to knit scarves floated across the filthy floor like strange tumbleweeds.
The windows were cloudy with grime and the air in the house seemed stale and musty and smelled a little like tomato sauce and dirty socks.
âYouâre going to have your work cut out for you cleaning that dump,â Curtis said and she almost smiled. Sheâd done worse for her job. She didnât even want to think of those long days on that hydroponics farm.
She followed Gomez and his lurching slide-and-thump gait. From the back, his injuries didnât seem to diminish him other than the limp. He was tall and still broad, though he held his shoulder at an awkward angle. Long black hair brushed the collar of his blue T-shirt, which hugged the wide muscles of his shoulders and back.
The reports of his injuries must have been exaggerated, she realized. He didnât look like a man who had been standing at deathâs door a few months ago.
And he definitely didnât look like any journalist she had ever met.
He looked like a man more used to activity than sitting behind a computer. He had a magnetic force about him that she couldnât imagine allowed him to be a quiet observer.
He poked at the dust bunnies that congregated around the foot of the brown twill sofa. âIâve never had a housekeeper before. Iâm afraid Iâm not too aware of the protocol,â he said and turned to face her.
She had read the reports. She knew about the burnsâthe torture and the broken shoulder and arm. She had seen the grainy surveillance photos. But nothing could have prepared her for the reality.
The bright sunlight was unforgiving and the red and white scar tissue on the left side of Caleb Gomezâs neck stood in violent relief. The skin was taut and shiny. His armâthe one held at an angleâwas covered in similar scar tissue and his hand curled into a fist that looked unusable.
She was used to seeing injuriesâhad treated and caused her fair share in the fieldâso it was not the scars that made her feel as though sheâd been punched in the stomach.
It was his eyes, as blue as the sky behind him, untouched by the fire and horrors of captivity, that made the impact. They were the most beautiful eyes sheâd ever seen and they absolutely dared her to pity him.
For a moment she couldnât tolerate what she intended to do to this man. She was breathless, her stomach in knots and she knew without a doubt that he would be trouble for her.
âHoly shit,â Gordon breathed in her ear.
