“Want to go for a drive?”

Abby did. Desperately. The intensity scared her. “Aren’t you tired of Christmas lights and holiday displays by now?”

“Are you tired of police work?”

“A little,” she confessed, startling a laugh out of both of them.

“Take a drive with me. I’ll buy you a drink.”

“You’re a terrible flirt.”

“So I’ve been told.” Riley winked, opening the passenger door of his truck for her.

“No, I mean you’re really bad at it.”

“You want me to up my game?”

Yes. No. Uncertain, she pulled the door shut. When he slid into the driver’s seat, she said, “I don’t want any games. I want you to be yourself.”

“Easy enough.” He stared at her for a moment that went on and on, and she realized she was holding her breath. “What you see is what you get, Abby.”

The Hunk Next Door

Debra Webb & Regan Black

www.millsandboon.co.uk

DEBRA WEBB, born in Alabama, wrote her first story at age nine and her first romance at thirteen. It wasn’t until she spent three years working for the military behind the Iron Curtain—and a five-year stint with NASA—that she realized her true calling. A collision course between suspense and romance was set. Since then the USA TODAY bestselling author has penned more than one hundred novels, including her internationally bestselling Colby Agency series.

REGAN BLACK, a USA TODAY bestselling author, writes award-winning, action-packed novels featuring kick-butt heroines and the sexy heroes who fall in love with them. Raised in the Midwest and California, she and her family, along with their adopted greyhound, two arrogant cats and a quirky finch, reside in the South Carolina Lowcountry where the rich blend of legend, romance and history fuels her imagination.

MILLS & BOON

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For Mark, my personal hero, who always knows when I need encouraging words, quiet space or dark chocolate.

And many, many thanks to Deb for inviting me into this wonderful new adventure! Regan

To my hero, Nonie! Though four decades have passed since we first met, you continue to be the only hero for me! Debra

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Authors

Dedication

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

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

Washington, D.C.

Friday, November 25, 6:10 p.m.

Thomas Casey, director of the elite team known as the Specialists, leaned back in his chair and watched the footage filling his computer monitor one last time. The woman on the screen stared directly at the camera, her expression one of fearlessness.

“Let this be a clear message to anyone with criminal intent,” she announced in a steely tone. “Belclare will not stand for drug activity on our docks or criminal action in our town. We will stand against you and we will seize your product, your people and your money at every opportunity. No matter your affiliation or intent, this community will not be used for illicit gain.”

The knock on his closed office door was a welcome distraction. Thomas muted the feed. “Come in.”

The beautiful face of his wife, Johara di Rossi, peered around the door. “Is it safe to come in?”

He motioned her forward. It was still a thrill to realize they were married, that he had the rest of his life to make up for lost time. No one had ever made him feel that way...no one but Jo.

Her smile wide, she stepped into the office. “If you’re sure. Your face tells a different story.”

Removing his glasses, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Am I running late?” He checked his watch, wishing he had the luxury of forgetting this video in favor of the standing dinner date with his wife. But when the President of the United States issued a directive, department heads were expected to drop everything and act immediately.

“No.” She strolled across the room and leaned over his desk to give him a kiss. “I was out this way and thought we could ride to dinner together.”

“That’s fine. I just have one last meeting to take care of first.”

A knock at the door interrupted him. Damn. One of these days very soon he intended to make personal time a priority.

Jo winked at him. “I’ll wait for you at reception.”

“Thanks.” He watched her go, grateful he’d been given a second chance with the one woman who mattered and that she understood the urgency of his work.

Ever the professional, Jo didn’t exchange a word with the man in a charcoal-gray suit who walked in as she walked out.

“Close the door,” Thomas said to his visitor. “And take a seat.”

Specialist Riley O’Brien followed both orders with a quiet “Sir.”

Thomas looked from the image of the Belclare police chief on his computer monitor to the man sitting patiently in front of him. “I appreciate your quick response.”

“Yes, sir.”

Thomas hesitated. One more sign that his decision to retire was the right one. A man in his position couldn’t afford to regret the tasks he assigned, but what he needed from O’Brien was extreme even for a Specialist.

He pushed away his own bias, pushed aside the memories of his own career and focused on O’Brien. All of his Specialists excelled in the obvious areas necessary for a successful covert operative, and each of them had a unique set of skills. It was O’Brien’s distinctive résumé that made him the perfect fit for this operation.

“O’Brien, you’ve been selected as the first agent for a new task force. Before you agree, let me assure you, you can turn this assignment down without penalty.”

The younger man settled a little deeper into the chair, his eyes intent. “Understood, sir.”

Already, they both knew he would agree. Thomas leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his desk. “I’m asking you to take on a deep-cover assignment. We will rework your background accordingly. You’ll keep your name, but your new address will be Belclare, Maryland.”

“On the Chesapeake Bay?”

“You’ve heard the latest news out of Belclare.” Thomas turned his computer monitor around for O’Brien.

“Kind of hard to miss, sir.”

Thomas concurred. “This new team is tasked with embedding agents on long-term assignments where threats are expected.”

“And the end date, sir?”

“None.” Thomas cleared his throat. “In the short term, you are assigned to keep the Belclare police chief, Abigail Jensen, alive.”

“You believe retaliation is imminent?”

“Yes. She’s done a hell of a job, but she’s made herself a target. They might come after her directly or they may attack another target in town to cause trouble first. It could be next week, or next year, or...”

“A decade down the road,” O’Brien finished for him.

“Yes.” On a sigh, Thomas leaned back into the supple leather executive chair and studied the agent on the opposite side of his desk. “Based on the intel, I feel confident you’ll see some action right away, but this is a lifetime commitment I’m asking for.”

“All right.” O’Brien shifted forward, propping his elbows on his knees, his gaze on the floor. “Any backup?”

