Undercover Honeymoon

Chapter 1

It was cold.

It was dark.

And I was alone.

But I loved it!

This was what I lived for.

Where I came alive.

Where every single one of my senses was alert, tingling and on fire.

For me, Lizzy Brown InQuest, this was more than just a job.

It was a calling. Catching lying, cheating husbands in the act, with their hands in, on, under, up and around the proverbial cookie jar, was my life.

My trusty camera never lied and I always got my man, or sometimes woman.

My phone rang constantly with desperate people seeking the truth.

And the truth was what I gave them. Truth was my currency.

And the number one truth was this: where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire.

Nine times out of ten, I caught them in the act: in a sleazy motel with their secretary pinned up against the wall (so clichéd), in a bar with their hand up a someone’s skirt (so trashy), bent over a chair and spanking their student (so kinky), and one time in Paris celebrating their one-year anniversary with their mistress while the wife and kids were home alone (so devastating).

I’d seen it all. And I’d also heard just about every single excuse from the cheater’s playbook. It was the first time. It will never happen again. It meant nothing. Blah, blah, blah. I’d even heard The devil made me do it.

I wondered what this guy’s excuse would be as I watched him in the car with the mystery redhead.

Nothing had happened yet, but it was only a matter of time.

His poor wife had been so desperate when she’d walked into my office, their ten-month-old baby in tow.

That had really pissed me off, especially when she’d started blaming herself.

Maybe it’s all my fault. I’ve been so focused on the baby, so tired, I’ve put on weight.

Maybe he doesn’t find me attractive any more, maybe I need to go to Weight Fighters . . .

And then the moment I’d been waiting for. The man leaned over and tangled his fingers in the woman’s fiery tresses. I thought of the poor wife with baby food smeared in her hair. He whispered something into the woman’s ear and then kissed her. My camera fired into action.

Got him!

And then things started heating up. Clothes and body parts were being grabbed at with a kind of mad fervency.

Hubby’s wedding ring glinted in the light as he desperately tore at her shirt, pulling it over her head to reveal perky breasts, abundant and bouncing in red lace.

I thought of his poor wife in her uncomfortable feeding bra and my blood boiled.

I stopped clicking and turned away. I didn’t want to watch this any more. I knew where it was going. And most importantly, I wanted to spare his wife the sordid details. This was more than enough already.

I slipped my camera into my bag, then hoisted myself out of the dumpster with one arm.

My injured rotator cuff gave a tug as I did that.

I’d been dealing with a shoulder injury for a while now.

I wasn’t sure if it had been caused by the rugby I played on a Wednesday evening, the ju-jitsu classes, or the time I spent in the gym lifting weights.

Got to keep yourself strong and fit in my line of work.

Because over the years, I’d had to climb walls, leap off roofs, leopard-crawl through drainpipes, jump out of planes and trains, and run away from dogs, angry husbands, heavily armed cops and even a half-naked politician (who shall remain nameless).

But I loved it.

The intense rush of adrenaline that came from narrowly escaping danger, and the high you got from catching the bad guy.

Obviously my lifestyle came with certain limitations.

I was unmarried and hadn’t been in a serious relationship in, well, ever.

I lived alone in a small apartment that was in desperate need of a clean, and I had a small – ever shrinking – group of friends who grew tired of asking me out, because I never went.

My only companion was Sid, my goldfish. Man, I loved that guy.

He was always there for me. He was quiet, never demanding, and easy to please; a few flakes of fish food and some fresh water always did the trick.

He was the perfect gentleman. If I could find a man like Sid, I might consider settling down.

But alas, I knew different. Because I knew how relationships worked. Or didn’t work. Watching them implode for a living had made me less inclined to believe in ‘ever afters’, and of course there were the lessons my parents had taught me about love too.

No, in my professional opinion, love looked a lot less like forever and more like burner phones, surveillance footage and lies caught on tape.