Undercover Husband. Cindi Myers
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blamed Daniel Metwater for taking her away from me. After she joined his cult, I seldom heard from her. What kind of person encourages someone to cut off ties with family that way?”
“We haven’t been able to learn a great deal about him, other than that he’s very charismatic and seems to be offering something that some people find attractive.” He wanted to take her hand, to try to comfort her, but resisted the temptation. “There are probably experts in this kind of thing who could tell you more than I can.”
“He calls his followers a family—as if that could substitute for their real families.”
“Maybe this undercover assignment will give you some of the answers to your questions,” he said. He picked up his fork again.
They ate in silence for a while longer, until she pushed her plate away, her dinner half-eaten. “I’ve been thinking about what you asked me,” she said. “About what Daniel Metwater stood to gain from keeping Joy and claiming her as his own.”
“Did you come up with something?”
“It’s not much, but Emily had a trust from our mother. An annual stipend now, with the bulk coming to her when she turned thirty in two years. Under the terms of the trust, it automatically passes to any children she might have, and can be used to pay living and educational expenses in the event of her death.”
He considered this information, then shook his head. “Metwater supposedly has money of his own.”
“That’s what I understood from the research I did.” She took a sip of tea. “I told you it wasn’t much.”
“Still, having money doesn’t mean he might not want more. And we don’t have any idea what his financial picture is these days. Maybe he made some bad investments, or being a prophet in the wilderness is more expensive than he thought it would be.”
“I keep coming back to her last letter,” Hannah said. “Emily sounded so frightened—I thought maybe that so-called Family was holding her prisoner.”
“The death certificate said her cause of death was respiratory failure.”
“I know. She died in an emergency room. Someone dropped her off—they don’t know who. And people do die of asthma, but I can’t help thinking—what if they were withholding her medication, or the stress of traveling with this group brought on the attack?”
“It would be tough to prove murder in either case.”
“I know.” She sat back and laid her napkin beside her plate. “And none of it will bring Emily back. I have to focus on what I can do, which is to raise Joy and take the best care of her I know how.”
A light came into her eyes when she spoke, and her expression changed to one of such tenderness it made Walt’s chest ache. “You already love her, don’t you?” he said.
“Yes.” That fleeting smile again. “And that surprises me. I never thought of myself as particularly nurturing, but this baby—this infant I haven’t even met yet—I already love her so much.”
“If she’s in Metwater’s camp, we’ll find her,” he said.
She surprised him by reaching out and taking his hand. “I believe you,” she said. “And if I have to pretend to be someone’s wife temporarily, I’m glad it’s you.”
He gave her hand a squeeze, then let it go before he gave in to the temptation to pull her close and kiss her. As assignments went, this one was definitely going to be interesting, and a little dangerous—in more ways than one.
Two days later, Hannah studied herself in the hotel mirror, frowning. She wished she had taken more of an interest in drama club in school—she might have learned something that would come in handy now. The only advice Walt had given her was “Stick as close to the truth as possible and only lie when absolutely necessary.” So she was going into camp as Hannah Morgan—her mother’s maiden name—and she was a corporate dropout looking for a more authentic life.
She had dressed as Walt had instructed her, in a gauzy summer skirt, tank top and sturdy sandals. She wore no makeup and had combed out her hair to hang straight past her shoulders. Silver bracelets and earrings completed the look—definitely not her normal style, which tended toward plain classics, but that was all part of playing a role, wasn’t it...dressing the part?
A knock on the door interrupted her musing. She checked the peephole, but didn’t recognize the rumpled-looking man who stood on the other side. Then he shifted so that the sun lit his face, and she sucked in a breath and jerked open the door. “I didn’t recognize you at first,” she said, staring at Walt. Several days’ growth of beard darkened his jaw, giving him a rough—and definitely sexy—look. His hair was streaked blond and tousled and he wore jeans with a rip in one knee, hiking boots and a tight olive-green T-shirt that showed off a sculpted chest and defined biceps. A tribal tattoo encircled his upper right arm. Looking at him made her feel a little breathless.
“What do you think?” He held his arms out at his sides. “Will they still make me as a cop?”
Slowly, she shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.” A biker or a bandit or an all-around bad boy, maybe, but not a cop.
“You look great,” he said. “I didn’t realize your hair was so long.”
She tucked a stray strand behind her ears. “I usually wear it up. It gets in the way otherwise.”
“Are you ready to go? Marco just radioed that our contact is at the laundry.”
She smoothed her sweating palms down her thighs and took a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m ready.”
She collected the backpack into which she had stashed a few essentials and followed him across the parking lot. But instead of a car or truck, he stopped beside a motorcycle. The black-and-chrome monster looked large and dangerous. “We’re going on that?” she asked.
He patted the leather seat. “I figured the Harley fit the image better. I’ve got a small tent and some other supplies in the saddlebags and trunk.” He handed her a helmet. “Put this on.”
She settled the helmet over her head. It was a lot heavier than she had expected. “Does this belong to the Rangers?” she asked, fumbling with the chin strap.
“No, it’s my personal bike.” He fastened the strap for her, a tremor running through her as his fingertips brushed across her throat. But he gave no sign that he noticed. He straddled the bike, then looked over his shoulder at her. “Get on behind me. Put your feet on the foot pegs.”
Feeling awkward, she did as he instructed. “I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before,” she said.
“Don’t worry. Just hang on.” She started as the engine roared to life, the sound vibrating through her. The bike lurched forward and she wrapped her arms around him, her breasts pressed against the solid muscle of his back, his body shielding hers from the wind. She forced herself to relax her death grip on him, but didn’t let go altogether. He felt like the only steady thing in her world right now.
She tried to focus on the task ahead. Apparently, several women from Metwater’s group came into town once a week to do laundry. The plan was for Walt and Hannah to meet them and turn the talk to the Family. They would express a desire to join the group and ask for an introduction. Walt had explained that interviews with some former group members had revealed this was how new members were often acquired. And Metwater had bragged on his blog that he didn’t have to recruit members—they came to him voluntarily after hearing his message.
The laundry occupied the end unit of a low-slung building in a strip center not far from the campus of the local college. Though Metwater’s three followers were the same age as many of the students who lounged on chairs between the washers and dryers or gathered in the