Undercover Babies

  Suddenly he heard a strangled cry coming from the shower

  Without thinking, Mac threw back the curtain.

  “What is it…Grace? What’s wrong?”

  Stark naked, she stared at him with wide eyes. Her mouth formed a perfect little O.

  Even as he tried to reassure her that she was okay, he couldn’t help but absorb the details of her body.

  An unexpected heat of desire knocked him on his heels. Good to know past betrayals hadn’t killed every impulse in his body, but talk about poor timing. He tried to turn away, but Grace ran shaky hands across her flat tummy.

  And then he finally understood her distress.

  Across her belly, vertical lines, so faint they were all but invisible.

  The lines a woman’s abdomen acquires as her body stretches to accommodate a pregnancy.

  She was somebody’s mother.

  Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

  As we ring in a new year, we have another great month of mystery and suspense coupled with steamy passion.

  Here are some juicy highlights from our six-book lineup:

  Julie Miller launches a new series, THE PRECINCT, beginning with Partner-Protector. These books revolve around the rugged Fourth Precinct lawmen of Kansas City whom you first fell in love with in the TAYLOR CLAN series!

  Rocky Mountain Mystery marks the beginning of Cassie Miles’s riveting new trilogy, COLORADO CRIME CONSULTANTS, about a network of private citizens who volunteer their expertise in solving criminal investigations.

  Those popular TOP SECRET BABIES return to our lineup for the next four months!

  Gothic-inspired tales continue in our spine-tingling ECLIPSE promotion.

  And don’t forget to look for Debra Webb’s special Signature Spotlight title this month: Dying To Play.

  Hopefully we’ve whetted your appetite for January’s thrilling lineup. And be sure to check back every month to satisfy your craving for outstanding suspense reading.

  Enjoy!

  Denise O’Sullivan

  Senior Editor

  Harlequin Intrigue

  UNDERCOVER BABIES

  ALICE SHARPE

  This book is dedicated, with love, to my son,

  Officer Joseph Sharpe.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Alice Sharpe met her husband-to-be on a cold, foggy beach in Northern California. One year later they were married. Their union has survived the rearing of two children, a handful of earthquakes registering over 6.5, numerous cats and a few special dogs, the latest of which is a yellow Lab named Annie Rose. Alice and her husband now live in a small rural town in Oregon, where she devotes the majority of her time to pursuing her second love, writing.

  Alice loves to hear from readers. You can write her at P.O. Box 755, Brownsville, OR 97327. SASE for reply is appreciated.

  Books by Alice Sharpe

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  746—FOR THE SAKE OF THEIR BABY

  823—UNDERCOVER BABIES

  SILHOUETTE ROMANCE

  1137—GOING TO THE CHAPEL

  1212—MISSING: ONE BRIDE

  1304—WIFE ON HIS DOORSTEP

  1425—PRIM, PROPER…PREGNANT

  1525—THE BABY SEASON

  1725—MAKE ME A MATCH

  SILHOUETTE YOURS TRULY

  IF WISHES WERE HEROES

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Grace—She wakes up in an alley, dressed in rags, with no idea who she is or where she belongs. Only an overpowering anxiety and the marks on her body that signify she has given birth keep her going.

  Travis “Mac” MacBeth—The former whistle-blowing cop, now a private detective, was abandoned early in his life by his mother. He makes it his mission to reunite Grace with the baby she can’t remember.

  Police Chief Barry—For political reasons, he’s mounting a vendetta against Mac that will keep him from reclaiming the career he loves. Is there nothing Barry won’t do to discredit Mac?

  Beatrice Dally—Mac’s elderly aunt. She senses immediately that Grace isn’t a homeless addict and helps Mac recognize the first clue to her identity.

  Elvis—Who is this flamboyant Elvis impersonator, and why does he keep showing up at the most opportune of times?

  Casey Bellows—How does this terrifying killer always seem to stay one step ahead?

  Doctor Daniel Priestly—The doctor of Boward Key, Florida. Has this arrogant, autocratic man set in motion the disaster that befalls Grace, or is it Grace’s past catching up with her as he insists?

  Paula Priestly—Though she always has and still does support her husband without reservation, she’s also been a friend to Grace when she needed one.

  Officer Neville Dryer—This lawman makes it clear he believes Grace’s unsavory past is responsible for her current problems.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  The minute she opened her eyes, she knew everything was wrong.

  The coarse pavement on which she half sat, half lay. The iron stairs disappearing up the side of the cinder block building above. The row of padlocked doors, each with no number, no window. The Dumpster she leaned against. The crumpled cardboard boxes. The dark crevices. The pervading stink of rot and abandoned hope. All wrong.

  And the rain. Half sleet. Cold. Icy. Miserable.

  Wrong.

  She tried sitting straighter and felt a sharp pain in her left shoulder. She rubbed it with numb fingers. The tattered sleeve of her red-and-black plaid coat alarmed her. She checked out the rest of her clothing. No hat. That explained the rain dripping off the end of her nose. Grungy gray pants, no socks, brown boots that looked and felt as though they belonged to someone else, a man, maybe.

