The Thief and the Agent

By Cat Johnson

The man named Emmett Wilder has a secret. So does the man pretending to be him…

 

Emmett Roland Wilder built a life and a fortune operating in the gray areas of society all while shunning his family heritage and the Wilder name. 

 

But when a man from his past pretends to be him, he has to step out of the shadows to save himself and those depending on him from the FBI agent determined to take down the imposter, but who, in the process, has stumbled upon the real Emmett and his long hidden past…

 

Author Cat Johnson returns to small town Tennessee, following the fan-favorite Wilder Brothers with Emmett's story and a twist,  and a romance, you never saw coming!

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cat Johnson
• Release date: May 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798201240004

Cat Johnson

New York Times & USA Today bestselling contemporary romance author Cat Johnson. Sign up at catjohnson.net/news to get new release and sale alerts.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Ametallic tinkling sound heralded Emmett’s arrival to everyone inside as he ducked to avoid hitting his head on the bell that hung above the door.

The blonde behind the long-scarred bar on the left wall raised her gaze and smiled as he headed in her direction.

Draft, please, Jennie. Pint.

The blonde narrowed her eyes at him before grabbing a pint glass and pulling the tap. Emmett Roland. I’ve been serving you at this bar for going on fifteen years now. You think I can’t remember what you drink?

Emmett smiled. Oh, I know you can. You’re worlds smarter than me, Jennie, and always have been.

And there you go, flashing those baby blues at me from under that gorgeous thick dark mop of Elvis hair. You always were a flirt. She planted the beer in front of him on top of a cardboard coaster advertising some fancy low-carb ale he’d never drink.

Am I a flirt? he asked with a grin, reaching for the cold glass before taking a swallow of the hoppy, aromatic brew.

Now you’re flashing those dimples at me. Me, a happily married woman. She winked at him, teasingly.

Emmett clutched his hand to his heart. Please. Don’t remind me how I missed my chance. My only consolation is that you ended up marrying one of my best friends. He’s a way better man than me, but still, even he can only come close to deserving you, Jennie darlin’.

Are you flirting with my wife again? Russ asked, coming up behind him and squeezing the back of Emmett’s neck.

Always. Emmett grinned.

Can we talk? Russ’s tone was suddenly serious.

Yeah, of course. He picked up the pint, grabbing a bar napkin for the condensation already forming on the glass, and followed Russ to a table in the back corner. When they were seated, he asked, What’s up?

A woman was in here about an hour ago… Russ began, his gaze on Emmett’s. "She was asking for Emmett Wilder."

Emmett’s brows rose at the name he hadn’t heard—or been known by—for over twenty years. What the hell?

My sentiments exactly. Especially when she pulled out her ID. FBI.

FBI? That tidbit proved to be an eye opener.

Yeah. I was a little worried too until she showed me a picture of the ‘Emmett Wilder’ she was looking for.

Confused by Russ’s use of air quotes as much as by his statement, Emmett shook his head. What do you mean?

He was Emmett Wilder. At least he used to be. That’s what it said on his birth certificate and the driver’s license he’d gotten at sixteen, right about the time he’d dropped the name Wilder forever in favor of using his middle name—his mother’s maiden name.

Now he was Emmett Roland in every way that counted.

Russ was one of only a handful of people in the world who even knew he’d once upon a time been a Wilder. Russ and this FBI woman, apparently.

She showed me this picture. Russ turned his cell to face Emmett. Recognize him?

The man in the photo—a mug shot, which was fitting—had even less of the thin blond hair than he’d had ten years ago, but the weaselly thin pale face was the same.

There was no doubt in Emmett’s mind who it was. That mother fucker. Todd Marshall—

Stole your identity, Russ finished Emmett’s thought. And he’s committing cons all over the country using your name.

And now he’s got the feds after him, Emmett’s pulse sped as the full ramifications of exactly how bad that was hit him.

His friend spelled it out for him anyway, saying, Which means they’re also looking for you.

Shit.

Exactly.

He raised his gaze to Russ. How many years has he been up to this bullshit? Did she say?

Russ shook his head. I don’t know.

He’d bet it began not too long after that job ten years ago. Possibly for a decade this guy had been racking up crimes—probably felonies, obviously at least one arrest—all in Emmet’s name.

Emmett frowned. He must have some kind of fake identification. I mean, that’s a mug shot. He’s in the system, with my name.

Russ tipped his head. Dude. You know what’s possible. He leaned forward and lowered his voice to say, You’ve made a fortune doing stuff way more complicated than simple identity theft.

Emmett clenched his jaw. He might live life in the gray areas of the law but he did it for good reasons. There was no doubt in his mind that Todd didn’t help anyone but himself.

What did you tell this fed? he asked Russ, worried.

Russ’s black brows shot up at the question, but he answered, Told her I don’t know anyone named Wilder and I never saw that guy in the picture before in my life.

