Undercover Protector. Molly O'Keefe

smiled and Maggie glanced away from the twist of that wounded mouth and the humor that poured out of those eyes. “We’ll see. I like that. It’s been my motto for two and a half years.”

      Maggie was startled by her desire to ask what he meant by that comment, but she quickly focused back on business. “Did you want to call my references?”

      “Already have, they couldn’t say enough good things about you.”

      Considering Curtis and his secretary had been her two references, she wasn’t surprised. Still, she smiled as though she was pleased.

      One step closer, she thought. I am one step closer, Patrick.

      “Great. So, is there some paperwork you want me to fill out?”

      “Not so fast.” Gomez grinned again, the wry tightening of his face looked more like a grimace than an expression of pleasure. “Why don’t you clear a seat and tell me why you are so eager to work for slave wages for a disfigured cripple?”

      Maggie inwardly winced. Though his tone was casual, joking even, it was very clear what this man thought of himself.

      “I need the job,” she answered. More than you’ll ever know. “I have a son.”

      “You’re married?”

      “No.”

      “Divorced?”

      Maggie narrowed her eyes. “Is it important?”

      “No.” Gomez wearily rubbed the scars on his neck.

      Does it hurt? she wondered.

      “Sorry. Old habits die hard, I guess.” He looked out at the ocean, his face touched by the sunlight and Maggie had the strangest feeling that he was searching for composure.

      “So, Margaret with one son,” he finally said, turning back to her. “What brings you to Summer-land?”

      “Will is getting older and his influences were getting worse at school and in the neighborhood.”

      “Where were you from?”

      “Los Angeles.” The lies came fast, natural. “Long Beach.”

      Gomez nodded. “Spent a little time there myself. Some neighborhoods there can eat a kid alive.”

      She knew all of this, of course. Long Beach and Will, her fictitious son, were all part of her cover designed to elicit reactions from Gomez, to create a sense of common ground. She needed him to want to talk to her.

      It was what being undercover was all about. Building trust and then destroying it.

      “How old is your son?” he asked.

      “Ten.”

      “What—”

      “You mentioned a pay increase if I agreed to cook,” she asked, interrupting his twenty questions. Best to keep some mystery about herself, keep the journalist engaged in her story. Spilling all of her made-up beans wouldn’t do that.

      Gomez did not miss a beat at her change of subject.

      “An extra $150 a week. If it’s edible.”

      Maggie nodded, clueless as to whether that was fair or not. “Sounds fair.”

      Gomez watched her, unabashed, and the air slowly filled with tension like a gas leak. She could feel his regard, like fingers reaching out to stroke her hair, her face. His eyes probed hers and for a moment, because she knew, at least in words, all of the things that had happened to him, those beautiful eyes shook her.

      She knew people torn apart, absolutely devastated by things not half as bad as what this man had suffered and survived. Her mother for one. Destroyed by what had happened to her golden son.

      “So, do I have the job?” she finally asked, acting as the composed Margaret Warren once more.

      “Yes, Ms. Warren, I do believe you do.”

      She, Curtis and Gordon all sighed in relief. “That’s good news,” she told Gomez.

      “Well,” he said with a wry chuckle, “you haven’t seen the bathroom.”

      IN THE END Margaret wanted to write down a list of cleaning supplies but didn’t have a pen so he had to go into the kitchen to grab one.

      Giant suitcase of a purse and she doesn’t have a pen? What do they carry in those things?

      When she drove away Caleb stood at his back door and watched her crummy little hatchback until it vanished down the hill.

      There was going to be a woman in his house. A woman with a gorgeous mouth and unreadable eyes, touching his things. Making him dinner.

      Caleb didn’t know how to feel.

      Bear, still locked up in the office, bellowed to be let out. Caleb propped the cane on the wall and limped as fast as he could and flung open the door.

      “Oh, Bear,” he groaned when he saw the mess his big dumb dog had made. “I’m gonna take you back to the pound.”

      Bear sat in a nest of shredded paper, fragments of newspapers and magazine pages dotted his fur. One triangular strip hung from his lolling tongue.

      Even after more than a week of seeing the beast every day, Caleb wasn’t used to his looks. Half of the dog’s right ear was missing from a fight that also took out his right eye. Because of a skin condition, he was hairless except for a couple of clumps of fur along his sides. Those clumps were coarse and wiry, the fur constantly falling out. He had a bad temper toward strangers, which was the main reason Caleb had bought the damn dog, but that didn’t make him any more endearing. Bear adored chewing paper, but left shoes alone, which was nice except Caleb often liked what was on the chewed-up paper more than his shoes.

      Caleb reached out and peeled the piece of paper off the dog’s tongue.

      Bear licked his hand and Caleb stepped over him to the sliding glass door that led from the office to the patio and Bear trotted out the door, knocking over the books and magazines Caleb kept piled on his office bookshelves.

      Dumb dog. Caleb followed and pushed open the screen door so Bear could flop down on the deck in the sunshine. Caleb flopped down as well in the padded lounge that faced the water.

      Bear sighed and scooted around so he sat within petting distance and Caleb flexed and stretched out his bad hand to stroke Bear’s single hairless ear.

      “A woman’s coming, Bear.” He long ago stopped feeling stupid for talking to his dog. “You’ve got to behave yourself.”

      Bear barked, once, a succinct reminder. “Me, too,” Caleb agreed, thinking of Margaret Warren’s pink mouth and those other soft womanish things that he longed to sample but were no longer within his limited reach. “I have to behave myself, too.”

      “WHERE THE HELL DID HE GO?” Benny asked. He watched Hernando squirm and gasp. It made Benny feel better to know that the pain in his belly was also in the bellies of his men. Benny looked down to the floor, where Boyer lay in a slick of his own blood.

      Well, he did not feel much of anything anymore.

      Benny had to come all the way to New York from L.A. to deal with this Caleb Gomez problem when it should have been dealt with three days ago.

      He wanted Hernando to feel the pain.

      “Jefe, I don’t know.” Hernando shrugged and licked his upper lip, beaded with sweat despite the frigid temperature in the warehouse.

      Good. Good. Be nervous.

      Benny nodded at Ramon who held Hernando’s arms behind him, twisted high behind his back. Ramon lifted Hernando higher off his toes and Hernando screamed in pain.

      “He left New York, jefe. That’s all I