Undercover

By Rebeccca Crowley

The assignment has a deadline, but does their relationship?

After almost ten years dodging bullets as a foreign correspondent, Asher Brody is struggling to find his place back in the U.K. – and in his family-run newspaper, the London Phoenix. He’s intent on proving he’s as committed as his brothers, even if it means putting on a suit and posh accent to investigate a high-ranking executive at an upscale retreat.

Ada Hunter wasted years trailing her ex-boyfriend, only for him to turn his back when her documentary career finally took off. Now she’s beating her own path, and it’s taking her all over the world. To secure funding for her next project, she takes a risky job with the Phoenix posing as broody-sexy Asher’s fake girlfriend – too good to be true.

They plan to spend a few days pretending to be a couple at a country estate before going their separate ways. But when bad weather strands them in the countryside, temptation develops into something more and the line between fantasy and reality becomes dangerously blurred.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tule Publishing
• Release date: Sep 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9781951190002

Book preview

Author

Chapter One

The heavy door clanked open and Ada pushed outside into the cold night, sucking in a lungful of fresh air. The chilly November mist dampened her bare shoulders and threatened the DIY chignon it had taken her thirty-five minutes and several YouTube videos to perfect, but the brief escape from the crowded ballroom was worth it.

A black cab slowed as it passed, and for a second she was tempted. She thought bagging an invite to the UK’s most prestigious journalism awards ceremony would mean a fun-filled evening of black-tie glamour, harmless flirting, and maybe even a lead on a source to raise the final funds she needed for her trip.

Instead she’d been placed on a table with a random assortment of freelancers. As soon as they realised there were no acquiring editors in their midst the conversation died out, and everyone focused on tapping urgently at their phones or draining glasses of free booze.

Typical London journalist crowd. If they weren’t tweeting, they were drinking.

A hand in the air and she’d be tucked in the back of that taxi, zooming home to a cucumber-scented makeup wipe, a cup of mint tea, comfy pyjamas and no bra in sight.

Except her bag and coat were inside. And she was running out of time to raise money. And she couldn’t take another evening watching the couple that had moved into the spare room in her flat cuddling on the couch.

But she didn’t have to go inside just yet. There was still time before the ceremony started. A few stolen minutes in the cold and quiet and she’d be ready to plunge back into the bright lights, the hum of conversation and the cloying scents of too many varieties of perfume.

Need a light?

She looked in the direction of the deep voice. Several feet away a man leaned against the hotel’s brick outer wall.

The dim lights from the street revealed him in fog-hazy impressions. Tall, well-built. Dark brown hair, thick and overgrown and rakishly disheveled. Strong jaw. Slightly too-wide nose. Killer smile. And as she walked closer, ocean-blue eyes fixed directly on her.

He also looked oddly familiar.

Have we met?

Don’t think so. Though to be fair, I’ve lost track of everyone I’ve been introduced to tonight. Smoke? He held out an unopened packet of cigarettes.

She shook her head. I don’t smoke.

Neither do I. He tucked the packet into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket—a jacket he filled out very nicely.

She crossed her arms against the cold and propped her hip on the wall beside him. Even to her relatively untrained, American ear, his accent categorized him as a native Londoner. Why do you carry cigarettes if you don’t smoke?

The ingratiating power of nicotine. A cigarette in the correct hand is more powerful than thousands of pounds in bribes.

And what were you hoping to gain with the one you just offered me?

One side of his mouth lifted in a smile. Nothing more than a moment’s conversation with a beautiful woman.

A frisson of excitement fluttered in her throat, but she pitched her voice low and breezy. Here I thought that was the first step in your plan to charm me off my feet, get me drunk, then drag me into a supply closet and take advantage.

Never, he promised forcefully. Any and all supply-closet encounters require enthusiastic consent and are subject to pre-closet sobriety screening.

Which consists of?

It’s a fairly comprehensive battery of tests. Psychological evaluations, physical assessments, spiritual readiness, that sort of thing.

Spiritual readiness, she echoed, unable to resist the smile tugging up the corners of her mouth. Should I get a letter from my priest?

It would expedite the process.

Flirty and funny—a rare combination. She regarded him steadily for a moment, taking in the long legs, the flat-fronted tuxedo shirt, the confident smile and the combination of cheek and charm gleaming in his eyes.

Definitely sex-god material.

Ada Hunter. She extended her hand.

