“Kitchen supplies, linens, electronics. I haven’t labeled anything because that’s not something my undercover character would do.”
“Ah, yes. You’re supposed to be Brady Gilliam, former alcoholic and artist from San Francisco, who inherited a house not far from the Lost Lamb Ranch.”
“And you’re my wife, Patty.”
She frowned. “How come you get to keep your first name and I don’t?”
“Petra is an unusual name. If somebody goes snooping around on the internet, looking for information on midwives, they might make the connection to your real identity.”
He already had her documentation in hand—a fake California driver’s license and social security card. Apparently, he’d been confident that she’d agree to his proposal before he’d even talked to her. Although she didn’t like to think of herself as predictable, his conclusion was totally logical, given what happened the first time they’d met. She was someone who took action. And she didn’t hesitate to protect the helpless.
To establish the rest of her undercover identity, Brady did a computer consultation with the FBI computer techs. They produced a dossier on Patty Gilliam’s history, including a website and online presence.
She didn’t love the persona they’d created. “Why do I need to have a criminal record for passing bad checks?”
“If you’re too squeaky clean, the scumbags won’t be able to relate to you.”
He returned to his minivan and dragged out a beat-up, filthy tarp. He didn’t ask for her help, but stretching the tarp over the boxes would be easier with two people.
She picked up one end. “This thing looks like it went through a cattle stampede.”
“Brady Gilliam wouldn’t have a new tarp.”
“Oh, good. Now you’re referring to yourself in the third person.”
“I’m not Gilliam yet.”
She helped him spread the tarp and tie it down. “Where did Brady Gilliam get all this stuff?”
“I had some of it shipped from my home in Arlington, and I found the rest in army surplus and secondhand stores.”
“You’re kind of a compulsive planner, aren’t you?”
He said nothing, which was fine with her. The question had been rhetorical. His compulsiveness was a given.
That tendency made him extremely vulnerable to teasing. She hadn’t forgotten how he’d embarrassed her with his off-handed, unexpected marriage proposal, and she intended to get even.
He finished with the tarp and stepped back to admire his handiwork. “Thanks for volunteering the use of your truck.”
“Sure thing.” He’d already changed her Colorado license plates to California. “I don’t even mind that you think my sweet, red, Toyota pickup is beat-up enough to belong to the itinerant Gilliam couple. I mean, sure, she’s got a little rust and a couple of dents, but she looks good for a twelve-year-old truck.”
“She’s also got an oil leak and needs a tune-up.” He patted the side of the truck. “I could fix that for you.”
“You?”
“My grandpa owns a car repair shop. I’ve worked for him since I was teenager.”
A surprising bit of info. “You don’t seem like the type who’d get his hands dirty.”
“I wear gloves.”
“Of course you do.”
He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. With his stubble and his sweat and his background as a car mechanic, he almost didn’t seem like a fed … almost. He gave a nod. “I think we’re ready to go.”
“Really?” Not until I get my revenge. “Is that what you’re going to wear?”
He looked down at his black T-shirt and cargo pants. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Nothing, if you’re Brady Masters, FBI agent. In that identity, it makes sense for you to wear a fitted black T-shirt and khaki cargo pants that still look new.”
“They are new. Bought them yesterday.”
“If you’re going to pass yourself off as Brady Gilliam, we’re going to have to grunge you up.”
He faced her directly, and she had a momentary flashback to her sexy dreams. Whether he was a fed or an artist or anything else, Brady was a fine-looking man—tall and lean with wide shoulders. Although his gray eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, the lower half of his face was expressive. When amused, his dimple appeared. Most of the time, his jaw was tight and determined—like it was right now.
“What makes you an expert on grunge?” he asked.
“Dude, I grew up in San Francisco and I went to college at Berkeley. I know what starving artists look like.”
“Fine,” he muttered. “I’m open to suggestions.”
“Untuck your shirt and take off your socks.”
Reluctantly, he did as she said. He cringed as he stuck his bare feet into his running shoes. “Happy?”
“Those sneakers look like they just walked out of a mall. Maybe you should wear sandals.”
“I don’t like sandals.”
“You need to loosen up. Let your toes come out and breathe.” She thoroughly enjoyed giving him a hard time. “And you’ve got to lose the wristwatch.”
His right hand coiled protectively around his gold watchband. “Not the watch.”
“Artists don’t pay attention to time. Gilliam isn’t the kind of guy who punches a time clock or makes appointments.”
“It’s a long drive. I’ll take off the watch when we’re close to Durango.”
Her next bit of supposedly well-meaning advice was sure to push him over the edge. “You know what would make you really look like an out-of-work artist?”
“What?”
“A tattoo. Maybe a dragon starting on your wrist, going all the way up your arm and wrapping around your throat.”
He recoiled as though she’d splashed him in the face with a bucket of ice water. “No tats. No way.”
She smiled sweetly. Payback was fun. “I’m teasing.”
“That was a joke?”
“I just wanted to get under your skin, no pun intended.”
He exhaled through flared nostrils as he rubbed his un-tattooed forearm. “This undercover stuff doesn’t come easy for me. I have to work at it.”
“Because you’re not a good liar?”
“Lying doesn’t bother me. I have a hard time acting like somebody else. It’s not natural. Cole suggested that I set up Brady Gilliam to reflect as much of my core personality as possible.” He stuck his hand into his pocket. “Speaking of Gilliam, I should give you this ring.”
She took the wedding band from him. To her surprise, it wasn’t a cheap dime store ring. The band was white gold with a Celtic knot design. “Brady, this is beautiful.”
“Even if I was a struggling artist and all-around failure, I’d want my beloved wife to have something special. That’s the only kind of marriage I can imagine.”
Just when she was beginning to think that she had the upper hand, he had disarmed her. She slipped the ring onto her finger. “A perfect fit.”
“I’m glad you