Midwife Cover - Cassie Miles (5 page)

“So we’ll move to the area,” she said, “and I’ll be your undercover wife.”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

“Not exactly.”

He didn’t push the issue. The time for teasing was over. “I won’t lie to you. This assignment is dangerous, and it’s not your responsibility. I want you to consider before you give me your answer.”

“How long would it take? I can’t be away from work.”

“All taken care of. Cole’s wife will move up here and handle your caseload. We’ll say you had a family emergency.”

“Wait a minute. You’ve already talked this over with Cole and Rachel?”

“It was Rachel’s idea for me to approach you.”

He was well aware that Cole’s wife had a matchmaking agenda for him and Petra. Because her marriage had turned out well, Rachel was anxious for her friend to find an FBI husband of her own.

Brady didn’t bother telling her that he and Petra wouldn’t make a good match. Not that he didn’t find the feisty redhead attractive. He liked her careless beauty, even the freckles. And she had a killer body. But they were from different planets when it came to temperament. She was all emotion, and he was completely rational.

From the few minutes he’d spent in her kitchen, he knew she’d drive him crazy. Her home was clean but cluttered, with all kinds of scribbled kids’ pictures hanging on the fridge and the countertops lined with containers were in every shape and size—ranging from clear glass to something that looked like a purple mushroom.

“Let’s walk,” she said.

He fell into step beside her as they went down her driveway onto the sidewalk. This was a pleasant residential neighborhood with small, frame houses on large lots. At the corner, she turned left. They were going uphill.

She asked, “Why me?”

“Obviously, there’s your occupation. It’s tough for an undercover operative to fake being a midwife, especially if they’re asked to deliver a baby. And I’ve seen you in action. You don’t get rattled under pressure.”

“But I do get rattled,” she muttered. “I don’t like being teased.”

“Duly noted,” he said. “I also looked into your record at Quantico. You were top of your class, scored off-the-charts in all kinds of tests and were on your way to becoming an outstanding field agent.”

“But I quit.”

The incident that caused her to leave the FBI had been described in a Supervisory Special Agent’s report along with a somewhat hostile notation about her tendency to flaunt the rules. “Tell me what happened.”

“I got a message from my brother. He’s a cop in San Francisco. At the time, he worked with my boyfriend who was also a cop. Everybody in my family, except my mom, has a career that involves protecting people. My sister is in the Army. My dad is an arson inspector for the San Francisco Fire Department.”

Her father’s occupation seemed like an explanation for her fear of fire, but her background raised other questions. How could a free spirit like Petra exist in a family that followed and enforced the rules?

Two blocks away from the end of the street where they were walking, he saw a forested area. “Tell me about your mom.”

“Best cook in the world.” Her mouth relaxed into a grin. “Sometimes, she worked at her father’s restaurant and made the most amazing Greek food. When I was a kid, I loved to go with her, even though my yaya would always pat me on the head and say that my red hair meant trouble.”

“Yaya?”

“Grandmother,” she said. “She moved to the United States when she was eight and became a citizen. But she is Greek, first and always. She believed redheads were either descended directly from the gods or were wild and wanton, maybe even vampires.”

“She thought you were different.” Maybe a self-fulfilling prophecy for Petra. “It sounds like you preferred the more creative lifestyle at the restaurant. But you chose to join the FBI.”

“All through high school and college I was kind of wild. Let’s just say it didn’t turn out well. I was twenty-one, and I figured it was time to give my father’s way a try.”

Her digression into describing her family life had given him useful insights into her personality. “You still haven’t told me why you quit the FBI.”

They’d reached the forest. She left the sidewalk and followed a narrow path that led into a thick grove of aspen. A brisk wind rushed through the white trunks, and the golden leaves shimmered like precious coins.

Petra wrapped her hand around one slender trunk and tilted her head back. The reflected light picked out blond highlights in her auburn hair as she returned to her story. “Like I said, my brother called. He told me that my boyfriend had been seriously injured in the line of duty, and I left Quantico without going through proper procedures.”

