Texan Undercover (Romantic Suspense) (4 page)

For several minutes, Claire decided that was
precisely what he was doing and it made her angry. She was also
touched.

When he turned in the opposite direction as
they approached the freeway, Claire squashed the spurt of
disappointment gnawing inside.

****

"So, the woman's hot. I say go for it." Stan
Brozek carried his laptop to the coffee table and sat on the edge
of the sofa. "Jeez! Why can't I get this? Take a look at line
five-sixty-eight in the pattern-matching module. I keep getting an
error."

Dillon squatted on his haunches beside the
coffee table and looked at the code his partner was working on.
They were debugging the backup program that would log the data from
the computers in e*Claire's. The gadgets he'd installed last week
were a trip wire, to trap anyone who unplugged them. This program
was the key to the investigation.

"Line five-sixty-eight, you said?" Dillon
studied the string for a minute. "Don't deallocate the structure
when you finish with the input."

"Damn, why didn't I see that?" Brozek's
fingers flew over the keyboard as he made the correction. "I'm
going to finish this baby tonight. You can make book on that,
buddy."

"Yeah, yeah. I hear you. I'll believe it when
I see it." Dillon walked back to the desk to his own laptop. He
picked up his Dr. Pepper and grabbed a handful of peanuts before
sitting down.

"You gonna ask the lady out?" Brozek
asked.

"Nope. It's business. I don't care how hot
she is."

"Business, bull. She's not a client or a
suspect. Or is she?" Brozek looked up from his computer. "Is
she?"

"Hell, no. I don't know. She's said a few
things . . . No, definitely not." Beautiful Claire Maxwell couldn't
be the hacker. He needed to keep an open mind, though. Everyone was
suspect, like he'd told her. He didn't want to consider the
possibility of her involvement.

"Then ask her out," Brozek said. "You haven't
dated in God knows how long. You could use a tension reliever,
buddy. A hot lady and a soft bed. Ask the woman out. It would do
you good. Do me good, too. Maybe you wouldn't be such a
grouch."

"She's not my type. Too high maintenance. Too
expensive for my tastes."
Keep telling yourself that,
Anderson.

"Hey, not all rich ladies are like your
mother. You need to get over that. Move on."

Dillon took a swig of Dr. Pepper. "Yeah,
well. Your mother didn't dump you when you were seven years old.
I'm over it. I've moved on. I just don't care for snobby rich
girls, that's all."

"The Maxwell dame's not snobby," Brozek said.
"I've been in the cafe enough to see how she treats her customers.
She might wear designer clothes and expensive jewelry, but she's
not snobby."

"Leave it alone, Brozek." Maybe Claire wasn't
a snob, but she still made him feel like he wasn't good enough.
Dillon didn't like the feeling. He'd fought it all his life.

"You have to get over this phobia of yours,
pal. So what if your mom's parents gave you a bad rap when you were
a kid, you are not hurting for money now. You could move in the
best circles, if you wanted."

"That's not what I want." His early years had
convinced him of that. Dillon's mother and grandparents really were
snobs. He'd lived in Lubbock with them, after his mother left his
father. He'd never fit in. And they'd never let him forget it.

"How's that program going?" Dillon asked.

"Trying to change the subject?"

"Two points for the Polack."

"Hey, now. I'm just trying to help."

"I don't want help. I want to get this job
over and done with. We have a company to run. In Dallas. Six months
away from home is too long."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm tired of living in this
apartment with you, too."

"Then stop talking and start working." Dillon
tossed a couple of peanuts in his mouth. Brozek was right. He had
to get over this phobia with the rich upper class. But it was hard
to forgive and forget.

On his seventh birthday, his mother had flown
him to Houston for a rare visit to his father. She'd signed over
full custody and Dillon had never seen her again.

His dad had been kind and loving in an
absent-minded way. An intense and dedicated scholar, he taught
history at Rice University. Dillon had made good grades in school,
but he wasn't in the same league with his dad. Again, he found
himself not fitting in. Not good enough.