“Not on the ground.”

O’Brien lifted his gaze to Thomas’s. “Can you be more specific?”

Fair question. “You’ll have a way to upload any relative intelligence to our analysts, but I expect you to take action as necessary to protect our nation’s interests against terrorism. We can give you anything you need. We just can’t be there in under an hour.”

O’Brien nodded his understanding.

“Belclare is too close to D.C. and other valuable targets,” Thomas went on. “We’ve heard disturbing chatter about a sleeper cell in the area.”

“What kind of cause?”

While that wasn’t a question he would typically answer, this wasn’t a typical assignment. “The drug shipment the chief intercepted was meant to fund a known terrorism splinter group gaining a foothold here in the States. Homeland Security has been monitoring Jensen’s email since the speech went viral. Some of the hate mail is too specific for an outsider. Additionally, we’ve tracked a recent shipment of stolen military detonators to Baltimore.”

Throughout his career, Thomas had led by example, never asking more of his agents than he asked of himself. Until today. Looking across the desk, he put himself in O’Brien’s shoes and wondered how he might have responded if he’d been offered a similar assignment in his early thirties. “Take your time, O’Brien. Think it through.”

Normally he wouldn’t drop something like this on an agent with limited field experience, but the key to this task force came down to the ability to blend in. To be the guy next door. Raised in an orphanage, O’Brien had been melding with his community and surroundings his whole life. During his two years as a Specialist, he’d worked behind the scenes, offering physical and technical support during various operations. An agent with less field experience meant the tech experts would have less to scrub away and an easier time rebuilding the personal history. Also in his favor for this particular operation, O’Brien had proved to be a natural when it came to managing explosives.

A few more seconds of silence ticked by and then O’Brien nodded, his gaze resolute. “Count me in, sir.”

“Good.” Especially for the police chief and her town, Thomas mused. “Belclare will be finishing preparations for their annual Christmas Village when you arrive. With your experience in construction, you’ll be able to find work easily.”

“But you want me to stay on in the area after that’s over.”

“Yes. You’ll need to make yourself at home within the community. Chief Jensen will need you, whether she knows it or not. We’ll get the necessary background ready.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Thomas stood and reached across the desk to shake the agent’s hand. “Let me be the first, and quite possibly the only person, to thank you for your service.”

Chapter One

Belclare Police Station

Wednesday, November 30, 9:50 a.m.

Riley measured the span of the double doorway and clipped the tape measure back on his tool belt. He’d picked up work with the company in charge of transforming Belclare into a Christmas extravaganza just as the director suggested. Riley considered his assignment off to a stellar start when he was sent over to decorate the police station.

“She’s in a meeting.” The young cop working the reception desk behind him was having trouble with one of Belclare’s citizens. “May I take a message?”

“She’s a young hothead is what she is,” the irritated older man replied. “The historical society has never been handcuffed in this manner. I will not stand for it. The tourists expect...”

Riley continued tacking holiday garland around the door frame as the man droned on about tourism, children and intrusive patrols.

“Safety is our utmost priority,” the young officer said. “From our chief right down to our newest recruits.”

Preach on, kid, Riley thought. Belclare would need every patrol if only half of the chatter about retaliation was true. Chief Jensen was in serious trouble. Via email, the director had kept him in the loop with the most direct threats to help Riley identify the locals who no doubt had to be involved. At the moment, this guy from the historical society was quickly gaining himself a spot at the top of the list.

Riley stepped down the ladder to gather up the next length of evergreen woven with velvet ribbon and colorful ornaments. This town pulled out all the stops for the holiday. He couldn’t see why the police station needed decorating, but the work put him close to the chief. At this stage, she didn’t have a clue that by doing an excellent job as chief, she’d not only protected her town, she’d also put them in more jeopardy.

Though he hadn’t yet seen more than a photo of the lady with the tough-as-nails reputation, Riley admired her efficiency.

The older man with the beef against the chief’s new security requirements was turning red in the face as he continued his protest.

Finished with the doorway, Riley decided a break in the tension was needed. “I’m taking a break for hot chocolate,” he said to no one particular. “Can I get anyone anything?”

The old man swiveled around, scowling at him. “Who are you?” He turned back to the young cop behind the desk. “Do you know him? He might very well be an assassin right here in our midst. Now who isn’t being careful enough?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Riley said, laughing off the accusation. “I just follow the work. Riley O’Brien.” He stuck out his hand, but the older man refused to take it.

“Martin Filmore, president of the Belclare Historical Society,” he replied, a sour look on his weathered face.

“Pleased to meet you.” Riley gave him a big smile and hooked his thumbs into his tool belt. “Can I get you anything from that shop across the street while you wait?”

Filmore rolled his eyes. “The shop is called Sadie’s. Owned by the Garrison family, the building has been a landmark in Belclare since the town was founded.”

“Good to know.” He looked past Filmore to the kid behind the desk. Riley pegged him as early twenties and fresh out of the academy. “How about you, Officer?”

“Call me Danny.” The young cop grinned, relief stamped on his face. “I’ll take a hot chocolate.”

“All right. Marshmallows or whipped cream? Cinnamon on top?”

“Sounds like you’ve been to Sadie’s before,” Danny said knowingly.

Riley shrugged into his down vest. “A man who doesn’t cook has priorities.”

The cop’s expression brightened more, making him look even younger. Riley was grateful to gain an ally in town, even a young one. Since getting hired on, he’d learned that people here were a bit edgy around strangers. The guys on the crew who’d worked previous seasons said it wasn’t normal for Belclare, but they all agreed the folks had good reason. The national news headlining drug bust marked the first serious crime in their community and they were worried that more would follow.

“I take marshmallows,” Danny said. “No cinnamon.”

“Good choice,” Riley smiled. “How about you?” he asked the older man again. “Last chance.”