You think she believed you?

Of course, she believed me. I’m the owner of the finest bar in the town of Lick Skillet, Tennessee.

The Longhorn was also the only bar in town, but Emmett didn’t mention that.

Russ continued, Look, you turned your grandparents’ struggling farm into a billion-dollar brand raising prize winning bucking bulls. It’s obvious the guy in this picture isn’t you. She’ll assume exactly what happened. A criminal stole your identity. You got nothing to worry about.

And if she looks into me and the Roland business a little deeper? Emmett asked.

This wasn’t some local sheriff. This was the FBI. They had resources.

Russ cringed. Then you might have to worry. Oh. I almost forgot. She gave me this. Told me if I did remember anything, call.

He slid a business card across the time-worn but clean wooden table. Emmett picked up the card and read the agent’s name.

Leila Reyes. The identity of his newest worry. The biggest threat to what he’d built for himself and his grandparents. But this fed was only number two among his top priorities.

Finding that weakling Todd, the bastard who’d dared to impersonate him, that was priority number one.

CHAPTER TWO

The dark colored sedan whizzed past the countryside that some people might consider pretty had they been just passing through on their way to some far-flung vacation destination.

FBI Special Agent Leila Reyes was not this person.

She wasn’t just passing through and she definitely was not on vacation.

Her drive from the field office in Knoxville was about a case. One she considered serious even if her superiors did not, which was why they’d passed it down the chain to her.

She’d joined the Bureau eight years ago, fresh out of college and determined to make a name for herself with the agency before she turned thirty. Not only for the good of the country but for her parents, who had moved from Manila to the States to give their future child the American dream.

When she’d been a new recruit just starting her career in Knoxville the last thing she ever would have thought she’d be doing was spending the night in someplace called Lick Skillet while pursuing a serial cat fisher from Bitter End. Tennessee seemed to have more than its fair share of oddly named small towns.

She’d thought Bitter End—the last known location of Emmett Wilder—had been small. Then she’d hit Lick Skillet—the address listed as Wilder’s official residence with the Tennessee Department of Motor Vehicles—and she had a second small town to rival Bitter End’s size and obscurity.

Odder was the fact that when she’d run the name of the town through the FBI database, there was a hit for a case nearby. Nine years ago, a cache of stolen art was found in a storage locker not all that far from Lick Skillet.

She couldn’t expect anything as exciting as finding priceless stolen treasure on this trip, but she refused to let Lick Skillet be a dead end, even if questioning the owner of the local bar had yielded nothing. Russell Rodriquez was either lying or Wilder hadn’t been back to his hometown in a long awhile.

It would make sense if Wilder hadn’t been back here lately. He’d left a cyber trail of criminal acts across the United States.

His victims hailed from all over the country. The latest was in Kentucky where he’d been incarcerated before heading most recently to Bitter End. But Lick Skillet had been listed as the address on his driver’s license since 2003, so she had to check it out.

Criminals had done much dumber things than thinking they could hide out at their family home and just not answer the door when the FBI came knocking.

Knocking on the door was the plan now as she climbed out of the car. It might not be a complicated plan but sometimes simple was better.

Glancing around as the warm spring air tinged with the aroma of manure surrounded her, she slammed the car door.

She brushed her hands together to clean her fingertips of the road dust that now coated the once black car and glanced around as she listened for sounds of a quick getaway attempt out the back door while she stood in front of the house.

The government plates were barely visible beneath the bugs and dirt, but a true criminal would recognize the make and model of an official vehicle when they saw one. And Emmett Wilder—thirty-one, blond hair, brown eyes, five-foot-eight and a half inches tall—was a true criminal.

A con man and cat fisher extraordinaire.

He preyed on women and that was something she would not abide. He left them broke and broken hearted. There were legions of women across the country this man—and she used the term man lightly—had taken advantage of, and she was certain they hadn’t even located all of his victims.

Most of the women got away with just being left with a few thousand in debt and a bad taste in their mouths when he moved on. But he’d cleaned out one elderly woman completely. A senior citizen’s whole life savings.

He’d lied under oath at the trial, hid that money in crypto and then crossed state lines. That was the job that would put him away for a good long time. The Bureau had the evidence now that they hadn’t had during the first trial.

Then, he’d only gotten convicted as an accessory. Now, there was enough to try and convict him to the fullest extent of the law. For financial exploitation and abuse, and theft. Not as an accessory but rather as the mastermind of the job, thanks to an anonymous tip.

She loathed anonymous tips in general—honest individuals with information about a crime should step forward, not hide—but in this case she was grateful for whatever she could get.

The evidence had arrived in late December, like a Christmas gift that would wrap up Emmett Wilder’s case in a nice big bow—if she could locate him.

It took the file six months to land on her desk. The agent who’d gotten the case first made a half-assed attempt, doing not much more than tracking down and then calling the family who owned Wilder Brothers Inc., in Bitter End, Tennessee.

