The Hunk Next Door

“Want to go for a drive?”

Abby did. Desperately. The intensity scared her. “Aren’t you tired of Christmas lights and holiday displays by now?”

“Are you tired of police work?”

“A little,” she confessed, startling a laugh out of both of them.

“Take a drive with me. I’ll buy you a drink.”

“You’re a terrible flirt.”

“So I’ve been told.” Riley winked, opening the passenger door of his truck for her.

“No, I mean you’re really bad at it.”

“You want me to up my game?”

Yes. No

. Uncertain, she pulled the door shut. When he slid into the driver’s seat, she said, “I don’t want any games. I want you to be yourself.”

“Easy enough.” He stared at her for a moment that went on and on, and she realized she was holding her breath. “What you see is what you get, Abby.”

The Hunk Next Door

Debra Webb & Regan Black

www.millsandboon.co.uk

DEBRA WEBB

, born in Alabama, wrote her first story at age nine and her first romance at thirteen. It wasn’t until she spent three years working for the military behind the Iron Curtain—and a five-year stint with NASA—that she realized her true calling. A collision course between suspense and romance was set. Since then the

USA TODAY

 bestselling author has penned more than one hundred novels, including her internationally bestselling Colby Agency series.

REGAN BLACK

, a

USA TODAY

 bestselling author, writes award-winning, action-packed novels featuring kick-butt heroines and the sexy heroes who fall in love with them. Raised in the Midwest and California, she and her family, along with their adopted greyhound, two arrogant cats and a quirky finch, reside in the South Carolina Lowcountry where the rich blend of legend, romance and history fuels her imagination.

MILLS & BOON

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For Mark, my personal hero, who always knows when I need encouraging words, quiet space or dark chocolate.

And many, many thanks to Deb for inviting me into this wonderful new adventure! Regan

To my hero, Nonie! Though four decades have passed since we first met, you continue to be the only hero for me! Debra

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Authors

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

Washington, D.C.

Friday, November 25, 6:10 p.m.

Thomas Casey, director of the elite team known as the Specialists, leaned back in his chair and watched the footage filling his computer monitor one last time. The woman on the screen stared directly at the camera, her expression one of fearlessness.

“Let this be a clear message to anyone with criminal intent,” she announced in a steely tone. “Belclare will not stand for drug activity on our docks or criminal action in our town. We will stand against you and we will seize your product, your people and your money at every opportunity. No matter your affiliation or intent, this community will not be used for illicit gain.”

The knock on his closed office door was a welcome distraction. Thomas muted the feed. “Come in.”

The beautiful face of his wife, Johara di Rossi, peered around the door. “Is it safe to come in?”

He motioned her forward. It was still a thrill to realize they were married, that he had the rest of his life to make up for lost time. No one had ever made him feel that way...no one but Jo.

Her smile wide, she stepped into the office. “If you’re sure. Your face tells a different story.”

Removing his glasses, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Am I running late?” He checked his watch, wishing he had the luxury of forgetting this video in favor of the standing dinner date with his wife. But when the President of the United States issued a directive, department heads were expected to drop everything and act immediately.

“No.” She strolled across the room and leaned over his desk to give him a kiss. “I was out this way and thought we could ride to dinner together.”

“That’s fine. I just have one last meeting to take care of first.”

A knock at the door interrupted him. Damn. One of these days very soon he intended to make personal time a priority.

Jo winked at him. “I’ll wait for you at reception.”

“Thanks.” He watched her go, grateful he’d been given a second chance with the one woman who mattered and that she understood the urgency of his work.

Ever the professional, Jo didn’t exchange a word with the man in a charcoal-gray suit who walked in as she walked out.

“Close the door,” Thomas said to his visitor. “And take a seat.”

Specialist Riley O’Brien followed both orders with a quiet “Sir.”

Thomas looked from the image of the Belclare police chief on his computer monitor to the man sitting patiently in front of him. “I appreciate your quick response.”