“No,” Filmore snapped. “Thank you. I am capable of fetching my own coffee.”

Riley paused, one hand on the door. “The girl at the counter said they were doing some sugar-cookie thing this afternoon. What’s that about?”

Danny sighed wistfully. “I asked for the time off but didn’t get it.”

Filmore glared at the kid. “You cannot convince me the police department puts safety first when our officers are more concerned with a sugar-cookie party.”

“It’s a big deal,” Danny defended himself.

Filmore launched right into another snobby rant, complaints and insults flying like fists.

Riley was about to intervene with another dumb new-guy-in-town question when a harsh, earsplitting whistle silenced the argument.

All three men in the lobby turned to the woman in the doorway that led back to the bull pen.

The woman of the hour, Riley decided, soaking up his first live view of Police Chief Jensen. Her blond hair was pulled back from her heart-shaped face and her blue eyes were sharp as lasers as she studied each of them.

Unlike the other officers he’d seen coming and going today, she wasn’t wearing the dark blue uniform. No, she wore a deep green suit with an ivory shirt, tailored perfectly to her curves. Was it some attempt at a civilian disguise or didn’t she lead by example? He took in her slender legs and the high heels and decided he appreciated the view too much to criticize her choice or rationale. Were police chiefs supposed to wear skirts? He knew the formal uniforms for women were that way, but on an average day? He’d seen her on television, had researched the decorated career that led to her current post. None of it accurately portrayed the size of her personal presence. She might be a petite little thing, but without saying a word she had full command of the room.

Her hard gaze moved deliberately from Danny to Filmore to him. He felt it like a touch. After a moment, she settled that tough blue gaze back on Filmore.

“Mr. Filmore, what is the problem here?”

“I need a moment of your time,” he began. “The new precautions are an impediment—”

She held up a hand and he stopped talking. Riley put that skill right up there with a superpower. One fact had been immediately clear: the president of the historical society loved the sound of his own voice.

Her cool gaze landed on Riley again, raked him from head to toe and back up. “You are?”

“Not a part of this,” he said, holding up his hands. “I’m just on garland detail.” He pointed to the ladder.

She eyed the ladder and then stepped forward, holding out a hand. “Name and identification, please.”

He hoped this was a stunt for the crotchety Filmore. “Was I hanging garland too fast, ma’am?”

She glared at him.

“I checked his credentials when he came in, Chief,” Danny piped up. “He’s with the design team.”

“Your name,” she insisted.

Riley gave her his friendliest lopsided grin. “Riley O’Brien.” The grin didn’t appear to be any more effective on the police chief than when he’d used it on his teachers in private school.

“You’re Irish?”

“That’s what my parents tell me.” According to his new background courtesy of the Specialists’ technology wizards, he was first-generation American, born of Irish immigrants. As he’d memorized his manufactured past it was as if the techs had somehow tapped the childhood fantasy that carried him through his long years at the orphanage.

“What brings you to Belclare?”

“Steady work,” he replied as she returned his Maryland driver’s license and the work permit.

“And you’ll be leaving when?”

“Actually, I’m thinking I’ll stay.” He looked over to Danny. “Maybe you can point me to a place to rent?”

“The personnel don’t typically stay on after the work is done,” the chief countered before Danny could reply.

Riley shrugged. “So far, I like what I see.”

She examined his progress with the decorations. “Why aren’t you done?”

“I was taking my required break, but that got interrupted.”

“Well, we won’t waste any more of your time.”

“Thank you.” He returned his wallet to his back pocket and zipped up his vest halfway. With a wave to Danny, he headed out to Sadie’s while the chief addressed Mr. Filmore.

The sky was heavy and he smelled snow on the air. Riley didn’t need a weather forecast to tell him Belclare’s annual Christmas Village would benefit from an idyllic blanket of fluffy white snow for the opening weekend. The most profitable weekend according to the background reports. All he had to do was make sure no one ruined it for them by assassinating their beloved chief of police.

Sadie’s was quiet and the hot chocolate orders were ready sooner than he’d hoped. He needed to keep an eye on the chief, but he also wanted a few minutes of distance to gather his thoughts. Whatever he’d expected, she’d been...more. Sure, she was beautiful and she clearly had her finger on the pulse of this town. He didn’t like how that made him feel. Uneasy. Turned-on. A potential lifelong assignment out here suddenly took on a new element of risk. And a potential unexpected angle.

What if he asked her out? It would be a valid way to stay close, especially in these early days. He headed back over to the police station, planning how best to get a few details about her out of Danny. Riley knew how to ask questions without giving away his real motives.

Work, he reminded himself. That was his real motive. This wasn’t the time to get distracted.

Chapter Two

“You simply must relax the police presence on Main,” Mr. Filmore said, not for the first time.

Too bad Abby didn’t have any evidence tying him to any illegal activity. Not even a whiff of mental instability or aggression in his background.

As much as Filmore tested her patience, she refused to give in to the temptation to play favorites. All the citizens of Belclare deserved her best effort as their police chief. It was a shame she didn’t trust them equally anymore.

Despite the press conference that had gone viral thanks to national news and social media, in recent days her confident speech felt more like a publicity stunt. She knew the value of perception as well as caution. The mail and email that flooded the department and website in the days following the drug bust was mostly positive, but the threats, in an increasing number, had to be assessed and cleared or sent up to the feds, who claimed she was in trouble. They’d even suggested she employ a protective detail, but they hadn’t given her the personnel. Besides, with everyone in town watching for her next mistake, she had enough eyes on her already.

The threats monopolized her time, taking her away from other important daily endeavors, though Homeland Security would disagree with that assessment. They were sure she was dealing with a sleeper cell and their insistence, while absurd, had her looking at everyone in town with suspicion. She knew these people. Cared about them—even the hardheaded one glaring at her right now.