He ignored it and leaned in to kiss her cheek. The gentle brush of lips was accompanied by his scent, giving Ada the impression of lavender, of water lapping at the hull of a wooden boat, of a warm, golden sunrise signaling the exhilarating beginning of a longed-for journey. She held his lapel to keep him close, breathing deeply.

Pleasure to meet you, Ada. I’m Asher Brody.

The words rumbled close to her ear, and as they crystallised in her brain she used her grip on his jacket to thrust him away.

I knew you looked familiar. I met your brother, Oren. His fiancée used to be my flatmate. She reassessed the man in front of her, mentally calling up the few times Grace had mentioned her new beau’s younger brother. Foreign correspondent, worked in the Middle East—not much detail, but nothing memorably negative.

Asher’s smile had weakened considerably. Don’t worry, it’s been so long since I wore a tux that I didn’t recognize myself at first, either.

And you’re missing the houndstooth scarf, she added, thinking of the byline photo that accompanied his articles in the Phoenix, the London broadsheet the brothers had bought to save from closure. I always thought that was a nice touch. Will the same photo be appearing on the back of the book?

Maybe. He shoved his hands in his pockets and she grinned in surprise.

Look at that, one mention of his high-profile book deal and he goes all bashful. Are you sure you’re a journalist? Because all the other egos in that ballroom are so overinflated I barely squeezed through the door.

Speaking of which, we should probably—

His sentence was cut off as a muffled chime rang through the door. A window far above their heads was open, and Ada could just make out a woman’s voice booming over the sound system inside.

Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. The ceremony for the sixty-seventh annual British Journalists’ Association Awards will begin in five minutes.

Ada wrinkled her nose, not looking forward to spending the next several hours smiling politely, constantly aware of the live-broadcast TV camera. Not that your average joe was likely to tune in to a satellite news channel to watch reporters get awards for Best Small-Business News Story, but then she wasn’t trying to raise money from your average joe.

On the other hand, the media investors, foundations, and corporate contributors with the power to make or break her next project would be glued to the screen.

The reluctant, parting pleasantry was half-formed on her tongue when Asher moved past her to open the door and his rock-hard thigh brushed her own.

Heat arrowed up her abdomen with such force she had to check to make sure her dress hadn’t caught fire. She glanced up and down the empty road, oddly worried some passing stranger might’ve seen her flash of arousal, then took another look at the man beside her.

Flirty and funny and hot.

And turning to her with a bemused smile.

The door’s locked.

She rolled her eyes. Perfect. We’ll have to walk all the way around to the front.

And get into the event with what credentials?

The ones in my purse. On the table. Inside. She exhaled, exasperated.

We might be able to explain our way through security, but let’s try another door first.

A shift in the wind blew freezing mist over her bare arms, and she shivered as she followed him around the corner of the enormous building. Only two small, high windows and a single door interrupted the vast expanse of brick. Her heels clipped along the pavement as she hurried after him, oddly unnerved by the suddenly fortress-like feel of the back of the hotel.

Asher must’ve heard her picking up the pace, because he paused until she caught up, watching her approach over his shoulder.

What are you doing out here, anyway? he asked when she came level with his elbow.

Quick constitutional in the refreshing evening air. What are you doing?

Not smoking. He smiled conspiratorially, and he immediately became her favorite Brody brother.

Let’s hurry back into the event neither of us were in any way avoiding.

He nodded, moving to the door. Her heart sank when she realised it didn’t even have an external handle, just a lock, but Asher was undeterred. He leaned down, squinted at the gap between the door and the frame, then pulled a small, metal tool from his inner coat pocket. He slid it along the gap, then wedged his fingertips in the space and shoved the door open.

"Reporter and cat burglar," she remarked, impressed.

Merely in possession of overconfidence and a broken screwdriver. He gestured for her to precede him inside.

Cigarettes, a screwdriver… What else have you got in that tuxedo jacket? She gave him a deliberately suggestive up-and-down scan. From the tips of his polished-toed shoes to the roots of his impossibly soft-looking hair, Asher Brody was six-feet-plus of pure temptation.

All the secrets of the universe, of course. And a handkerchief.

She stole a look at him as she stepped inside, catching the coy lift of his lips before he closed the door, plunging them into near-total darkness.

She may not be an expert on the mating habits of the British male, but she knew a flirt when she saw one. Asher was sexy. She was single. And in less than a month she’d be gone, never to see him again.

What she wouldn’t do for something simple and strings-free with someone like him. She resolved to find him after the ceremony, loosen him up, gauge his willingness for what she had in mind.

If they ever got to the ceremony.