“Yes, sir.”

Thomas hesitated. One more sign that his decision to retire was the right one. A man in his position couldn’t afford to regret the tasks he assigned, but what he needed from O’Brien was extreme even for a Specialist.

He pushed away his own bias, pushed aside the memories of his own career and focused on O’Brien. All of his Specialists excelled in the obvious areas necessary for a successful covert operative, and each of them had a unique set of skills. It was O’Brien’s distinctive résumé that made him the perfect fit for this operation.

“O’Brien, you’ve been selected as the first agent for a new task force. Before you agree, let me assure you, you can turn this assignment down without penalty.”

The younger man settled a little deeper into the chair, his eyes intent. “Understood, sir.”

Already, they both knew he would agree. Thomas leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his desk. “I’m asking you to take on a deep-cover assignment. We will rework your background accordingly. You’ll keep your name, but your new address will be Belclare, Maryland.”

“On the Chesapeake Bay?”

“You’ve heard the latest news out of Belclare.” Thomas turned his computer monitor around for O’Brien.

“Kind of hard to miss, sir.”

Thomas concurred. “This new team is tasked with embedding agents on long-term assignments where threats are expected.”

“And the end date, sir?”

“None.” Thomas cleared his throat. “In the short term, you are assigned to keep the Belclare police chief, Abigail Jensen, alive.”

“You believe retaliation is imminent?”

“Yes. She’s done a hell of a job, but she’s made herself a target. They might come after her directly or they may attack another target in town to cause trouble first. It could be next week, or next year, or...”

“A decade down the road,” O’Brien finished for him.

“Yes.” On a sigh, Thomas leaned back into the supple leather executive chair and studied the agent on the opposite side of his desk. “Based on the intel, I feel confident you’ll see some action right away, but this is a lifetime commitment I’m asking for.”

“All right.” O’Brien shifted forward, propping his elbows on his knees, his gaze on the floor. “Any backup?”

“Not on the ground.”

O’Brien lifted his gaze to Thomas’s. “Can you be more specific?”

Fair question. “You’ll have a way to upload any relative intelligence to our analysts, but I expect you to take action as necessary to protect our nation’s interests against terrorism. We can give you anything you need. We just can’t be there in under an hour.”

O’Brien nodded his understanding.

“Belclare is too close to D.C. and other valuable targets,” Thomas went on. “We’ve heard disturbing chatter about a sleeper cell in the area.”

“What kind of cause?”

While that wasn’t a question he would typically answer, this wasn’t a typical assignment. “The drug shipment the chief intercepted was meant to fund a known terrorism splinter group gaining a foothold here in the States. Homeland Security has been monitoring Jensen’s email since the speech went viral. Some of the hate mail is too specific for an outsider. Additionally, we’ve tracked a recent shipment of stolen military detonators to Baltimore.”

Throughout his career, Thomas had led by example, never asking more of his agents than he asked of himself. Until today. Looking across the desk, he put himself in O’Brien’s shoes and wondered how he might have responded if he’d been offered a similar assignment in his early thirties. “Take your time, O’Brien. Think it through.”

Normally he wouldn’t drop something like this on an agent with limited field experience, but the key to this task force came down to the ability to blend in. To be the guy next door. Raised in an orphanage, O’Brien had been melding with his community and surroundings his whole life. During his two years as a Specialist, he’d worked behind the scenes, offering physical and technical support during various operations. An agent with less field experience meant the tech experts would have less to scrub away and an easier time rebuilding the personal history. Also in his favor for this particular operation, O’Brien had proved to be a natural when it came to managing explosives.

A few more seconds of silence ticked by and then O’Brien nodded, his gaze resolute. “Count me in, sir.”

“Good.” Especially for the police chief and her town, Thomas mused. “Belclare will be finishing preparations for their annual Christmas Village when you arrive. With your experience in construction, you’ll be able to find work easily.”

“But you want me to stay on in the area after that’s over.”