According to the account he’d read, she wasn’t cleared to leave the training area and had sneaked outside the perimeter, evading the surveillance. Then she’d flagged down a car, using her FBI credentials. After she was on a flight to San Francisco, she’d called her supervisor.

Even though Brady admired her resourcefulness, he didn’t understand her refusal to go through regular channels. “You would have qualified for compassionate leave.”

“I doubt it.” She shrugged. “This was a boyfriend. Not a fiancé. Not a husband. I was pretty sure I’d be told to suck it up and get back to work. And I couldn’t do that. I just couldn’t. I had to be with him.”

This was a clear example of following reckless emotion rather than logic. “Then what happened?”

“I got a stern reprimand, and it ticked me off. I quit. Flat out and permanently. I wanted nothing more to do with the FBI with all those rules and regulations.” She tossed him a grin. “Here’s the irony. My boyfriend recovered in just a couple of weeks. And the big, fat jerk dumped me.”

“And you went to school to become a midwife.”

“Which turned out to be a job I love. Maybe I ought to send the jerk a thank-you card.”

Brady had a fairly good idea what he was getting into by bringing Petra into his undercover assignment—a whole lot of passion and drama. On the plus side, being undercover wasn’t a stretch for her. Nobody would ever think this woman was with law enforcement.

“Think about the assignment,” he said. “I need your answer as soon as possible.”

She walked along the path, touching the trunk of each tree she passed. “Did you know that the druids believed the aspen was sacred? They’d come into a grove like this, sit quietly and listen to the rustling and watch the quaking leaves until they reached enlightenment.”

“Didn’t know that.” He really didn’t give a damn about druids.

“And there’s a Ute legend about how the Great Spirit cursed the proud aspen. Because it refused to bow to him, the tree would forever tremble whenever anyone looked at it.”

“What’s your point?”

“I’m looking at the big picture.” She plucked a leaf and twirled it between her fingers as she came back toward him. “My answer is yes.”

“Did the tree tell you to say that?”

“I came to this decision all by myself,” she said. “If it means rescuing babies, I’ll do anything. I’ll even pretend to be your wife.”

She didn’t sound particularly happy about the idea, which was fine with him. This was an investigation, not a romance.

* * *

B
Y
TWO O’CLOCK
IN THE
afternoon, Petra had made her excuses to the clinic and arranged for Rachel to take over her caseload. She’d packed one suitcase with clothes and shoes. Her other odds and ends went into a couple of cardboard boxes. Altogether, her personal items took up only a few square feet in the back of her truck, which was fortunate because Brady’s possessions filled the rest of the space to overflowing.

His undercover identity was as a struggling artist, and he’d brought along easels, equipment and a couple of crates of artwork. Added to those were several other unmarked cardboard boxes he’d gathered from grocery and liquor stores.

Leaning against the side of the truck, she watched as he transferred his things from the back of his minivan. He loaded not one, not two, but four cases of bottled water.

She arched a skeptical eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure they have water in Durango.”

“I like this brand.”

Even though she’d be first in line to promote the benefits of staying hydrated, she didn’t believe the taste varied much. Water was water. “What’s in all those boxes?”

“Kitchen supplies, linens, electronics. I haven’t labeled anything because that’s not something my undercover character would do.”

“Ah, yes. You’re supposed to be Brady Gilliam, former alcoholic and artist from San Francisco, who inherited a house not far from the Lost Lamb Ranch.”

“And you’re my wife, Patty.”

She frowned. “How come you get to keep your first name and I don’t?”

“Petra is an unusual name. If somebody goes snooping around on the internet, looking for information on midwives, they might make the connection to your real identity.”

He already had her documentation in hand—a fake California driver’s license and social security card. Apparently, he’d been confident that she’d agree to his proposal before he’d even talked to her. Although she didn’t like to think of herself as predictable, his conclusion was totally logical, given what happened the first time they’d met. She was someone who took action. And she didn’t hesitate to protect the helpless.

To establish the rest of her undercover identity, Brady did a computer consultation with the FBI computer techs. They produced a dossier on Patty Gilliam’s history, including a website and online presence.