  She got to her feet, her bare toes rubbing against the wet leather. She ached, head to toe.

  What was she doing dressed this way? What was she doing in this alley?

  Another question knocked her back against the Dumpster.

  Who was she?

  Panic pushed the air out of her lungs, left her gasping. She racked the recesses of her memory, pleading with the synapses to wake up. Give me a name, a purpose, a home, something…anything, she begged. Moments passed and she found herself still lost in a fog as murky and unfathomable as the gray puddles at her feet.

  Lost, inside and out.

  She looked up and down the gloomy alley. No answers, but one end looked brighter than the other and the light drew her. Within a few halting steps, an uneven edge of worn pavement caught the toe of her boot and sent her plummeting to the ground. She landed in a heap, one cheek imbedded in gravel, the other pelted by biting rain. For a while, she lacked the drive, the energy, the will to move. Eventually, survival instincts kicked in and she struggled back to her feet.

  Gray mud dripped off the front of her coat. A new tear in her pants rubbed against a matching slash in her knee as she staggered forward. Reaching the light at the end of the alley became a goal of tantamount importance. Salvation lay in the light.

  The sound of footsteps from behind startled her and she stumbled to one side of the alley, cowering near a short flight of cement steps all but obscured by soggy drifts of wet newspaper. The approaching figure evolved into a man with a stride so menacing she couldn’t look away though she yearned to do so. Her heart thundered in her chest as he came abreast.

  Rain hammered the brim of his hat, the shoulders of his black mackintosh. Pau
sing, he stared straight at her, eyes as dark and flat as the shadows from which he’d materialized. If she’d harbored even a glimmer of hope that she could turn to this man for aid, it died in that instant.

  And then he moved off toward the coveted light at the end of the alley. Shivering as rivulets of freezing water found their way between her shoulder blades, she fled in the other direction, toward the dark end of the alley, toward an obscurity as far-reaching as the vacuum inside her head.

  TRAVIS H. MACBETH, known to everyone but his favorite aunt as Mac, was sick of the rain. The fact that the new year had just begun and the bulk of winter lay ahead didn’t help. Welcome to Billington, Indiana, January-style.

  He should be home tallying up nice, dry numbers and sipping something hot and fortifying instead of slogging through the wet, cold evening.

  It had all started out so straightforward. Help an old friend’s father collect data in his bid for the next mayoral race. Maybe do some good, maybe shake up the status quo, maybe, if he was really lucky, help give the boot to both the current mayor and Police Chief Barry.

  What Mac hadn’t figured on were his own compulsions.

  At thirty-seven, a private detective with at least two careers behind him, shouldn’t he be wise enough to avoid situations like this one?

  As he sloshed through the sludge, the answer was clear—apparently not.

  Of course, he didn’t need to make the rounds of Billington’s less desirable localities. No one made him walk this dusk patrol and, in fact, he’d been warned by his former partner on the police force that his presence down here annoyed the hell out of the reigning powers that be. Of course, he already knew this. He had the citations for breaking laws no one else even knew existed to prove it.

  As for the street people he encountered? Night after night, the same weary faces regarded him with the same indifference. His presence here warmed no one’s heart, least of all his own.

  He knew it, he just couldn’t seem to stop himself.

  As he approached the alley right before Broadhurst, he slowed his pace. Inside a soggy paper sack, he carried a giant roast beef and Swiss cheese hoagie. He wondered if Jake would be waiting for his sandwich in such horrible weather. On the other hand, where else did the old man have to go? Jake wasn’t a homeless shelter kind of guy.

  So every night on his walk, Mac made it a point to mosey this direction and bring the old boozer a sandwich, one packed with as much protein and as many calories as possible. Jake seemed to appreciate the gesture, so there went Mac’s earlier speculation that no one cared if he patrolled these back streets.

  Jake cared. Well, probably.

  A man had to settle for what he could get.

  From his peripheral vision, Mac saw a dark shape charge from the mouth of the heavily shadowed alley. He braced himself for an attempted mugging, then he recognized Jake’s coat, a red-and-black hunters plaid that always looked out of place buried in the city. He relaxed. Big mistake. The old man plowed into him so hard it rocked Mac on his feet.

  “Damn it, Jake, what in the hell’s going on?” Mac growled as he grabbed bony shoulders and twisted the slight figure away from him. The deli sack bounced against the old man’s chest as Jake wrapped a muscular arm around his attacker’s throat, tight enough to stop further aggression, not so tight as to hurt him. “Since when do you assault people? And jeez, man, what in the world did you tangle with? No offense, but you stink.”

  As he spoke, he moved the two of them into the weak light of a street lamp and was surprised to see how dark the top of Jake’s gray head looked. From the front it had always appeared so gray.

  Jake went slack.

  “That’s better,” Mac said. If turned loose, would Jake attack the next passerby? Mac looked up and down the abandoned street and admitted there likely wouldn’t be a next passerby, not on this wild winter night.

  Old Jake suddenly grumbled a half dozen words in a voice that shook Mac down to his shoes.