Where are we? she asked. Before the door closed she got a brief impression of a corridor, but the muffled sound of her voice made her think they were somewhere much smaller.

I think we’re behind the stage. Here, take my hand. Don’t want to lose you back here.

His voice was closer than she expected, his palm big and warm and a little rough where it closed over her fingers. Heat prickled up her arm at his touch and she grinned into the darkness. Nothing lit her fire like risk and recklessness, and this scenario had potential for both.

Do you know where we’re going? she asked as he tugged her into motion.

No idea.

She clung to his hand, the room so dark she could’ve closed her eyes and gotten the same view. Somehow Asher saw through to another door and yanked them through it into a vaguely lighter but still mostly pitch-black space with a dusty, unaired smell. The toe of her shoe caught on what she realised was a low-angled ramp, which she clattered up behind Asher. At the top he spun to face her, his sudden halt sending her slamming into his chest.

Sorry, he murmured, and she could feel the rumble of his voice through his chest. I think it’s a dead end.

She pivoted to turn back the way they came, hands extended in front of her to feel her way through the darkness. Her fingertips brushed fabric and she recoiled in surprise, then reached out again.

Is this a…curtain?

She heard Asher shift beside her, felt the heavy, rough fabric ripple as he touched it.

Are we—

The boom of a woman’s voice drowned out her words, confirming her fear. The announcement informed the audience the ceremony was about to begin, and its volume and distortion told her they were positioned somewhere behind the speakers.

We’re trapped backstage, she whispered.

We’re not trapped. It doesn’t make sense to have a door that leads directly to the stage and nowhere else. We just have to find our way out.

We should go all the way outside and around to the front of the hotel. I can barely see my hand in front of my face.

Agreed. Except…

She arched a brow as she turned back to Asher, who she could swear had moved closer. Except?

They’ve started the live broadcast. No one in or out until the break. We can’t get into the ballroom for fifteen minutes, at least.

An extra fifteen minutes with Asher instead of applauding politely for awards she didn’t care about. Not exactly the end of the world.

Want to go sit in the bar? she asked.

Or we could stay here.

She didn’t need to see him to hear the intent in his words. The slightly gruff edge to his voice tightened her nipples, and an unspeakably naughty throb of arousal began to pulse between her legs.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such an intense, instant attraction to someone—or such a unique opportunity to take advantage of it. Too dark to see each other, forced to find their way solely through touch, taste, smell…

He was close enough for her to feel the heat of his body, hear every tiny rustle of his crisp shirt as he breathed in and out. She wanted to undo those shiny black buttons and touch the firm, muscled chest beneath. Let him unhook the clasp behind her neck, peel down the top of her dress and help himself to her breasts. Guide him to his knees, yank her already-soaked panties down her thighs and give herself over to his smooth-talking tongue.

Why, Mr. Brody, I thought you’d never ask.

Usually I wouldn’t. And…I probably won’t, again.

She nodded, understanding perfectly, then realised he couldn’t see her. I get it.

I don’t—I mean, I’m not the type to—but there’s something—

I get it, she repeated firmly, cutting off his out-loud overthink that she knew would end in him changing his mind.

She didn’t know why Asher felt the need to make it clear he wasn’t normally a one-time guy, and she didn’t care. Once was all she wanted—all she allowed herself these days. She’d spent too many years shackled to an ex who’d never truly cared about her.

Now she was making up for lost time.

She could practically smell the second-guessing in his silence, so she pressed herself against him, flattening her palms on his chest.

Come on, Asher. I want this. You want this. We have at least fifteen minutes to kill. What’s the worst that can happen?

She felt his body relax beneath her fingers. Then his hands found her waist, and she caught a glimpse of white teeth in the darkness.

I thought you had a screening process for closet encounters, she murmured, her fingers finding the soft, warm skin above his crisp shirt collar.

This isn’t a closet. At least, I don’t think it is.

Then I’m all yours.

His mouth found hers with impressive confidence, lips landing as surely as if they’d stood under the midday sun instead of in near-total darkness.

Ever since her ex repaid five years of her devotion with a stony-faced breakup line, she wasn’t the type to waste time on what-if, will-he-won’t-he, or am-I-making-a-mistake. She was glad to see Asher was the same—at least for now.

Servicing a man’s ego was her past. Brief, hot, preferably anonymous encounters were her now. Scratch the itch and move on, light and free and unencumbered by someone else’s baggage. No second dates, no morning-after breakfasts. No commitments. No consequences.

Deciding later wasn’t an option made now all the more important. Asher kissed her with