Of course, Martin didn’t care that she’d drawn that line with his safety in mind. Aesthetics and historical accuracy mattered more than anything else to him. Thankfully, the men and women on the police force agreed with the aggressive line she’d drawn.

“I will not relax the patrols on Main or anywhere else, Mr. Filmore.”

“But the problem was out at the docks. Isn’t it a better use of resources to keep your patrols focused in that area?”

He wanted her to save resources in the hope that he could divert any funds she didn’t spend into his budget at the next council meeting. She knew the tactic far too well. She’d taken this job despite the politics that went with it. Abby felt the tension mounting. Her shoulders were tight, her legs were ready to spring and her toes were cramping in these stupid pumps. She reminded herself she couldn’t throw a tantrum. There were better outlets than the bloodcurdling scream of frustration trapped in her throat.

A soft tap-tap-tap of a hammer and squeak of boots on the metal ladder told her O’Brien was back to work in the lobby. Talk about an outlet. Wow. Riley O’Brien would certainly qualify as an effective distraction. He was handsome and built. If only she could be sure he wasn’t also a threat in contractor’s clothing. Had she really just thought that? She gave herself a mental shake. This had to be some universal female fantasy involving a thermal shirt, faded jeans and a tool belt that sparked sudden, inexplicable lust in a stranger under present circumstances.

“Well?” Filmore demanded.

She dragged herself back to the present. Mr. Filmore deserved a thoughtful reply. “I could have the increased patrols work in their civilian clothes.”

“How is that any better?”

She knew it! It wasn’t about the official uniform presence hindering anything. His dissatisfaction was about the budget. She was done with Filmore’s whining and she had another appointment in just fifteen minutes. Abby squared her shoulders. “My officers will be out there, in uniform. End of discussion. They will not harass anyone, because I’ve given clear instructions—” based on the most recent threats that she didn’t bother explaining “—regarding what they should look for.”

Filmore made an unpleasant sound of frustration. “I suppose you expect me to be grateful.”

She smiled, remembering he was a decent guy if a bit uptight about historical accuracy. “I expect you to recognize the necessity of the situation. Together is the only way Belclare gets through this rough patch.”

His beady eyes locked on to her. “You might have thought of this ‘rough patch’ before you turned our town into a target.”

Before she could respond, he spun on his heel and marched out of her office, his spine ramrod straight.

Abby let him have the last word. Not because he deserved it, but because she refused to be late to her next appointment. She was ready for a bit of solitude in her car and the comfort of coffee and conversation with a friend who didn’t have an agenda. She shut down her computer and moved away from her desk. Adjusting the silk scarf at her throat, she slipped into her black wool overcoat.

She was debating the wisdom of ruining her look by switching from her heels to her winter boots when someone knocked on her office door. Again. She turned and the professional smile she’d forced onto her face faded at the sight of Riley O’Brien filling her doorway. “Yes?”

“Danny said I could come on back.”

She made a mental note to have a chat with Danny.

“I just wanted you to know I’d finished the lobby as well as the display out front.”

“I’m sure your boss will be thrilled with your efficiency.”

“Probably so.” He gave her a grin that reminded her of the young men she’d pulled over in the past who tried to get off with a warning. “Today’s project list filled two pages.”

“That’s...” Why did he think she cared? “Ambitious,” she finished. “If you’ll excuse me I have an appointment.”

“Oh, sure.” He stepped out of the doorway but hovered while she locked up. It was a new procedure and no reflection on her department but—

“Can’t be too careful these days,” he said, echoing her thoughts.

“Precisely.” She maneuvered around him, unable to ignore the enticing scent of evergreen and cinnamon clinging to his clothing. “The garland is scented this year? I didn’t approve that.”

“I’m not sure it’s possible to un-scent fresh pine, ma’am.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“The ma’am thing. I don’t like it much.” It made her feel old and right now the increased pressure following the drug bust was more than enough to cope with.

“Right.” He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Danny mentioned that.”

She was definitely having a talk with Danny. He needed a reminder about basic security around strangers. “Enjoy your stay in Belclare, Mr. O’Brien.”

“Call me Riley.”

Abby had no intention of calling him anything at all. While it wouldn’t be a problem under normal circumstances, this wasn’t the best time to make new friends. Except when she looked up, his expression was open and there was a humor lurking in his brown eyes. Her earlier thoughts about a stress relief outlet flooded back.

“I’d like that.”

“Pardon?” In her fantasy, she’d apparently lost the thread of the conversation. Reaching into her pocket, she gripped her car keys and strode toward the back of the station. He followed her.

“I’d like to enjoy my stay. If you’re not doing anything tonight, maybe you could show me around?”

Startled, she stopped, gathered her foolishly scattered wits. “I’m the chief of police, Mr.—” she made the correction before he could “—Riley. If you need a map or a tour guide, check with the Visitor’s Center.”

“I don’t get it.” He shook his head.

She shouldn’t ask. If she let him stall her much longer, she’d be late. “What’s the matter?”

He grinned again. “I thought we sort of, well, connected earlier.”

“You’re joking.” The idea was absurd.

“Only a little.” His eyes twinkled. “Call it instant hero worship instead of a connection. I didn’t think anything could make Mr. Filmore stop talking.”

The urge to laugh startled her and she smothered it quickly. “That was more luck than skill.” A distaste for Filmore’s voice was a connection shared by 90 percent of Belclare’s population. “I really need to go.”

“Okay.” He pushed open the door and held it for her. “If you change your mind or need anything decorated, I’ll be around.”

