Texan Undercover (Romantic Suspense) (3 page)

"Day after tomorrow."

"Hey, what's wrong? You don't sound too happy
about it."

"I'm fine." Claire turned to her
computer.

"Oh my gosh! You're attracted to him."
Natalie plopped down across from her. "Hallelujah, I was beginning
to think that loser ex-husband of yours had ruined you for
good."

Claire didn't say anything.

"It's all right, Claire. To be attracted, I
mean. In fact, it can be downright delicious."

"Nat, I'm not like you. My marriage taught me
things. Like, I don't want to be attracted to a man. The few times
I've gone out--I don't know, I just freeze up." Except with Dillon.
He'd thawed something inside.

"Maybe this Dillon guy is just what you need
to get over Bennett."

"I
am
over Bennett. It's been five
years since the divorce. I'm over Bennett. I'm over men,
period."

"Then you don't mind if I take a crack at Mr.
Macho?"

"Be my guest." Another lie. Claire could deny
the attraction. She could tell herself she didn't want Dillon
Anderson until she was blue in the face. But still, it would be a
lie. Truth was, he scared her. He scared her a lot.

Dillon rapped softly on the back door of e*Claire's at
twelve-thirty on the dot. He waited about half a minute before
Claire unlocked the dead bolt and let him in.

"Is everyone gone?" He slipped past her into
the kitchen. Stainless steel counters and industrial-sized stoves
gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Smells from the day's baking
hung in the air.

"The coast is clear," she said, bolting the
door again. "This way." Without looking at him, Claire led Dillon
toward a set of double doors and out of the kitchen.

He followed her to the main room of the cafe,
admiring the view she presented. Her dark green blouse draped
across slender shoulders and the short black skirt hugged her hips
and showed her long legs to advantage. Damn, she looked good.
Smelled good, too.

They walked around the counter where drinks
and food were sold and stopped in the middle of the cafe. The
lights were low, the blinds closed. Claire finally turned to face
him.

"Nice," Dillon said, sliding one more glance
over her before tearing his eyes away.
Focus on the job,
Anderson. Remember the job.
He looked around the cafe.

Overstuffed lounge chairs and glass-topped
tables offered customers a place to sit and relax. A long narrow
bar, complete with stools and computers, divided the room. Six pine
tables lined the wall on the other side. Perfect for groups to
enjoy coffee and play games.

The room had a comfortable feel to it. The
black leather chairs, gray carpet and maroon tile all lent
themselves to the overall effect. Wrought-iron light fixtures hung
from the ceiling. Subtle maroons and grays papered the walls.

"This is nice," Dillon said again, his eyes
zeroing in on Claire.

"Thank you." She walked to the bar. "I guess
you can start here. What exactly are you going to do?"

Dillon parked his briefcase on a stool and
opened it. "Ever seen one of these?" He held out a small
cylindrical object.

Claire took it. "Is this what I think it
is?"

"Maybe. Probably. What do you think it
is?"

"A keystroke recorder," she said. "I've read
about them, but never seen one."

"Bingo. With luck, this baby's going to help
expose the hacker for us. It records every stroke, doesn't need
software, stores URLs--it's a nifty little gadget." He didn't tell
her about the backup program he would install on the hard drives
later.

Claire frowned. "How does it interface with
the system?"

"It doesn't, runs totally in the background."
He moved to the computer at the end of the bar.

"Is it legal? What about the Fourth
Amendment?" She handed the recorder back to him.

Dillon felt the brush of her fingers when she
placed the device in his palm. He ignored the flash of heat and
started to work. "E*Claire's is a public facility. Your customers
can't expect their privacy to be protected. Everything's fair game
as long as you know what's going on." He unplugged the keyboard
from the first computer and attached the recorder, then plugged the
cable back in. He grabbed another device and went to work on the
next computer.

"You're going to put one of those on every
computer in the cafe?" Claire leaned on the bar and supported her
chin in her hands.

"Every single one of them."

"Even the one in my office?"