She didn’t love the persona they’d created. “Why do I need to have a criminal record for passing bad checks?”

“If you’re too squeaky clean, the scumbags won’t be able to relate to you.”

He returned to his minivan and dragged out a beat-up, filthy tarp. He didn’t ask for her help, but stretching the tarp over the boxes would be easier with two people.

She picked up one end. “This thing looks like it went through a cattle stampede.”

“Brady Gilliam wouldn’t have a new tarp.”

“Oh, good. Now you’re referring to yourself in the third person.”

“I’m not Gilliam yet.”

She helped him spread the tarp and tie it down. “Where did Brady Gilliam get all this stuff?”

“I had some of it shipped from my home in Arlington, and I found the rest in army surplus and secondhand stores.”

“You’re kind of a compulsive planner, aren’t you?”

He said nothing, which was fine with her. The question had been rhetorical. His compulsiveness was a given.

That tendency made him extremely vulnerable to teasing. She hadn’t forgotten how he’d embarrassed her with his off-handed, unexpected marriage proposal, and she intended to get even.

He finished with the tarp and stepped back to admire his handiwork. “Thanks for volunteering the use of your truck.”

“Sure thing.” He’d already changed her Colorado license plates to California. “I don’t even mind that you think my sweet, red, Toyota pickup is beat-up enough to belong to the itinerant Gilliam couple. I mean, sure, she’s got a little rust and a couple of dents, but she looks good for a twelve-year-old truck.”

“She’s also got an oil leak and needs a tune-up.” He patted the side of the truck. “I could fix that for you.”

“You?”

“My grandpa owns a car repair shop. I’ve worked for him since I was teenager.”

A surprising bit of info
. “You don’t seem like the type who’d get his hands dirty.”

“I wear gloves.”

“Of course you do.”

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. With his stubble and his sweat and his background as a car mechanic, he almost didn’t seem like a fed…almost. He gave a nod. “I think we’re ready to go.”

“Really?”
Not until I get my revenge
. “Is that what you’re going to wear?”

He looked down at his black T-shirt and cargo pants. “What’s wrong with this?”

“Nothing, if you’re Brady Masters, FBI agent. In that identity, it makes sense for you to wear a fitted black T-shirt and khaki cargo pants that still look new.”

“They are new. Bought them yesterday.”

“If you’re going to pass yourself off as Brady Gilliam, we’re going to have to grunge you up.”

He faced her directly, and she had a momentary flashback to her sexy dreams. Whether he was a fed or an artist or anything else, Brady was a fine-looking man—tall and lean with wide shoulders. Although his gray eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, the lower half of his face was expressive. When amused, his dimple appeared. Most of the time, his jaw was tight and determined—like it was right now.

“What makes you an expert on grunge?” he asked.

“Dude, I grew up in San Francisco and I went to college at Berkeley. I know what starving artists look like.”

“Fine,” he muttered. “I’m open to suggestions.”

“Untuck your shirt and take off your socks.”

Reluctantly, he did as she said. He cringed as he stuck his bare feet into his running shoes. “Happy?”

“Those sneakers look like they just walked out of a mall. Maybe you should wear sandals.”

“I don’t like sandals.”

“You need to loosen up. Let your toes come out and breathe.” She thoroughly enjoyed giving him a hard time. “And you’ve got to lose the wristwatch.”

His right hand coiled protectively around his gold watchband. “Not the watch.”

“Artists don’t pay attention to time. Gilliam isn’t the kind of guy who punches a time clock or makes appointments.”

“It’s a long drive. I’ll take off the watch when we’re close to Durango.”

Her next bit of supposedly well-meaning advice was sure to push him over the edge. “You know what would make you really look like an out-of-work artist?”

“What?”

“A tattoo. Maybe a dragon starting on your wrist, going all the way up your arm and wrapping around your throat.”

He recoiled as though she’d splashed him in the face with a bucket of ice water. “No tats. No way.”

She smiled sweetly. Payback was fun. “I’m teasing.”

“That was a joke?”

“I just wanted to get under your skin, no pun intended.”