His slow smile and the warmth of his body as she brushed by him created a stir low in her belly. Simple lust. A tempting distraction she couldn’t risk at the moment, no matter how genuine he seemed or how efficiently he tacked up decorations. The cold air slipped around her legs and up her knee-length skirt. She was rather grateful for the assist from Mother Nature as parts of her had turned inappropriately warm during this bizarre conversation. “You’ll be around? For the month?”

“Longer, I think. I like the views,” he added, his gaze holding hers. “Better get going before you catch a chill.”

Right. If only her feet weren’t rooted to the spot.

As he pulled the door closed, she brought out her key to lock it. “Don’t worry. I’ll get it from this side. Danny told me all doors had to be locked at all times.”

She clamped her lips together. No sense hollering at the new guy for the mistakes of the rookie cop at the desk. “Thank you,” she murmured when the door latch clicked. She counted to ten, then tugged the handle, pleased when the lock held.

She hurried to her car. At least the new guy in town kept his word about the little things. Even that small assurance immediately put her in a better frame of mind as she drove out to her meeting with Belclare’s most reluctant celebrity, Deke Maynard.

Quiet, reserved and a gifted artist, Deke had become a true friend. Aside from his assistant, she was probably the only person in town he trusted. She appreciated that and after all the recent criticism, she valued the few people like Deke who supported her. Keeping to their weekly routine of coffee and conversation in his elegant home gave her hope things would soon return to normal in Belclare and made her feel like more than just the chief.

Nothing wrong with wanting to feel like a woman now and again. Didn’t have to mean anything. She thought of the handsome new stranger in town and shook her head. The dead last thing she needed was another complication in her life.

Maybe she’d better stick with just being the chief.

Chapter Three

Standing at the wall of windows on the east side of the room he’d converted into a painting studio, Deke Maynard stared out over the sleepy town of Belclare. Three years ago he’d visited during their annual Christmas Village and declared himself enamored with the charm, views and people.

He’d purchased this house and established himself as a recluse during the remodeling. Oh, he wandered out occasionally and spoke with people, but it was all he could do not to laugh in the eager faces of the ignorant citizens of Belclare as they gladly accommodated his every whim and eccentricity.

He should have asked for hazard pay when he’d agreed to create his base of operations here. The day-to-day tedium of Belclare might kill him. Yet there were certain perks, he admitted to himself as the police chief’s car turned into his long driveway.

The woman was beautiful and intelligent. If he bothered with regrets, he might have second thoughts about the things he’d set in motion. As it was, he scolded himself for entertaining the idea of keeping her as a trophy. It was a risk the operation could not afford.

“Chief Jensen has arrived, sir,” his assistant reported after a quick rap on the studio door.

“Thank you,” he said, as though he wasn’t watching her approach.

The reports from town annoyed him. She’d doubled patrols everywhere. Quite a feat considering the limits of her staff, but if nothing else, they were a determined and loyal flock of sheep.

He was reluctantly impressed that she’d managed to make the drug bust at all. That had been pure police work. There had been no leaks in the chain of information. When he’d arrived and become acquainted with her, he’d considered her more of a decorative figurehead than a real cop. He’d mistakenly assumed she’d been named police chief out of some misguided attempt to appeal to those who clamored for equality.

Looking back, he was grateful he’d been diligent about his manufactured background or today’s meeting might be taking an entirely different and unpleasant turn.

The doorbell rang and Deke smiled to himself. His assistant would manage the door and get her settled with coffee. Then Deke could make his entrance as the eccentric artist she expected.

Appreciating her strengths didn’t change the fact that Chief Jensen had become enemy number one. As the town dressed itself for their penultimate tourist season, Deke had been making his own preparations. He weighed the pros and cons of his limited choices.

In a matter of weeks, Chief Jensen had single-handedly wrecked a strategy years in the making. If he didn’t act swiftly to rectify the situation, his reputation would be ruined beyond repair.

He examined the landscape on the canvas in front of him. His raw artistic talent would never carry him as far as his other skills. Skills powerful men and organizations paid handsomely for.

Wiping the paint from his hands, he checked his appearance in the mirror at the top of the stairs before he descended to meet the police chief. This would be one of his most critical performances to date. And with all good performances, it would be better for tapping into the truth.

Her drug bust might have cut off a vital money supply line, but that didn’t change his base, physical attraction to her. It would be that truth he monopolized today for the greater good of his real career.

Pausing at the landing, he took one last deep breath before rushing the rest of the way down the stairs. “Ah, Abby, hello,” he said as he entered the sitting room just off the foyer. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting.”

Chief Jensen smiled brightly as she stood to greet him. “You could’ve rescheduled if you’re working.”

“Nonsense. Coffee with you is the highlight of my week.” That put a rosy glow in her cheeks. He stepped back to admire her. “You are looking as lovely as ever.”

“Thank you.”

He motioned for her to resume her seat, then he poured a cup of coffee for himself. “So how are the preparations going? From my vantage point it seems everything is on schedule.”

“You should come down and take a look for yourself,” she suggested, a soft smile on her lips.

He was filled once more with the urge to keep her. He deserved a reward for the nonsense he tolerated day in and day out. “Right now I’d only be in the way. I’ll come down after the crush of opening weekend is over.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” She raised the china cup to her full lips and he had to look away. “The mayor came by the station yesterday.”

“Oh?” he queried.

“Yes. He wanted me to thank you for the sketches you donated to the silent auction.”

“Of course he had you bring me the message.” Deke snorted derisively and adjusted his rolled-back sleeves, pleased to see her watching him so closely. “He knew I wouldn’t let him past the driveway after the way he spoke to you.”

“Probably,” she allowed. “Thanks again for defending me.”

“You’re a hero,” he said. “And you’re a dear friend,” he added quietly. He checked the time, wondering how far he could push her today.

“To be fair, I might have shown a little restraint at the press conference.” She held up her hand, thumb and finger close together. “Maybe a smidge less gloating.”