Dillon looked up from the cable he'd just
disconnected. "Is that a problem?"

She hesitated. "Of course not. I guess I
thought only the computers out here would be under
surveillance."

"You thought wrong. All of them need to be
wired." Dillon bent down again, plugged the cable back in and moved
to the next machine. "Hand me one, will you?" He extended his hand.
And waited.

"Are you always this rude?" Claire's soft
seductive voice wrapped around him. Strangled him.

Damn. Get a grip on your wayward body,
Anderson.

He looked up again. She tilted her head and
gazed at him. Question and hurt swam in her beautiful brown eyes.
She was probably wondering what the hell was the problem.

She was the problem. Shouldn't be, but
was.

"Look, it's late," Dillon said. "I want to
get this done. Are you going to help or not?"

Claire didn't say anything, only nodded and
handed him the device, careful not to touch him again.

He wired the machine and moved to the next.
Claire followed him down the row of computers, watched over his
shoulder, kept him supplied with the gadgets and kept conversation
to a minimum. The glow from the monitors and the quiet hum of the
computers created a sense of intimacy. With Claire so close and
smelling so good, Dillon struggled to keep his mind on the job.

When the last computer was hooked up, he
stood and stretched. He fisted his hands to keep from grabbing
Claire and doing something asinine. Like kissing her.
Remember
the job
.

He walked back to the bar and closed his
briefcase with a snap. "Almost done. After I wire your machine, we
can close up shop." When she didn't reply, he glanced her way. Then
wished he hadn't.

Claire took a deep breath. Her breasts rose
with the movement, strained against the silky fabric of her blouse.
Dillon's body hardened in response. Man, what was it about this
woman?

"Mine's not the only one left." She watched
him. Waited. For what?

"Okay, no problem. How many more?" He opened
the briefcase again. He had plenty of keystroke recorders.

Claire crossed her arms. "Look, I'm not
comfortable with this whole setup. It's one thing to wire the
computers out here. Mine, too. But wiring the ones in Natalie's and
Richard's offices without their knowledge . . . How can that not be
an invasion of privacy? I mean, they haven't done anything
wrong."

"How can you be sure?" he asked.

"You're kidding, right?"

Dillon shrugged. "Everyone's a suspect in my
book."

"Whatever happened to 'Innocent, until proven
guilty'?"

"I'm not in law enforcement," he said. "That
doesn't apply to me. I keep an open mind to all possibilities. I
catch the bad guys. The cops or Feds take it from there."

"So, you think I'm a suspect?" She sounded
hurt.

He didn't say anything. He couldn't trust
anyone. Not her. Especially her.

"Thanks for your vote of confidence," Claire
said. "You think there's a possibility I could be the hacker?"

"No I don't, but you can't be certain your
computer hasn't been used. You aren't in your office 24/7, are
you?"

"Customers aren't allowed in the back."

Dillon removed two more gadgets from his
briefcase, then closed it again. "This guy, the hacker, has
neo-Luddite tendencies. He's breaking the law. Sneaking into your
office wouldn't matter to him. He's trying to cover his
tracks."

"What do you mean by neo-Luddite
tendencies?"

"Rejection of technology," Dillon said.
"These people are opposed to technology getting out of control or
into the hands of the wrong people. They usually aren't violent,
like I said before. But some of them are sidestepping the law.
Protesting and interfering by devious means."

"Like your hacker?"

"You got it. Is the interrogation over now?
Are you through with your questions? I need to finish up and call
it a night." He needed to get away from the intimate surroundings.
Away from Claire Maxwell.

Ten minutes later, the devices were installed
and ready to go. Dillon snagged his briefcase from Claire's desk.
"That should do it."

Claire leaned against the doorframe of her
office and stifled a yawn. "I'm sorry. It's been a long day."

Dillon closed the distance between them. God,
she smelled fresh and sweet. He wanted to bury his nose in her
hair. He wanted to bury himself inside her. His brain told him to
leave; his body blocked the message. "What's a guy gotta do to get
a cup of coffee around here?" He angled closer. Those brown eyes
dilated and her breath hitched.

