The Undercover Affair

  To choose between justice and love

  There’s a burglar on the loose in the beach town of Wallis Point, and undercover detective Lyndsay Fairfax is pursuing every lead. Even the one that takes her straight to the brother of handsome marine veteran John Reilly. John, whose lively restaurant is the heart of the town, is the first person Lyndsay has connected with since her husband’s death. But she can’t tell him who she really is, and she can’t let his brother slide if he’s the culprit. Lyndsay has to figure out how to do the right thing without also losing the man who is so right for her...

  “It would’ve been nice to jet you off to someplace warm.”

  “I like that no one can see us,” Lyndsay murmured. “We’re in our own world out here, alone.”

  “I can’t imagine not living near the ocean,” John replied.

  She drew in a breath. “There it is!”

  A tiny, faint ray of light appeared on the eastern horizon. And while she held her breath, it grew larger and larger. She could see John clearly in the early-morning light. He had a wide smile on his face.

  “Is it always this calm?” she whispered.

  “Never.” His voice was low. “This is my first time, at least.”

  She turned her chin and caught his gaze directly. For a moment they shared a look, and then with a low groan, he leaned into her.

  “I can’t fight it anymore...”

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome to a new Wallis Point, New Hampshire, story, set in the fictional seaside town first described in The Long Way Home and The Secret Between Them.

  Lyndsay Fairfax is an undercover police officer sent to investigate a series of high-end thefts. Posing as an interior designer working in a congressman’s beach home, she befriends a group of tradesmen and becomes part of their community in hopes of tracking information about the notorious burglary ring.

  But along the way, Lyndsay falls in love with John Reilly, a returning marine veteran and protective leader who’s taken responsibility for his family’s restaurant and the welfare of his troubled younger brother.

  Lyndsay must keep her cover and follow the evidence wherever it leads her, even if it points to a suspect that will surely bring her personal heartbreak.

  Thanks for reading Lyndsay’s story! I hope you enjoy the romance.

  All the best,

  Cathryn Parry

  CATHRYN

  PARRY

  The Undercover Affair

  Cathryn Parry is the author of nine Harlequin Superromances. Her books have received such honors as the Booksellers’ Best Award, the Cataromance Reviewers’ Choice Award and several Readers’ Choice Award nominations. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband and their seventeen-year-old cat, Otis. Please see her website at www.cathrynparry.com for information about upcoming releases or to sign up for her reader newsletter.

  Books by Cathryn Parry

  HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

  Something to Prove

  The Long Way Home

  Out of His League

  The Sweetest Hours

  Scotland for Christmas

  Secret Garden

  The Secret Between Them

  The Good Mom

  Other titles by this author available in ebook format.

  Get rewarded every time you buy a Harlequin ebook!

  Click here to Join Harlequin My Rewards

  http://www.harlequin.com/myrewards.html?mt=loyalty&cmpid=EBOOBPBPA201602010002

  For my dad, James Parry.

  Thanks for always being there for us.

  Contents

  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

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  EXCERPT FROM LAST CHANCE AT THE SOMEDAY CAFÉ BY ANGEL SMITS

  CHAPTER ONE

  “OH-OH-SIX, M-S-T. A white box truck. That’s the tag and vehicle description for the crew of movers. They gave their names as—”

  A shadow fell across the decoy catalog where Lyndsay Fairfax had scribbled her morning’s surveillance notes. Instinctively, she covered the jottings as she lifted her head.

  Outside her car window, a man’s gaze met hers—the bartender from the Seaside Bar and Grill, whose parking lot she was currently sitting in. Her “police brain” automatically noted the details: six feet tall, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. He had brown hair with piercing gray-blue eyes.

  She hadn’t expected anyone to sneak up on her like that. There was no exit on this side of the parking lot, which meant he must have come from the house behind the restaurant.

  He stared, his attention lingering on her face. She’d noticed him during the past week while she ate lunch at the Seaside with the group of home contractors from the wealthy cul-de-sac she’d infiltrated. But he wasn’t the object of her investigation in Wallis Point, New Hampshire, and so she’d never endeavored to meet him. Her police task force hadn’t mentioned investigating him or the Seaside Bar and Grill.

  With her phone still pressed to her ear, Lyndsay gave him the sweet, friendly “Lyn Francis” smile that her undercover alter ego had been using all week while she passed as an interior designer for Mrs. Kitty MacLaine and her congressman husband.

  Unlike the contractors in the small community that she’d been monitoring, this man didn’t smile back at her. And something in his wary eyes made her pause.

  His frown deepened as he moved past her vehicle.

  Chewing her lip, she watched him, following his progress down the restaurant’s small, gravel parking lot to a commercial van labeled Seacoast Beer Distributors idling in the far spot. The bartender stood outside the passenger door, hand on his hip, as he rapped on the window, then initiated what appeared to be a not-so-friendly conversation with a younger man, also on his mobile phone.