“That drug bust was important.” Deke leaned forward and laid a hand on her knee. It wasn’t the first time he’d touched her, but this time he wanted her to understand it was a romantic advance. “You’re a passionate woman.” Her eyes widened and he knew he had her on the hook. “Belclare is fortunate that you’re putting fear and doubt into the minds of criminals looking to abuse our resources.”

He sat back once more, his hand trailing away slowly, giving her the impression that the next move was hers. He’d long ago learned how to manipulate and guide while maintaining the illusion of free will.

She cleared her throat. “I was surprised to see you at the emergency council meeting.”

“Should I have stayed home?”

“No.” Her brow furrowed for a moment before her expression cleared. “Your defense meant the world to me. Frankly, after the mayor’s reprimand, I didn’t expect anyone to admit I existed. Your example reminds me I do have allies.”

She’s made her decision. He could sense victory on the horizon. That moment, when she was his, would be so sweet. His body responded, anticipating the pleasure of using her before he publicly humiliated and destroyed her. In a few days’ time her world would come crashing down around her. He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Then I’m even happier to have made the effort.”

“You’ve been an asset to the entire community.” Whatever she intended to say next was cut short by the hum of her phone. “Excuse me, it’s the station.”

“Of course,” he said with a nonchalance he didn’t feel. This might be the very call that signaled the beginning of his vengeance.

He refilled his coffee and waited while she took the call in the foyer. He didn’t hear much beyond her greeting before his own phone rang. The timing couldn’t be worse, but he answered anyway. “Yes?”

“This is a mistake,” the caller said with a quaking voice.

“The only mistake is questioning me.”

“I was told I had the authority—”

“Enough.” Deke checked to be sure Chief Jensen remained distracted. “When you exhibit good judgment your authority will be restored. Are you reneging on our solution?”

“N-n-no,” the voice on the other end of the line stuttered.

“Good.” Deke ended the call and tucked his phone back into his pocket.

“Deke?”

“Yes, my dear,” he said, coming to his feet. “Don’t tell me duty calls.” She’d already taken her overcoat from the hall tree.

“Something like that.” She hesitated, her bold, blue gaze roaming over his face. “Thank you for the coffee, Deke.”

He stepped forward, taking her coat to help her into it. He let his hands brush the soft skin at her nape as he adjusted the collar, smiling to himself when she trembled.

“Let’s not wait a week,” he said. “Come back for dinner tomorrow night.”

She turned, and he took great pleasure watching her face as all of her responsibilities went to war against the desire he’d carefully stoked. “I would like that,” she replied.

“But?”

Her mouth tipped down, heavy with regret. “I have a security update tomorrow night.”

“Stop by after. I’ll show you my latest seascape,” he said, hoping she’d laugh.

She did. “I know you better than that.”

“I would like you to,” he said, raising her hands to his lips.

She took a small step back, her eyes wide.

He cursed himself for pushing too hard, but he had a schedule to keep.

“I’ll call you when my meeting is done tomorrow.” She paused at the door. “Then you can let me know if I should stop by or if it’s too late.”

He knew she wasn’t referring to the time. Again, she impressed him by understanding the little nuances. If only more of the men he worked with were as astute.

As he closed the door behind her he let himself enjoy another heady rush of anticipation. As angry as he was that she’d busted a drug shipment his clients relied on, she deserved respect. When she came by after her meeting everything would be different. She would be in pain over the blow he was about to inflict on her precious Belclare and he would be the only one able to soothe her. Tomorrow night, his plans would be in full swing and his reputation preserved.

He watched from the sidelight window as she drove away. She made him angry, yes, but he liked her. He could send a message to others and still preserve the idealism that made her so unique. Silently he vowed that she wouldn’t live to know how badly she’d misjudged him.

It was the only courtesy he could afford when it came to Chief Abby Jensen.

Chapter Four

Abby left Deke’s house, almost grateful to be called to a vandalism scene at the town limit. When he touched her, she couldn’t decide how to feel about it. Maybe because he didn’t touch her often enough? She was starting to wonder if anyone would ever touch her enough.

She wasn’t sure about the answer, which only annoyed her. When they’d started these weekly coffee meetings it had been a way for her to keep tabs on the enigmatic and cloistered resident of Belclare. Now, though, the truth was far more embarrassing.

For months, she’d been fighting her attraction to the man. He was in his mid-forties, but the gray at his temples and his artistic worldview only made him more distinguished in her eyes. The flawless manners, superb taste and maturity didn’t hurt, either.

He treated her as if she was someone special and she liked the idea that at least one person saw beyond her badge and title to the woman underneath. She liked to think of herself as more than a uniform dedicated to maintaining law and order.

“So you’ve been taking a weekly coffee break for the ego boost,” she muttered, drumming her fingertips on her steering wheel. Even in solitude that sounded pretty pathetic.

Except it had felt anything but pathetic when he’d called her passionate. And that invite to dinner...was he heading where he seemed to be heading?

“You’re flattered,” she said, coaching herself right out of the potential romance of it. She hadn’t had much of a social life since taking the top post in the Belclare police department, hesitant to set herself up for idle gossip. “Get over yourself. The positive attention is nice, but you can’t afford the distraction.”

As if on cue, her cell phone launched into “I Fought the Law,” the ringtone she’d programmed for business calls. She toggled the button on her steering wheel to answer. “Chief Jensen.”

“Hi, Chief. It’s Danny.”

“I’m ten minutes away.”

“Right. It’s just...”

She waited. He cleared his throat as worst-case scenarios danced at the edge of her mind. She would not entertain those unless and until facts forced her to do so.

Her personal life might be a haze of self-doubt and bad timing, but her career had been marked with success every step of the way. Her work ethic, common sense and focus had served her well and she wasn’t about to toss those strengths out the window.