“Yes. You’ll need to make yourself at home within the community. Chief Jensen will need you, whether she knows it or not. We’ll get the necessary background ready.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Thomas stood and reached across the desk to shake the agent’s hand. “Let me be the first, and quite possibly the only person, to thank you for your service.”

Chapter One

Belclare Police Station

Wednesday, November 30, 9:50 a.m.

Riley measured the span of the double doorway and clipped the tape measure back on his tool belt. He’d picked up work with the company in charge of transforming Belclare into a Christmas extravaganza just as the director suggested. Riley considered his assignment off to a stellar start when he was sent over to decorate the police station.

“She’s in a meeting.” The young cop working the reception desk behind him was having trouble with one of Belclare’s citizens. “May I take a message?”

“She’s a young hothead is what she is,” the irritated older man replied. “The historical society has never been handcuffed in this manner. I will not stand for it. The tourists expect...”

Riley continued tacking holiday garland around the door frame as the man droned on about tourism, children and intrusive patrols.

“Safety is our utmost priority,” the young officer said. “From our chief right down to our newest recruits.”

Preach on, kid, Riley thought. Belclare would need every patrol if only half of the chatter about retaliation was true. Chief Jensen was in serious trouble. Via email, the director had kept him in the loop with the most direct threats to help Riley identify the locals who no doubt had to be involved. At the moment, this guy from the historical society was quickly gaining himself a spot at the top of the list.

Riley stepped down the ladder to gather up the next length of evergreen woven with velvet ribbon and colorful ornaments. This town pulled out all the stops for the holiday. He couldn’t see why the police station needed decorating, but the work put him close to the chief. At this stage, she didn’t have a clue that by doing an excellent job as chief, she’d not only protected her town, she’d also put them in more jeopardy.

Though he hadn’t yet seen more than a photo of the lady with the tough-as-nails reputation, Riley admired her efficiency.

The older man with the beef against the chief’s new security requirements was turning red in the face as he continued his protest.

Finished with the doorway, Riley decided a break in the tension was needed. “I’m taking a break for hot chocolate,” he said to no one particular. “Can I get anyone anything?”

The old man swiveled around, scowling at him. “Who are you?” He turned back to the young cop behind the desk. “Do you know him? He might very well be an assassin right here in our midst. Now who isn’t being careful enough?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Riley said, laughing off the accusation. “I just follow the work. Riley O’Brien.” He stuck out his hand, but the older man refused to take it.

“Martin Filmore, president of the Belclare Historical Society,” he replied, a sour look on his weathered face.

“Pleased to meet you.” Riley gave him a big smile and hooked his thumbs into his tool belt. “Can I get you anything from that shop across the street while you wait?”

Filmore rolled his eyes. “The shop is called Sadie’s. Owned by the Garrison family, the building has been a landmark in Belclare since the town was founded.”

“Good to know.” He looked past Filmore to the kid behind the desk. Riley pegged him as early twenties and fresh out of the academy. “How about you, Officer?”

“Call me Danny.” The young cop grinned, relief stamped on his face. “I’ll take a hot chocolate.”

“All right. Marshmallows or whipped cream? Cinnamon on top?”

“Sounds like you’ve been to Sadie’s before,” Danny said knowingly.

Riley shrugged into his down vest. “A man who doesn’t cook has priorities.”

The cop’s expression brightened more, making him look even younger. Riley was grateful to gain an ally in town, even a young one. Since getting hired on, he’d learned that people here were a bit edgy around strangers. The guys on the crew who’d worked previous seasons said it wasn’t normal for Belclare, but they all agreed the folks had good reason. The national news headlining drug bust marked the first serious crime in their community and they were worried that more would follow.

“I take marshmallows,” Danny said. “No cinnamon.”

“Good choice,” Riley smiled. “How about you?” he asked the older man again. “Last chance.”

“No,” Filmore snapped. “Thank you. I am capable of fetching my own coffee.”