She pushed off the doorframe and walked past
him. "Come back during business hours and don't act so rude."

"Right. I'm out of here." He knew a brush off
when he heard one. And could he really blame her? He
had
been rude and abrupt with her.

Claire opened the back door. Dillon stopped
short. Even so, her rejection made him angry. Angry at her. Angry
at himself. He knew better than to play with little rich girls.
Dillon's body vetoed what his brain was telling him. He moved
forward and invaded her space. He wanted to intimidate her. Wanted
to haul her against him and kiss the living daylights out of her.
That made him even angrier.

"Where's your car?" he growled.

She was staring at his mouth. All the blood
in his body plunged south. He felt like one of those cartoon
characters when the anvil flattened them to the ground.

"My car?" Claire took a step backward.

Dillon decided to let her. "It's almost two
o'clock. Lock up and I'll walk you to your car."

"That's really not necessary, Mr.
Anderson."

"Dillon. The name's Dillon. Or Andrews. You
call me Mr. Anderson like that and you blow my cover. Am I making
myself clear on this?"

Claire lifted her chin. "Perfectly. Good
night." She pushed him out into the darkness and slammed the door
in his face. The bolt slid into place.

Dillon blinked and shook his head. Well,
damn. That maneuver had certainly backfired, hadn't it?

****

Claire marched to her office to get her
purse. Mr. Dillon Anderson, or Dillon Andrews, or whatever his
name--the man was too potent for her piece of mind. This was
definitely not a good time for her hormones to kick in. Although
she was glad to know she could feel attraction for a man. At least
Bennett hadn't ruined that, too.

But Claire wasn't ready to pursue a
relationship yet. Maybe not ever again. For thirty-two years, she
had flunked out in the men department. In high school. In college.
In marriage
.

So why was a certain private eye tempting her
to test the waters again? Making her want something she wasn't
ready for?

Claire grabbed her purse and coat and left
her office. She flipped off lights on the way to the back door.

Sure the man was hot, but he was also rude.
Was he that way with everyone? And why should she care?

Good grief. She'd avoided men since her
divorce because there was no place for a relationship to go. She
didn't believe in happily ever after. At least, not for herself.
Not anymore. Bennett had hurt her. No way would she open up and
become vulnerable. She would never let a man have that kind of
power over her again.

Claire needed to get away from Dillon and
temptation. She'd leave town and see about hiring that other tech.
The perfect excuse to put some distance between her and the
handsome private eye.

Damn, she'd been all but drooling as she
watched the man hook up his little gadgets to her machines,
admiring the muscles beneath his shirt when he bent and stooped
over the computers. She couldn't help wondering what it would feel
like with Dillon bent over her.

Don't go there, Claire.
Sighing, she
switched off the last light. Dillon probably thought she was an
idiot, anyway. Why couldn't she keep his names straight? She was
smart, damn it. She had two degrees from Drexel. One in computer
science, the other in business administration. She should be able
to remember his cover.

After locking the back door, Claire made her
way across the parking lot. Her stomach tightened when she saw the
shadow of a man leaning against her car. The panic subsided when
she recognized Dillon.

Drat the man.

"What do you think you're doing?" she asked.
"Is this some Neanderthal kind of thing? You don't think I'm
capable of getting myself home safely? I've managed fine so far,
thank you very much."

"You're not from Texas, are you?" He pushed
away from the car.

"No, I'm not." The question threw her. "What
does that have to do with anything?"

"There's a Southern Code of Honor," Dillon
said. "Or maybe it's my code of honor. Or hell, maybe it is a
Neanderthal kind of thing. Never mind. Get in the damn car, lock
the doors and get yourself home."

Claire watched him turn on his heels and
stalk away. He climbed into his pickup, but didn't drive off. He
sat there and stared at her. Waiting.

She got in her little red BMW, started the
engine and pulled out of the parking lot. She glanced in her
rearview mirror. Dillon turned onto the street and eased in behind
her. Was he following her home?