Mommy Under Cover

There was something comforting about predictability.

Well, maybe.

Barton Fletcher took another look at the Tates’ file.

The paperwork and requests were indeed predictable and in order, including the attached memo from Isabel Tate that lauded him as the Baby Maker for a couple who desperately wanted the child of their dreams. However, the fact that everything was in order did nothing to rid him of the knot tightening in his gut.

Was something wrong?

The obvious quickly came to mind. Maybe this was some sort of sting operation. The latest attempt by authorities to apprehend him.

That wasn’t going to happen.

Because he was always careful.

Always.

If these clients were indeed working for law enforcement, then he’d just have to deal with the situation as he had before.

Give life…take life. It all evened out in the end.

Chapter One

Washington, D.C.

Agent Tessa Abbot walked into the briefing room of the Justice Department’s Special Investigations Unit, took one look at him and came to a complete standstill.

Her steel-blue gaze riffled over his uncombed hair, down to his three-day-old beard. Possibly four.

Riley had lost count.

And then her gaze kept on riffling. Down to his scruffy black T-shirt, jungle fatigues and combat boots caked with mud. Thankfully the color of the T-shirt camouflaged a multitude of other stains that he didn’t want to identify, but blood was a distinct possibility.

“Why are you here?” Tessa asked.

Riley lifted his hand in a wait-a-second gesture, gulped down the rest of his lukewarm coffee and prayed the caffeine would kick in soon. The all-night cargo flight from Liberia had left him with a wicked case of jet lag and the mother of all headaches.

“This is where I’m supposed to be. I’m your husband.”

And with that, he waited for the excrement to hit the proverbial fan.

He didn’t have to wait long.

“You’re what?” Tessa adjusted her stance, shifting her weight from one fashionable snakeskin leather shoe to the other. Not her usual choice of footwear, which Riley knew for a fact tended toward something flat and more functional.

In her case, functional often included kick-butt, steel-toed boots.

This morning she was obviously dressed for the mission. And those three-inch-plus, mission-directed heels put her close to six feet tall.

Practically eye-to-eye with him.

That eye level allowed him to see her baby blues narrow significantly.

“I’m your husband,” Riley repeated, even though he was dead certain she’d heard him the first time. “Well, your husband for this mission, anyway. After I get cleaned up, we’ll be the undercover team going into the Assisted Fertility Clinic in Dallas.”

Somehow, Riley managed to say that without any emotion. Inside—well, that was a whole different story. There was emotion, all right. Lots of it. And he intended to channel all those still-raw feelings into apprehending Dr. Barton Fletcher, aka the Baby Maker.

“You’re mistaken.” And Tessa didn’t say it with affection, either. No surprise there. This would not be an affection-generating conversation. “I’m teamed with Agent Trapanna for this.”

So the mission commander hadn’t informed her yet. Riley was afraid of that. That meant he’d have to be the messenger. Not his first choice of duties for 0600 hours. Or any other hour for that matter.

“There’s been a change in plans,” Riley explained. “Trapanna came down with some kind of throat infection last night. He’s on antibiotics and bed rest. I heard what happened and volunteered to fill in for him.”

That heard-what-happened part was really glossing over things.

For days Riley had been calling for permission updates on the Baby Maker case. It’d been no accident that he’d learned of Trapanna’s medical condition and within five minutes had arranged a flight out of Liberia. Of course, he’d had to finish a really nasty confrontation with two armed guerrillas before he could get to the airport—hence the possibility of blood on his shirt. Their blood. But he’d made it back to D.C. in time for the mission brief.

Tessa stared at him. And stared. Apparently processing his impromptu situation report. Judging from the way the muscles stirred and jumped in her blush-touched cheeks, she didn’t process it well.

“You volunteered?” she questioned.

Riley settled for a nod.

“Oh, mercy.” She groaned, tossed her mission folder onto the conference table and aimed her index finger at him. “Let’s get something straight. I don’t want you anywhere near this ops, got that?”

As Riley guessed she would do, Tessa reached for the sleek black phone on the wall. Probably so she could call the mission director and complain about the turn of events. Riley didn’t want that to happen.

Not yet anyway.

Some fast talking and lots of luck had gotten him this ops and he wasn’t about to let Tessa Abbot take it away from him.

There was too much at stake.

Riley deposited his empty foam cup onto the table and, in the same motion, caught her arm—a little maneuver that earned him a glare. Man, she was good at it, too. Those steely eyes practically tapered to slits as she shook off his grip.

“If you’ve got a problem with our working together, then say it to me,” Riley insisted. “Not to our boss.”

Without even a second’s hesitation, she gave him an Okay, I will nod. “Oh, I have a problem, all right. A huge one. There’s no way you can be objective about Dr. Barton Fletcher, and you and I both know why.”

Riley didn’t hesitate, either. “I’ll take a wild guess here and assume you’re referring to the fact that Fletcher killed my former partner?”

It wasn’t a wild guess.

That was exactly what this was about.

“Fletcher allegedly killed your former partner,” Tessa amended, using the politically correct term. “Your fiancée.”

“Your friend,” Riley added.