Dillon logged on to the Internet and checked
his email. It was ironic that he'd chosen the field of private
investigation for a career. Going undercover required blending in
with the environment. All those years of trying to fit in was put
to good use. And for short periods of time, he could live as
someone else. Didn't have to think about who he really was or where
he'd come from. A cop-out? Maybe. Everyone had to deal with life in
his own way.

"Damn it. I'm getting another error," Brozek
said. "Come look at this. Man, I don't believe it. Why don't you
take over? I'm going to grab some food."

Dillon took his soda and settled down on the
sofa. This program was proving to be a bitch. He read over the code
Brozek had written. Lines and lines of it. One little mistake and
the whole thing unraveled.

"I feel like Chinese," Brozek said,
stretching. "You feel like Chinese?"

Dillon didn't look up from the laptop.
"Chinese is good. Don't forget the mustard this time."

"Grouchy, grouchy. Do us both a favor. Ask
the lady out." Brozek shrugged on his leather jacket and adjusted
the collar.

"You're way too interested in my personal
life," Dillon said. "We're on a job, remember? Kinda tough to start
a relationship."

"All work and no play . . . You know what
they say? Not healthy. Not healthy at all."

"Go get the food, Brozek."

"Just think about it. You need a woman, man.
It's been too long. That's not healthy, either."

"Thank you, doctor. Now get off it, will
you?"

"Okay, okay. I'm gone."

The door to the apartment closed. Dillon
finished his soda. He and his partner usually got along fine. But
six months on an assignment made the nerves stretch thin.

He liked Stan Brozek. Respected him, too.
Eight years ago, they had started A & B Investigations.
Internet surveillance and computer crime was a growing area of
concern. Hunting down hackers, con artists, even terrorists in the
infinite void of cyberspace proved challenging and rewarding.
Dillon could play with his computers and catch the crooks. Not a
bad way to make a living.

"All right. Okay." Dillon found the error,
typed out a command and corrected it. They were closing in on the
hacker; he felt it in his gut. With this program and a little luck,
they'd nail the bastard.

Brozek had worked non-stop on this case from
the beginning. Right away, it was obvious the hacker never used his
own computer. He bounced his communications around the world
through different servers. Brozek traced every bounce point one at
a time until he'd discovered the origin: the computers at
e*Claire's. Subpoenas and court orders were obtained so they could
proceed through proper channels. Everything had to be legal, so the
evidence would hold up in court.

For the past week, Brozek worked backup to
Dillon's undercover operation. When he wasn't minding the
surveillance van two blocks over, he came into e*Claire's. The
cybercafé kept long hours catering to the college crowd. Brozek
relieved Dillon sometime during the day, every day. No one knew
Brozek was working with him. Not even Claire.

Dillon hadn't seen her for over a week. A
couple of days after he started working at e*Claire's, she left
town. Before that, she'd avoided him like the plague. But he'd
watched her--covertly--when she'd made the rounds among her
customers. No, Claire Maxwell was definitely not a snob. She joked
with everyone and helped students with homework.

Dillon told himself he was glad she had left
town. And he told himself he wasn't glad she'd be back
tomorrow.

****

"Here's your breakfast." Natalie set a
steaming mug of raspberry tea and a pastry on Claire's desk. "How'd
it go? Did you hire another tech?"

"Yes," Claire said. "I found a computer
science major to work part-time in Huntsville. I thought we'd share
duties for a while before having tech support at each cafe. See how
it goes, you know?"

"Sounds good to me. The hunky tech here is
doing a bang-up job. A couple of computers crashed last week and he
had them running in no time."

"Great." Claire sipped her tea. She hadn't
seen Dillon since she'd returned. Monday mornings were always
hectic, especially when she'd been gone for a while. "Any more
troubles with Richard? Has he been getting to work on time?"

"Pretty much."

Claire didn't like the sound of that. "What's
going on? Why are you covering for the guy?"

"Because he's an
artiste
." Natalie
waved her hands vaguely in front of her.

"An
artiste
? He's a pastry chef,
Nat."

"Chefs can be temperamental, can't they? And
his éclairs and lady fingers are dreamy," she sighed. "I can
forgive him his little discrepancies and eccentricities, why can't
you? He's the best chef we have. I don't think we can afford to
lose him."