  She blew out a breath. Of course—the bartender was preoccupied with the state of his establishment’s beer lines.

  “Lyn, are you there?” her partner’s gravelly voice asked over the phone.

  “I’m here,” she said, relaxing into her seat again.

  “What’s going on?”

  “A local passed by the car. He’s gone now.”

  “Be careful. The most important thing is to keep your cover.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Pete, her partner during the past week, was a grizzled old-timer with years of experience under his belt, and though she was an experienced state police officer as well, this was her first time undercover. Pete seemed protective of her for it, and she didn’t mind. She got to do the interesting work, gathering and relaying the information to him, while he sat on the other side of her phone calls.

  She craved the work. She needed the work.

  “Okay,” she said, “moving on, the two guys who go with the white box truck are the McAuliffe brothers, James and Brian. James goes by Jimmie. Both are about five-ten. Midtwenties. Live locally. The truck has no identifying company name or logo, and I’m given to understand that they’re freelancers who work for themselves by word of mouth.”<
br />
  “Got it.” Pete’s voice was a murmur, as if he was concentrating because he was typing the information.

  “That’s all for today. I hope this is helping the burglary investigation,” she said wistfully, keeping her eye on the bartender, his back still to her. She was leaving this afternoon. She was going to miss the assignment, as well as her lunches at the Seaside with the contractor teams.

  “Yeah, it’s helping. So far we’ve been ruling people out as suspects. We’ll find out more about the investigation tomorrow.”

  “Right.” Tomorrow was the day the burglary task force was meeting at headquarters, up in Concord. She hoped to be part of phase two, because to be part of the team that brought down the ring of thieves preying on wealthy homes along the seacoast was what she most wanted.

  The bartender glanced her way, and it wasn’t a friendly look. He was suspicious of her still. And that could jeopardize things...

  On a whim, she said, “Pete, could you please look up and tell me who lives at 118 Seaside Drive?” That was the home—connected to the Seaside Bar and Grill by a covered walkway—the bartender had come from.

  “Affirmative. There’s a Margaret Reilly, age sixty. And a Patrick Reilly, age nineteen.”

  Definitely not the bartender. He looked to be in his thirties. She thought she’d heard one of the contractors calling him John, but she wasn’t positive.

  “Lyn?”

  “Please check if Margaret Reilly owns the Seaside,” she said. There was a Margie who worked in the kitchen. Until now Lyndsay hadn’t connected that Margie might live right next door.

  “Hold on, let me check...affirmative, as well. What’s going on?”

  She wondered if John could be Margie’s son. He would be the right age. “Pete, could you check if there’s an address for a John Reilly in Wallis Point? Age thirty-something.” It was just a whim, but she wanted to cover her bases.

  “One minute.” There was a short pause. “Affirmative again—22 Cove Road.”

  That was about two miles away, closer to the cul-de-sac where she worked. Lyndsay had memorized the Wallis Point street maps prior to arriving at her assignment.

  She didn’t know what, if anything, this information told her. Bartender John, possibly John Reilly, was still standing by the beer truck, and every few minutes he stared toward her. She needed to find out if he was, in fact, John Reilly, Margie’s son.

  “Lyn, is there something I should know?”

  “Yes. Please add Margaret and Patrick Reilly to the list for background checks. It seems everyone in the area stops by this place at one time or another. Hold off on John Reilly for now, though.” She would verify John’s real name in a few minutes, but Pete could get started. “I know we initially didn’t have the owners of the Seaside Bar and Grill on our surveillance list, but I think it’s prudent to check them out.”

  “Will do.”

  She stretched her shoulders. “Okay, then. I’ve passed you information on everyone who has visited or is affiliated with the congressman’s neighborhood during the past four days. Is there anything else you need from me before I wrap it up here and head back north tonight?”

  “Yeah, we need one more thing. No, make that two.”

  “Great.” She could multitask. And she liked assignments. “What do you have?”

  “I need you to get into the Goldrick house this afternoon.” That was the vacation home on the lot directly beside the MacLaines’. “You’re specifically looking for any artwork on the walls. Paintings that look as if they might be worth something. We’re not seeing anything on the insurance company reports, but we want to make sure.”

  Her heart sped up. Finally, police work that was more directly connected to the burglaries that Pete and other members of the task force were investigating. “No problem. Does this mean I’ll be continuing with phase two of the task force?”

  “One step at a time, Lyn.”

  “I was invited up to Concord for the meeting tomorrow,” she said cheerfully.

  Pete laughed. “Because I recommended you. You’re doing great work so far.”

  He hadn’t said what her future was to be, one way or the other. That was up to Commander Harris, she supposed.

  She wasn’t going to give them any reason not to let her continue.

  “I’ll head inside to lunch, and then get to it,” she said. “What was the second objective? You said I have two.”