  “Jake? Is that my name? Jake?”

  Mac withdrew his arm as he backed away. That wasn’t Jake’s alcohol-soaked slur.

  He found himself staring into the dazed eyes of a young woman in her early twenties. Short black hair lay plastered against her head. Large blue eyes dominated her face though high cheekbones and a surprisingly sensual mouth demanded their share of attention, as well. She seemed half child, half woman, a rather beguiling combination marred only by blue-tinged lips and the aura of fear mingled with shock that hovered around her like the wavering halo around a winter moon.

  She was also wearing Jake’s coat and what looked like his boots.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  She blinked. She looked confused and miserable, and he wished he had an umbrella to offer her.

  “Is Jake my name?” she repeated.

  “You don’t know your name?”

  As she shook her head, his heart sank. She had to be homeless, penniless, adrift in a fog of drugs or booze or mental illness. She had to be someone’s daughter, someone’s lover, a beauty faded before it blossomed with such a shocked look in her eyes that it brought to mind a small animal trapped by a larger one.

  Eyes like his mother’s eyes, so many years ago.

  He resisted the urge to turn away from her but it was there, growing more pronounced by the moment—the desire to turn away, to shield himself from her raw pain and the subsequent feeling of helplessness it engendered in his soul.

  She rubbed her throat where he’d manhandled her.

  “Sorry about that,” he said and, as an act of penance, took off his favorite gray felt hat and pushed it down on her head.

  Engulfed by the hat, she stared at him still, her eyes glittering slits beneath the brim. “Do you know me?” she insisted.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  Her voice turned to a pathetic squeak as she mumbled, “I’m not Jake?”

  “No, but you seem to be wearing his clothes. Where is he?”

  She managed to look even more bewildered and he knew she didn’t have an answer. He also knew he couldn’t leave her like this, nor could he call the cops and risk their sometimes heavy-handed treatment with the down and out, not when it was so obvious she struggled just to stay on her feet. It also wouldn’t help her win hearts if the cops found her with him. There was a shelter within walking distance, one run by two ex-nuns with medical training. He’d take her there.

  But first, he’d make sure she hadn’t clubbed old Jake and stolen his clothes. “Come with me,” he demanded, moving toward the alley.

  She stood her ground, if that teetering sway could be called standing.

  Opening the sack, he produced the hoagie. “Hungry?”

  She stared at the sandwich for a moment before nodding.

  “Then come with me. You can eat while we take a shortcut through this alley.”

  Still, she hesitated though her gaze never left the tightly wrapped hoagie he offered as bait.

  “Listen,” he said, suddenly impatient. It was cold and his head was wet, thanks to the impetuous gift of his hat. He was worried about Jake. He’d testified in court that day and thus wore a suit under his raincoat, which meant he also wore his good shoes that might never recover from standing around in this torrential downpour. The day had been long and arduous, and he still had paperwork to do.

  Taking a couple of powerful steps toward her, wincing as his approach caused her to shrink inside her pilfered clothes, he said, “If I’d wanted to hurt you, I’d have already pulled you into the alley. I wouldn’t have waited around risking pneumonia and I wouldn’t have offered you a perfectly good sandwich. Come with me or stay here, it’s your call.”

  “Don’t leave me,” she pleaded, suddenly straightening her slender body and, for a moment, transcending her environment. She wiped the rain from her face and extended a hand. “Please,” she added.

  He handed her the sandwich and turned away, aware when she fell into step behind him, pleased that she had at leas
t enough street smarts to give herself a little running room in case he turned into an ogre. After all, who knew if she’d stay at the shelter or leave as soon as they fed her properly? If she wound up back on the street, she’d need to be wary if she planned on surviving.

  Wary, like his mom.

  The girl stayed in the middle of the alley, eating her sandwich with a determination that surpassed mere hunger and spoke of elemental need. As she ate, her gaze darted this way and that, as if she expected a ghost—or worse—to materialize at any moment.

  Mac moved aside boxes and shined a small flashlight into dark corners, into Dumpsters, under stairs and in old doorways. The girl stayed close by, moving forward as he did, quiet but watchful. When he upset a nest of empty bottles, the clatter made her jump.

  “Your old stash?” he said with an oblique look.

  She shook her head, thought about it a moment and then shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “Maybe. I…I don’t recall…er…drinking.”

  She smelled as though she did, not only her clothes, but her hair. He didn’t know if Jake smelled like booze. Jake had never allowed Mac close enough to get more than a cursory whiff. Jake was little more than a darting hand, an occasional grunted thanks, a turned back. For that matter, Jake wasn’t really Jake. Mac had pinned that moniker on him.

  They reached the far end of the alley without finding a single sign of Jake. This was the first time Mac had actually entered this particular alley, so there was no way for him to tell if things were the same as usual. After this brief but thorough tour, however, he doubted Jake actually slept there. Not enough cover, not enough privacy. He probably just dropped by at dusk on his way to panhandling drinking money on a busier street, waiting for Mac and his nightly hand-delivered sandwich for fortification.