"All right, all right. You obviously have a
soft spot for him. Or more likely, his pastries. Just make him
understand he needs to be more punctual."

Natalie gave a mock salute. "Will do,
boss."

"Cut it out. So what else has been happening?
You've kept me informed through email, but it's not the same."
Claire told herself she wasn't fishing for information about a
certain private eye. The one who had been taking up way too much of
her thoughts this past week.

"Frank is back," Natalie said.

"From Colorado? How did the dig go?" Frank
Winslowe was an instructor at UT, working on his Ph.D. in
archeology. He was a regular customer in the cafe.

Natalie shrugged. "He said it went well. It
wasn't really a dig though. He spent the Christmas holidays
cataloguing artifacts and gluing together shards of Anasazi
pottery. His idea of a grand old time."

"You like him, don't you?" Claire bit into
the puff pastry. The creamy concoction dissolved in her mouth with
an explosion of sweetness on her taste buds. No, they really
couldn't afford to fire Richard the
artiste
.

"What can I say?" Natalie shrugged. "I have a
weakness for guys in wire-rimmed glasses."

"You are so weird, Nat."

"Don't knock it. Glasses can be sexy,
especially if that's all the guy is wearing."

Claire shook her head at her friend. "You're
also shameless."

"Hey, I like men. All types. All flavors."
Natalie grinned. "He finally asked me out."

"Shy, quiet Frank asked you out?
Congratulations," Claire said. "You've been dying to date him. Now
you have your wish. When's the big night?"

"Saturday. Think you can fill in for me? It
might be busy. All the kids have returned from winter break and
classes started last week. They're a little wild."

"Busy is good and I think I can handle the
wild. Go and have a good time. Don't worry about anything
here."

"Thanks, Claire. You're the greatest--" A
crash in the kitchen, followed by a string of loud curses,
interrupted Natalie.

"Sounds like Richard's in unusual form this
morning," Claire said.

Natalie hopped out of her chair. "I better go
see what all the fuss is about."

"I'll come, too."

When Claire entered the kitchen, it was like
stepping into the middle of a television sitcom. Her head chef
stood near the industrial-sized refrigerator wielding a wooden
spoon. He was screaming at someone bent over in the opened fridge.
Claire swallowed hard. She had a pretty good idea who that
denim-clad bottom belonged to.

"
Imbecile!
Out of my kitchen! I do not
allow such a one near my pastries." Richard advanced cautiously
toward the fridge. His two assistants ignored him and kept working
at the stainless steel counter, preparing that day's menu
items.

"Cool your jets, Pierre. I'll get out of your
precious kitchen as soon as I find something to eat. I'm tired of
all the sweets. Why don't you cook real food? A sausage and biscuit
would go down good right now." Dillon unfolded his tall frame from
his crouched position and turned to face the irate chef.

"I would rather die than make this, what you
call it? Sausage and biscuit." Richard lifted his chin and glared
at Dillon.

"I could easily arrange that. Especially if
you throw more pots at me."

Richard sniffed. "Leave now and I will
refrain from further violence." He jerked his left arm out,
pointing the way to the door. His eyes widened when he noticed
Claire and Natalie. The little man rushed across the room.
"
Mademoiselle
Maxwell, you will persuade this
imbecile
to leave immediately. I cannot perform my duties
with such people near me."

Claire watched Dillon move toward them. The
Frenchman almost cowered as the big man stopped beside him. But the
chef stood his ground and lifted his chin even higher. Richard
Lareau might be small in stature, but he was no wimp. The
dark-haired, dark-eyed chef had emigrated from France and attended
UT Austin, where he had majored in the culinary arts. Claire knew
he was biding his time at e*Claire's until he found a position at a
prestigious restaurant.

"
Mademoiselle
?" Richard clasped the
spoon in front of him.

Dillon turned to face her. "Yes,
Mademoiselle?
"

For the past week, Claire had tried not to
think about Dillon Anderson. His striking good looks. His bedroom
eyes. His hard mouth. She'd tried, but he'd constantly crept into
her thoughts anyway.