  “The second objective is the same as always. Keep your cover, Lyn.”

  “Why are you telling me this again?”

  “Because I want to stress to you that keeping your cover is your first, last and major objective, always. Never forget it.”

  “Right,” she said cheerfully again. “I’m an interior decorator currently contracted by DesignSea. This week, I’m working on a proposal for Congressman MacLaine and his wife.”

  “You’re so subtle,” Pete said dryly.

  She laughed because his sarcasm was unfounded. She was subtle. She felt like a duck in water doing this kind of work, and that was a great feeling.

  Except where he was concerned. She darted a glance toward John, the bartender, as she hung up with Pete. Staring at her, yet again. She was giving herself a third agenda item for this lunch break, and that was to find out his full name and his particulars so Pete could run his background check.

  Exiting from the car, she grabbed her purse, which carried her concealed Glock, then headed inside the Seaside Bar and Grill. The air smelled fresh and briny, and the wind blew through the opening of her jacket, making her shiver. She opened the door to the eatery, smelling something delicious, like freshly baked bread.

  She checked her watch: 11:46. The kitchen was open but still a bit early for Andy Hannaman’s crew, the group who were working on the Goldrick home. They didn’t habitually leave the oceanfront cul-de-sac until noon, then it was a six-minute drive to their lunch spot.

  Taking a seat in the back corner, Lyndsay strategically chose her favorite position where she had a view of the parking lot and road, plus a view to the entrance as well as the kitchen entry, with the long wooden bar beside it.

  She waited. John would be inside soon, as well as Andy. Both her objectives could be achieved together. She could chat with the crews and organically, without suspicion, gain an invitation to look at the Goldrick renovation, as well as unobtrusively ask for John-the-bartender’s particulars.

  In the meantime, Millie, the waitress who stood only as high as Lyndsay’s shoulders, came and took her sandwich order.

  “I’d like the BLT, please.” Another strategic decision, designed to initiate a conversation with Andy. Millie nodded at her, then scuttled off. The little waitress didn’t speak much—she just did her job.

  For the moment, Lyndsay was alone with her thoughts. Nothing to do but sit at the scarred table and gaze over the parking lot and street to the dunes beyond, with a sliver of dark blue ocean in the distance. The beach at Wallis Point reminded her of summer vacation from her youth. Also of romantic vacations from her marriage, but she didn’t like to think those thoughts.

  Millie brought her a glass of iced tea, which she set beside Lyndsay’s department-issued mobile phone on the table. “Thank you, Millie.”

  She received a brief nod and a smile in reply. Followed by the retreat of quick paces from soft-soled sneakers.

  Concentrate. Watch for Andy Hannaman’s crew.

  She checked her perimeter. Cocked an ear for the sound of a vehicle pulling into the gravel lot.

  Instead, the door opened, and John the bartender walked inside, followed by the young man from the beer truck. The young man wore a uniform shirt with a logo, and his body language indicated that he was reluctant to follow John. The two men headed behind the bar, and she observed as John explained in a low but authoritative murmur w
hat he needed the young man to fix. Evidently, there was a problem with the beer line.

  Distracted from her purpose, she gave them her full attention. John’s head was bent. He had a short haircut, like a lot of the police officers she worked with. But it wasn’t just his looks that drew her notice. There was something to the way he moved. The subtle cock of his hip, the deliberate, staccato punch of his fingers tapping against his forearm as he concentrated. His mannerisms showed he was impatient. Alert. Coiled.

  He turned, and for a split second, she caught him studying her, too. Smiling as if she was nothing more than a red-blooded woman checking out an interesting, red-blooded man, she gazed directly at him.

  Her line of sight was broken by Millie, bringing out her bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich. It smelled delicious, and Lyndsay’s stomach rumbled, craving food, so she nonchalantly turned her attention to that and dug in.

  She wasn’t really drawn to John, she told herself. She’d been wary of romantic relationships with men ever since Jason had passed and she’d been widowed. Since then, she’d tried to live on, tried to press forward and be cheerful and find something meaningful to do.

  Her solace had been to keep busy, with work, work-related training classes, sessions at the gun range. Anything not to be alone with her thoughts...

  Then this opportunity had arisen—to work undercover, a chance at maybe later being promoted to a detective. Her dad had been so thrilled to hear about it. She’d thought maybe...maybe her life could be more fulfilled if this professional assignment worked out and she became a full-time detective. She would get to work on bigger cases, help more people than by being a police officer in a squad car. It would also be a job where she could actually wear street clothing and feel more like her long-ago, pre-widowhood self.

  She glanced down to where her duty belt usually dug into her hips. Not today. Today she wore a dress she’d chosen because she liked it, with brown tights underneath and ankle boots, plus a short leather jacket that fit her undercover status.

  She glanced at John.