Undercover Husband

“You get an A.” He took his arm from around her. “Come on. Let’s see if the Prophet will grant us an interview.”

No one said anything as they headed toward the motor home, but Walt could feel dozens of eyes on them. No one was rushing to welcome the new converts with open arms, that was for sure. Was it because they were waiting to take their cue from Metwater? Or had the Prophet instilled suspicion of all outsiders in his followers?

They mounted the steps to the RV and Walt rapped hard on the door. After a moment it opened and Andi Matheson answered. Andi—or Asteria, as she called herself now—had had more contact with the Rangers than anyone else in camp, but she showed no sign of recognition as she stared at Walt. “Yes?”

“We’d like to see the Prophet,” he said. “We—my wife and I—” he indicated Hannah “—are big admirers of his and would like to join the group.”

She nodded, as if this made perfect sense, and held the door open wider. “Come in.”

The interior of the RV was dim and cool, the living room filled with a leather sofa and several upholstered chairs. Andi indicated they should sit, then disappeared through an archway into the back of the vehicle.

Walt sat on the sofa and Hannah settled next to him. She was breathing shallowly, and he could almost feel the nervousness rolling off her in waves. He gripped her hand and squeezed. “It’s going to be okay,” he said.

She nodded, and didn’t pull away.

“The woman who let us in is Andi Matheson,” Walt said, keeping his voice low.

Hannah nodded. “I read about her online. She’s the daughter of someone famous, right?”

“Her father is Senator Pete Matheson—though right now he’s serving time for murdering an FBI agent.”

“She’s obviously pregnant,” Hannah said. “Is Metwater the father?”

“No,” Walt said. “That would be the man the senator killed.”

Hannah’s face softened with sympathy. “How terrible for her.”

“She seems to have settled in nicely with Metwater,” Walt said.

There wasn’t a clock in the room, so he had no idea how long they waited, though he thought it might have been as long as ten minutes. “What’s taking so long?” Hannah whispered.

Just then, Andi reappeared from the back of the RV. “The Prophet will see you,” she said.

Walt and Hannah stood and started toward Andi. She held up a hand. “He doesn’t want to see you together,” she said. She turned to Hannah. “He wants to interview you first. Alone.”

Chapter Five

“I don’t think—” Walt began, but Hannah interrupted him.

“I don’t mind talking with him by myself.” She assumed what she hoped was an eager expression. “It would be a privilege to meet the Prophet.” Was that laying it on too thick? Probably not, for a man who had the nerve to refer to himself as the Prophet.

Andi turned to Walt. “You can wait outside,” she said. “I’ll call you when it’s your turn.”

Walt turned to Hannah. “If you’re sure?”

“I’ll be fine.” After all, it wasn’t as if Metwater was going to do anything with Andi right here and a bunch of other people around. And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t had experience fending off fresh men. Even if Metwater was the lecher Walt had made him out to be, Hannah could handle him.

Walt left, then Andi put on a broad-brimmed hat and headed for the door also. “Where are you going?” Hannah asked.

“The Prophet wants to speak with you alone,” she said, and left, the door clicking shut behind her.

Hannah hugged her arms across her chest and walked to the window, but heavy shades blocked any view out—or in. She took a deep breath, fighting for calm. She shouldn’t be afraid of Metwater. Walt was close by if she needed anything. She needed to keep her head and use this opportunity to learn as much as possible about the Prophet, and about Emily and Joy.

“Please, have a seat. I want you to be comfortable.”

She turned and stared at the man who spoke. Metwater—and this had to be Metwater—was almost naked, wearing only a pair of low-slung, loose lounge pants in some sort of silky fabric. The kind of thing she’d seen Hugh Hefner wear in old photographs. At the thought, she had to stifle a laugh.

“Please share what you find so amusing.” Barefoot, he moved into the room with the sensual grace of a panther, lamplight gleaming on the smooth muscles of his chest and arms and stomach. Curly dark hair framed a face like Michelangelo’s David, the shadow of beard adding a masculine roughness.

All mirth deserted her as he moved closer still, stopping when he was almost touching her, so that she could feel the heat of his body, smell his musk and see the individual lashes that framed his dark eyes. He stared at her, crowding her personal space, stripping away her privacy. She found it impossible to look away from that gaze—the hypnotic stare of a predator.

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