Undercover Protector. Molly O'Keefe

Maggie asked, laughing at her sister. Liz was a gifted magazine stylist—about as far away from special agent as one could get.

      “None of us had to sign up. That was Dad’s deal. You didn’t have to take on the job. And moreover you should be able to leave it when you want to.”

      “I don’t want to just yet.” Maggie shrugged as if it were that simple. And it was, mostly.

      “That wasn’t your story seven months ago.”

      “Things changed, Liz. I can’t talk about this now. Let it go.”

      “Fine.”

      “Fine.”

      They both stared out the windows again.

      “Are you okay? Emergency over?” Maggie asked, her temper slightly cooler thanks to the rolling waves on the other side of the highway.

      Liz nodded, pulling her gaze back to Maggie.

      “Something is wrong with Dan, but you’re right, I don’t think it’s another woman.” The shadows that lingered under her sister’s bright eyes indicated something serious was amiss in her sister’s stylized life. Some detail was not going as planned and Maggie did feel bad about that, but she had her own amiss details to sort out.

      “It’s only been six months, Liz. Dan lost his best friend.”

      Liz nodded, her brown hair gleaming in the low light. Maggie wondered if it was genetics or expensive hair products that created such a shine. Maggie’s hair usually looked like a springer spaniel’s coat—after he’d chased some animal into a hole.

      “Okay, I gotta go.” Maggie stood. “No emergencies unless there’s blood next time.”

      Liz smiled. “Okay.”

      Maggie leaned down and kissed her sister’s head and grabbed her coat.

      “Oh, hey, can I borrow some movies? Dan’s been working late and there’s nothing but reality TV on in the summer.” Liz assembled herself to go, too. Flipping her hair and slinging her bag over her shoulder. She looked like a perfume commercial.

      Maggie nodded; her sister had her own key to Maggie’s apartment. “Just put them back when you’re done.” It was a useless request. Chances were Maggie would never see whatever movies Liz borrowed again.

      “Do you have something with Hugh Grant? I feel like something Hugh Grant-y.”

      “Third row down on the bookcase. I’ve got them all.” Truth be told Maggie was often in the mood for something Hugh Grant-y.

      “Thanks, Mags,” Liz said. Maggie heard a lot of gratitude in those two words.

      “No problem.”

      Someone had to handle the emergencies, keep the family together, bring murderers to justice and lend the Hugh Grant movies when they were desired.

      Once again, Maggie was the woman for the job.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      ON HER FIRST DAY as Gomez’s housekeeper, Maggie stood outside his open door and tore the sticky note off the glass.

      Come in. Supplies in kitchen. I am in office.

      Please do not disturb.

      “Right,” she muttered with a grim smile. “Like that’s going to happen.”

      She kicked the door open the rest of the way. It was actually good news that the guy planned on staying locked in his office. It gave her ample opportunity to search and to learn a little more about Caleb Gomez.

      She was looking forward to the opportunity.

      Gomez had made a token effort at straightening the place up. Magazines, papers and shoes were stacked in piles rather than left scattered about. But still, there were a lot of piles. And underneath the piles was the filth.

      Uncle Sam owes me for this. He owes me a lot of umbrella drinks.

      She dropped her purse on the couch and spared a glance for the stunning view of morning sunlight over the choppy waters of the Pacific Ocean visible beyond the ravine and the houses on the next street west before starting her rounds.

      A quick check of the phone and the table next to the couch confirmed the surveillance bugs were intact.

      She grabbed the mail from the stack sitting on the table by the couch. “Pizza, pizza, home renovations,” she muttered, setting down each flyer as she read it. “Phone sex, YMC—Hello.” There were five envelopes from the University of California, Santa Barbara. Security envelopes with plastic windows, the sort that paychecks come in. The dates on the envelopes spanned from two months ago to yesterday. She held the latest one up to the bright sunlight but the security pattern did its job and she couldn’t see the amount written on the check.

      Nothing to do but Nancy Drew it.

      She put a pot of water on the stove to boil and while she waited, she ducked into his bedroom. The hushed dark room breathed with a musky intimacy. A sleepy scent that was spicy and warm filled the room as if Caleb were still in it.

      She ignored the rumpled bed, the stacks of clothes and checked the bug under the lip of the bedside table. Still good.

      She pulled open the drawer, looking for anything. Any clue. Never on one of her cases had she simply opened a drawer and found what she needed to solve a crime, but legends abounded in the Bureau about murder weapons being stashed in kitchen drawers and stolen, marked money found under beds.

      The drawer was empty but for the smell of wood.

      That’s my kind of luck, she thought.

      She walked around the bed to the other table, checking over her shoulder, listening intently for sounds from the office.

      Nothing but silence.

      She slid open the drawer to find an iPod as well as an old Playboy magazine.

      She quickly grabbed the iPod and shut the drawer, a painful heat flooding her face. That magazine was too much information about Gomez’s personal life. Unless he was the only man on the planet who actually read the magazine for the articles.

      Considering the warmth of his regard for her own very average self yesterday, she doubted he read many of those pages.

      She returned to the kitchen, grabbed her cell phone and text messaged Gordon that she would put an iPod in the mailbox and she needed it back pronto after he duplicated the contents.

      The water was boiling so she held the oldest envelope over the steam until the adhesive became damp enough and the envelope popped open for her. She smiled and slid out the pay stub. It was too bad that credit card trick with locked doors wasn’t as effective.

      The pay stub—a thousand dollars a week directly deposited into his account at the Bank of America in Santa Barbara—was for an online class. Journalism and Ethics. She nearly laughed. Caleb Gomez, the man sitting on information needed to bring down the biggest crime leader on the West Coast was teaching a class on ethics. Ludicrous.

      But good for her. And good for Gordon. If Gomez was teaching an online class, Gordon could hack into the course instructional area and monitor Gomez that way. Pose as a new student perhaps, ask some sly questions. And, Gordon could access Gomez’s bank records for the past few years to see if there had been any interesting activity while he’d been undercover with Delgado.

      Again checking over her shoulder, the iPod and check stub tucked in her fist, she ran out the door to the mailbox and slid everything inside.

      Maggie returned to the house and made a point of closing the door hard enough to rattle a few windows.

      Perhaps that would draw the guy out of his cave.

      But the door remained shut. The hallway empty. The house silent.

      She opened the door and slammed it again,