“Spit it out, Danny.”

“The responding officers want you to know the media is already on-site.”

Damn it. “Thanks for the heads-up.” She appreciated the warning. If the media was on-site, then Mayor Scott wouldn’t be far behind. Now she was doubly grateful for choosing the suit and heels today. In her opinion, her suits made her more relatable than the uniform, especially after her hard-nosed speech had become a viral internet sensation.

As she approached the scene, she cringed at the growing crowd. Good grief. If she’d just heard, how had a news crew from Baltimore arrived so quickly? Her officers were pushing people back, but that only gave the media a better overall shot for tonight’s headlines.

It looked worse in person than it had on her phone. The Welcome to Belclare display had been altered with spray paint. The phrases “Death to Chief Jensen” and “Open season on Belclare” were now blotting out points of town pride.

The threats weren’t new, but they’d been out of the public eye. This...this was bold and obvious. It was a challenge she couldn’t ignore. “Open season on Belclare” required a careful, strategic response. How had whoever was responsible for this pulled it off without getting caught?

A reporter shoved a microphone in front of her as she went to join the responding officers. “Chief, what’s your reaction to such personal threats?”

She pushed her clenched fists deeper into her coat pockets. “The childish vandal responsible for this negative display will be found and dealt with.”

“Are there any security cameras out here that might have caught the vandal?”

Abby kept walking, refusing to acknowledge the silly question. There was a Christmas tree lot just around the next bend and nothing but trees until the sign. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak with my officers.” She ducked under the tape the responding officers had used to block the immediate area.

Reporters shouted at her back.

“Should the citizens of Belclare be taking more defensive action?”

“Will you shut down the city?”

“Will the Christmas Village be canceled?”

She couldn’t let that one go. She turned, ready to answer when the mayor’s voice rang out through the crisp winter air.

“This small attempt to interrupt our annual traditions is hardly cause for alarm.”

Abby couldn’t believe he was taking her side. About time, she thought.

“Chief Jensen’s—” he hesitated for three seconds “—enthusiasm has obviously created a few unpleasant ripples, but Belclare is strong and united, and determined to make this the best holiday season ever. We look forward to seeing all of you this weekend.”

Abby found herself fighting a sudden urge to silence Mayor Scott. She banished the compulsion. He was better in the media spotlight and, whether or not he believed her or agreed with her methods, ultimately they were working toward the same goal: a safe community and a safe holiday event.

She let him ramble on giving the proper sound bites that likely included a subtle invitation for other criminal justice professionals to apply for her job.

“Do we have anything?” Abby ignored her chilled feet as she listened to her officers explain what they’d found. Or rather what they hadn’t found.

“One of the vendors coming in for the weekend reported it,” said Officer Gadsden.

“Did you get a statement?”

“We did, so it helps set a time frame for the vandals.”

She stepped closer, pressed her finger to a dripping streak of paint. “Still tacky. Someone had fun during their lunch hour.” She looked to the ground. “Any hope for shoe prints?”

“No.” Officer Gadsden knelt down and Abby followed suit. “The snow’s been trampled by more than one person. Right back to the road.”

“Great.” Abby wanted to clean this up herself, right this minute. “See what you can get off any traffic cameras between here and Baltimore. And ask around Sadie’s and other restaurants. Maybe the vandals came into town for lunch.”

“You got it.”

She covered her mouth with her hand, unwilling to risk anyone in the media reading her lips. “As you take pictures, get the bystanders.” It wasn’t unusual for vandals of this sort to hang around to watch the cops scramble for answers.

“Chief Jensen!”

She turned slowly, unable to ignore the mayor’s shout. “Yes?” It was a small measure of relief that he remained on the other side of the tape. For her, the shock was seeing him alone. Victor Scott loved his entourage, whether it was his hired staff or an impromptu gathering of media professionals.

He waved her closer and she did her best to hide her distaste at the arrogant summons. Mayor Scott enjoyed the political posturing, but playing along was her least favorite, necessary part of the job. She preferred a straightforward exchange. Less chance for mixed signals or missed goals that way.

“How long until you have this cleaned up?” he demanded with his practiced concerned frown in place.

“The sign or the crime?”

“You can’t manage both?”

“Repairing the sign isn’t exactly police responsibility,” she said, clinging to her last shred of composure. “As for the vandal—” she glanced back at the damage “—we believe there was more than one person involved. There are databases with graffiti signatures and tags—”

“This criminal signed his work?” the mayor exclaimed too loudly.

“We’re not sure yet. That’s part of the problem. Or the solution,” she added, just to give him something else to focus on. “As for the sign itself, once we have our pictures it can be repainted and repaired right away.”

“No! Nooo!”

Abby and the mayor swiveled toward the pitiful wail of Mr. Filmore. When Mayor Scott rolled his eyes, she realized they shared a mutual frustration with the historical society president. It was strangely affirming.

“What now, Filmore?” With a hand on Filmore’s shoulder, the mayor stopped him from barreling into the crime scene.

“You can’t just paint that sign.”

“We can’t just leave it,” the mayor shot back.

Abby glanced at her officers, grateful they were snapping pictures of everything and everyone as she’d asked and not laughing aloud at the ridiculous debate.

“This gateway to Belclare has been meticulously maintained for over one hundred and eighty years. It must be cleaned, not merely slapped at with another coat of paint.”

The mayor loomed over the skinny frame of Filmore. “I am not allowing those threats to remain visible any longer than necessary. Get a team out here if you must but get it handled immediately.”

For once, Abby was grateful for Filmore’s presence. The man’s shrill insistence about preservation diverted the mayor’s attention from her.

She used the time and space to take her own inventory of faces in the crowd. She recognized reporters and television station logos. More than a few people from town had followed the noise and commotion to come take a look. She felt the collective irritation from those business owners whose praise for her drug bust quickly turned to criticism after her speech garnered national attention.