The Wilders claimed Emmett had worked for them for a short period, but denied seeing or hearing from him since he left town. Maybe he did go to ground until the heat was off. And what better place to lay low than in Lick Skillet in the house owned by his maternal grandparents?

She turned back toward the car, her shoes crunching on the gravel drive where she’d parked in front of a well maintained but modest old farmhouse.

With a flutter of excitement low in her gut as she anticipated seeing Emmett for herself soon, she opened the back door of the vehicle.

Bending to reach for her bag, she heard, Can I help you?

It was a deep, rich, masculine voice that sent a tingle straight through to her core. She spun to find that the voice came with a tingle-worthy visual, as well.

The man who stood at the bottom of the porch steps was a walking, talking, tall, dark and handsome cliche—who also looked slightly annoyed by her presence.

Hi. Nice little town you’ve got here, she began.

Is it? I guess I don’t have all that much to compare it to, he said, arms crossed as his piercing blue gaze pinned her where she stood.

You don’t get to travel much? she asked.

She usually liked to play with her interviewees for a bit. Get them talking freely. See if they’d spill anything they hadn’t meant to. But if she continued the banter with this guy and his overabundance of testosterone, she’d start drooling. Odd, since she hadn’t had any use for men for the past couple of years no matter how good looking they were. And this guy certainly was that.

Not if I can help it, he said, the timbre of his voice sounding impossibly deeper.

Enough small talk. She stepped forward, ID on display and her hand out. I’m Leila Reyes with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

His gaze flicked to her FBI credentials then back to her face. His only reply was the slightest nod. He did not shake her hand.

So it was going to be like that then.

He wasn’t going to give anything up. She could see that already.

She’d found in her years with the bureau there were those who got verbal diarrhea in the face of a federal agent, spilling everything about everyone they could think of. Then there were those who battened down the hatches. Everything they knew stayed locked tight in the vault, including their name.

At least that was the case for this fine specimen of masculinity who had yet to provide his to her.

Withdrawing her unshaken hand, she said, I’m looking for Emmett Wilder.

Just when she thought he was going to remain silent, he finally said, Why?

I’d like to ask him a few questions.

Those dark brows cocked up. Long drive from Knoxville just to ask a few questions.

She lifted a shoulder. What can I say? I’m an overachiever.

He knew where the closest FBI field office was. He also hadn’t seemed at all surprised that she was with the bureau.

Gossip traveled fast in small towns. She could only guess the news of her being in town had spread in the time it took her to check into a hotel room and grab a sandwich after leaving the bar before coming here.

Mind if I ask what you’re wanting to ask him? he asked.

Mind if I ask with whom I’m speaking? she countered his question with one of her own.

For some reason that had the corner of his mouth tipping up.

All you had to do was ask. Now he did extend his hand. Emmett Roland Wilder, at your service.

She frowned.

This was not the same man from the picture in her file. Not the same man who’d served time in Kentucky.

Even if he had somehow managed to get hair implants—and plastic surgery and colored contacts—he couldn’t have grown close to a foot taller in the last year.

Something the matter, Agent Reyes? It was his turn to withdraw his unshaken hand as she stared at him, struck mute as her mind worked out what could have happened.

She opened her mouth and closed it again. A dozen questions spinning in her head, she finally settled on one point. You’re Emmett Wilder?

That’s what’s on my birth certificate, but I dropped the Wilder going on twenty years now and just use my middle name. Everyone around here knows me as Emmett Roland. I was named for my grandparents. They raised me after Mom passed.

She flashed back to the name she’d seen painted on the mailbox at the end of the long drive—Roland Bucking Bulls.

Mr. Wild—um—Roland, she began as her brain worked out one possible scenario. I think we’d better go inside, sit down and have a talk. I’m afraid I might have some disturbing news for you.

He appeared only mildly surprised as he nodded. Sure. Come on in. I think Grams has some cake left. Would you like some tea? Or perhaps coffee?

An FBI agent showed up unannounced and asked for him by name saying she had bad news and all he wanted to know was if she’d like coffee or tea?

This man might not be the Emmett Wilder she was looking for, but something was off here and she intended to find out what it was.

CHAPTER THREE

TEN YEARS AGO

E mmett. What’s up with you, man? Why are you so jumpy?

At the sound of his name, Emmett raised his gaze from the contents of the bag he’d been checking to glare at Barry, the heavyset guy sitting next to him and taking up more than his share of the pick-up truck’s cramped backseat.

I’m not jumpy, he corrected, brushing a lock of dark brown hair out of his eye.

He’d been liberating items, both big and small, for a decade. Since before he’d even had a driver’s license. He’d had to. There’d been some lean years after his father died. Back when his mom was still alive.

There were still lean years now living with his grandparents. Ranching was not only hard work, but it also didn’t exactly provide a steady income.