Riley paused, one hand on the door. “The girl at the counter said they were doing some sugar-cookie thing this afternoon. What’s that about?”

Danny sighed wistfully. “I asked for the time off but didn’t get it.”

Filmore glared at the kid. “You cannot convince me the police department puts safety first when our officers are more concerned with a sugar-cookie party.”

“It’s a big deal,” Danny defended himself.

Filmore launched right into another snobby rant, complaints and insults flying like fists.

Riley was about to intervene with another dumb new-guy-in-town question when a harsh, earsplitting whistle silenced the argument.

All three men in the lobby turned to the woman in the doorway that led back to the bull pen.

The woman of the hour, Riley decided, soaking up his first live view of Police Chief Jensen. Her blond hair was pulled back from her heart-shaped face and her blue eyes were sharp as lasers as she studied each of them.

Unlike the other officers he’d seen coming and going today, she wasn’t wearing the dark blue uniform. No, she wore a deep green suit with an ivory shirt, tailored perfectly to her curves. Was it some attempt at a civilian disguise or didn’t she lead by example? He took in her slender legs and the high heels and decided he appreciated the view too much to criticize her choice or rationale. Were police chiefs supposed to wear skirts? He knew the formal uniforms for women were that way, but on an average day? He’d seen her on television, had researched the decorated career that led to her current post. None of it accurately portrayed the size of her personal presence. She might be a petite little thing, but without saying a word she had full command of the room.

Her hard gaze moved deliberately from Danny to Filmore to him. He felt it like a touch. After a moment, she settled that tough blue gaze back on Filmore.

“Mr. Filmore, what is the problem here?”

“I need a moment of your time,” he began. “The new precautions are an impediment—”

She held up a hand and he stopped talking. Riley put that skill right up there with a superpower. One fact had been immediately clear: the president of the historical society loved the sound of his own voice.

Her cool gaze landed on Riley again, raked him from head to toe and back up. “You are?”

“Not a part of this,” he said, holding up his hands. “I’m just on garland detail.” He pointed to the ladder.

She eyed the ladder and then stepped forward, holding out a hand. “Name and identification, please.”

He hoped this was a stunt for the crotchety Filmore. “Was I hanging garland too fast, ma’am?”

She glared at him.

“I checked his credentials when he came in, Chief,” Danny piped up. “He’s with the design team.”

“Your name,” she insisted.

Riley gave her his friendliest lopsided grin. “Riley O’Brien.” The grin didn’t appear to be any more effective on the police chief than when he’d used it on his teachers in private school.

“You’re Irish?”

“That’s what my parents tell me.” According to his new background courtesy of the Specialists’ technology wizards, he was first-generation American, born of Irish immigrants. As he’d memorized his manufactured past it was as if the techs had somehow tapped the childhood fantasy that carried him through his long years at the orphanage.

“What brings you to Belclare?”

“Steady work,” he replied as she returned his Maryland driver’s license and the work permit.

“And you’ll be leaving when?”

“Actually, I’m thinking I’ll stay.” He looked over to Danny. “Maybe you can point me to a place to rent?”

“The personnel don’t typically stay on after the work is done,” the chief countered before Danny could reply.

Riley shrugged. “So far, I like what I see.”

She examined his progress with the decorations. “Why aren’t you done?”

“I was taking my required break, but that got interrupted.”

“Well, we won’t waste any more of your time.”

“Thank you.” He returned his wallet to his back pocket and zipped up his vest halfway. With a wave to Danny, he headed out to Sadie’s while the chief addressed Mr. Filmore.

The sky was heavy and he smelled snow on the air. Riley didn’t need a weather forecast to tell him Belclare’s annual Christmas Village would benefit from an idyllic blanket of fluffy white snow for the opening weekend. The most profitable weekend according to the background reports. All he had to do was make sure no one ruined it for them by assassinating their beloved chief of police.

Sadie’s was quiet and the hot chocolate orders were ready sooner than he’d hoped. He needed