She returned to her officers. “Keep the area secure. Do we have anything to cover it in the short term?”

“I have a tarp in my car.”

She nodded. “It’s a start.” Pointing to the camera Gadsden was using, she asked, “Is anyone standing out to you?”

He shook his head. “No one seems too proud of themselves. Except the mayor.”

She chuckled. “I’m sure he has photo evidence of his whereabouts for the entire morning.”

“Our chances of catching the vandals and making an arrest are pretty slim.”

“All we can do is our best.” She pulled her car keys from her pocket. “I’ll find someone to babysit the sign.” Her department was stretched too thin already, but she refused to allow a repeat performance.

“We could put up a couple of motion-activated cameras,” Gadsden offered.

“With this circus watching?” She shook her head. “I like the idea but the vandals would only come back and hit those first.” She scanned the faces on the other side of the road again. It was a valid idea, if they could find a window when no one else was around. Too late to contain the media, she knew Belclare residents would be upset with her all over again. “Let’s talk about it at the station when we have more than the nothing we have now.”

Gadsden agreed and Abby headed back to her car, giving appropriate sound bites to the media on the way. She wanted the quiet of her office and some heat for her freezing feet. Unfortunately, she was blocked in by a dark blue pickup truck she didn’t recognize.

It had to belong to one of the temporary workers or vendors. She stifled the urge to look back at the death threat on the sign. She would not let some silly stunt likely staged by a teenager with too much idle time and a bad sense of humor get under her skin. Paranoia was neither professional nor helpful.

“Excuse me, Chief Jensen.”

A car door slammed with a bang and, despite her best effort, her body jerked, braced for an attack.

“Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Abby surveyed the tall stranger who seemed determined to show up in her life today. And he had startled her. Denying it would be foolish. “No problem. Mr. O’Brien, isn’t it?”

“That would be my father,” he said with a softer smile that did strange things to her pulse. “I’m just Riley, remember?” He leaned against the pickup’s door. “I heard the breaking news on the way out.” His brown eyes were taking in the ugly scene behind her. “Any leads?”

She tucked her hands back into her pockets. “I could have sworn you told me you had steady work. Why are you insinuating yourself into mine?”

“I’ll take that as a no. And I’d be working if my next job wasn’t taped off.”

She gave in and rubbed at the tension in her neck. Hadn’t there been a time when Belclare folks had just done their own thing without professional design teams and small armies of temporary workers? She missed those days. Of course, with the way the Christmas Village had grown it was impossible to set up without help. While everyone liked how December brought a wealth of tourists into town, the police department maintained a higher alert for petty crimes.

Since she’d taken over, the worst they’d dealt with had been a string of burglaries and one car theft. The burglaries had been teenagers looking for trouble and all of the stolen items had been recovered and returned. The car theft had been a pair of temporary workers operating under the influence of alcohol and stupidity.

Yeah, those were the days.

This year, she had legitimate concerns about how to protect Belclare effectively. There wasn’t enough time or manpower to run background checks on every new person in town. Her meetings with business owners hadn’t gone well, most of them siding with the mayor that the additional threats were her problem to solve since she’d brought it on them.

At some point in Belclare’s past, the police chief would have been hailed as a hero for that bust for more than a few hours. But despite the public resentment and doubt, she understood the financial importance of the upcoming days and she was doing her best to make sure it all came together without any further tragedy.

The ugly vandalism didn’t bode well.

“Until Mr. Filmore decides how to proceed with the cleanup, this area is off-limits.”

“I’ll let my boss know.” He pulled a cell phone out of the pocket of his dark red vest.

She frowned. “Don’t you own a real coat?”

“Sure.” He gave her a strange look. “It gets in the way when I’m working.”

“I see.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t die of frostbite on you.”

Based on the way her body reacted to him, frostbite wasn’t a concern for her, either, if he was nearby. She’d nearly forgotten about her freezing feet during this unexpected conversation. She glared back at the sign. “No one is going to die of anything around here.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said, his attention on his phone.

“Could you move your truck, please? I have things to do and you’re blocking me in.”

“Sure.” With the phone to his ear, he settled into the driver’s seat. His voice was a low rumble as he explained the problem to his boss.

Then the engine masked his conversation as he rolled out of the way, giving her a small wave.

In her own car, she cranked up the heat and hit shuffle on her iPod, letting the blast of AC/DC fill the car on her way through town. She needed the loud, demanding beat to blot out her thoughts. There was no point in doubting her course of action. She wouldn’t take back the words even if she could. As her thoughts cycled, she spotted Riley’s truck about a block behind her.

He wasn’t following her. That would be paranoid, fearful thinking and she wouldn’t give in to it. She wouldn’t sink to the level that gave some rumored local terrorists the advantage. He was headed for one of the warehouses down by the docks and this was the most direct route through town. But he turned when she did, heading north away from Main Street, directly opposite the route to the docks.

She practiced it in her mind, running through her defensive options as he continued to tail her. Preparation wasn’t paranoia, she assured herself.

Abby nearly cracked when he was practically on her bumper as she turned onto her street. She debated driving right by her house, but decided her address was no secret and it was time to make a stand. With that thought echoing in her brain, she pulled into her driveway.

But Riley didn’t pull in behind her; he pulled into the driveway right beside hers. In fact, the way the two homes were situated, they were now parked side by side.

What the hell? All concept of her attraction to the man vanished instantly. He was like a bad penny turning up everywhere today. The house next door had been vacant for several weeks, since Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton had gone to Florida to visit their grandchildren. He had no business being on her street or in their driveway.

She yanked her purse from the passenger seat and got out of the car. “What do you think you’re doing, Mr. O’Brien?”

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