Dear Reader,
When I came up with the character of Shelby Jacobs, I envisioned her as the sidekick in my first Flipside novel. But it quickly became apparent that this woman was in control of the story. She’s hip, sassy and not afraid to speak her mind.
Sure, her life might be a little out of control at the moment, but she’s working on that. And she knows she’s the bane of Dallas Williams’s existence, but she figures that’s his problem. She only gets in his way when it’s absolutely necessary, and she’s the one fighting their sexual fascination. He’s perfectly willing to throw caution to the wind and complicate their lives unbearably.
I hope you enjoy Shelby’s journey, from getting arrested to rescuing risqué photos to falling for the one man she needs to avoid. I had an absolutely delightful time writing her story, and I’m excited to share it.
If you’d care to drop me a line through my Web site at www.barbaradunlop.com, I’d love to hear from you.
Happy reading.
Barbara Dunlop
“What have you got on her?”
Dallas asked, turning to the uniformed officer.
The arresting officer opened his black notebook. “We have three hundred pirated copies of Midnight Run, two-dozen Uzis, ten AK-47s and a bazooka.”
Shelby sucked in a quick breath. “I didn’t—”
“As your attorney, I’ve advised you to keep your mouth shut.”
Her eyes emitted more sapphire sparks. This time Dallas felt them for sure. Perfect. Sexual awareness. Perhaps one of the officers would be good enough to shoot him now.
“Name?” the desk sergeant repeated.
Shelby mutinously kept her mouth shut.
“You can answer that,” said Dallas with a sigh.
“Why thank you. Shelby Jacobs. I didn’t know about any of the guns. I’ve—”
“Just your name,” interrupted Dallas.
She clamped her jaw shut again and muttered something between her clenched teeth. It was going to be a long night….
Barbara Dunlop
Out of Order
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Flipside author Barbara Dunlop writes romantic comedy stories curled up in a log cabin in Canada’s far north, where bears outnumber people and it snows six months of the year. Fortunately, she has a brawny husband and two teenage children to haul firewood, feed the horses and plow the driveway while she sips cocoa and muses about her upcoming chapters.
A two-time winner of the RWA Golden Heart Award, Barbara has written for the Temptation, Duets and Flipside lines for Harlequin. She loves to travel to writers’ conferences to meet fellow authors and explore new cities—though reporting the first leg of the journey by dogsled can sometimes be exhausting.
Barbara loves to hear from readers in big cities and small towns all over the world. You can contact her through her Web site at www.barbaradunlop.com.
Books by Barbara Dunlop
HARLEQUIN DUETS
54B—THE MOUNTIE STEALS A WIFE
90B—A GROOM IN HER STOCKING
98A—THE WISH-LIST WIFE
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
848—FOREVER JAKE
901—NEXT TO NOTHING!
940—TOO CLOSE TO CALL
For my son, Eric
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
1
WHEN THE COP burst through the front door of Gerry’s Game-O-Rama video arcade with his gun drawn and his eyes suspicious slits in a pug-dog face, Shelby Jacobs should have guessed her day was headed straight downhill.
His partner whipped around the steel-bar reinforced door and Shelby took a startled step away from the cash register, subconsciously getting ready to duck if the bullets started flying.
She’d known when she’d taken this job last week that Black Street wasn’t in the best part of Chicago. But it was the first one she’d been offered. It was near the El Station and only fifteen minutes from her friend Allison’s apartment.
And beggars, as they said, couldn’t be choosers.
“Nobody move,” shouted the pug-dog cop as he hustled between video terminal number six and the Rally Car Challenge, twisting his gun from side to side to keep everybody in his sights. His holster hit a half-empty bag of popcorn, scattering white kernels across the black strip of rubber that disguised a cracked concrete floor.
Cop number two held his position, gun at the ready, eyes scanning the crowd of a dozen or so streetwise teenagers, all but daring somebody to make a sudden move. The gamers’s hands stilled on the controls and the pings and simulated tire squeals died away.
Shelby found it a little hard to believe that desperate criminals would drop in for a round of Midnight Run between heists. But, what did she know? Once you’d robbed the bank, she supposed you had the rest of the day to kill.
Squat and broad-shouldered, his divided chin tipped at an arrogant angle, the pug-dog cop came to a halt in front of Shelby.
Her hand reflexively tightened around a fistful of game tokens as her stomach clenched to the size of a walnut.
He tipped slightly forward, his unibrow dropping even lower over his dark eyes. “I’m lookin’ for Gerry Bonnaducci.”
The unexpected statement surprised the fear right out of her. “You want Gerry?”
“Where is he?”
“What did he do?” Gerry had been right here since ten o’clock this morning. Shelby could vouch for that.
“Put your hands on the counter.” Pug-dog’s voice lowered to a growl as he trained his gun on her.
Staring down the steel-gray muzzle of his .38 was definitely enough to convince Shelby to give up Gerry. Employee loyalty only went so far.
“He’s in the back,” she said.
“Put your hands on the counter where I can see them”
“But—”
“Now!”
Right. Shelby slapped her palms against the faded, gray Formica countertop, crunching the metal tokens against her palm.
A muscle in the cop’s cheek twitched and he shifted his gun, barrel pointing to the ceiling. He nodded to his partner, who nodded back and fixed his attention on Shelby.
Then pug-dog crept along the counter toward the office where Gerry was feeding coins into the separating machine. The sound of quarters, dimes and nickels clanked and clattered through the closed door, counterpoint to the repetitive rap music and synthesized voices patiently giving next instructions to the frozen players.
Shelby wondered if she should give the players refunds for their interrupted games. Gerry was a bit of a tightwad, but surely under these circumstances they deserved a replay.
Pug-dog kicked the office door open with his black boot.
“Freeze,” he yelled, planting his feet apart, both hands training the gun on Gerry.
Gerry swiveled in his seat. His eyes widened, and the cigar dropped out of his mouth, knocking once against his striped tie before hitting the concrete floor, leaving an ash trail as it rolled to a stop.
He didn’t protest or ask any questions while pug-dog slapped the cuffs on his chubby wrists and began reciting his Miranda rights. He looked for all the world like he’d done this before.
Great. Now she was working for a criminal. What was with her? Did she have a bad-boss magnet stuck to her forehead?
Last week, her cheating, scumbag boyfriend had fired her from the Terra Suma Cocktail Lounge in Minneapolis. That time she’d lost her job, her home, her boyfriend and her future all i
n one fell swoop.
At least she hadn’t been sleeping with Gerry. Thank goodness for small favors.
Really small favors.
She was jobless again. And who knew when or if she’d get a paycheck for this week’s work.
This did it. She was getting a real job next time. Even if it meant college courses at night. Even if it meant, Lord help her, moving back in with her parents.
She never should have dropped out of philosophy in third year. Come to think of it, she never should have taken philosophy in the first place. She should have taken accounting or business management or nursing. Something with a future—
“Hands behind your back, ma’am.”
Shelby turned to see cop number two circling around the end of the sales counter.
“But—”
“Behind your back, ma’am.” He was taller than his partner, younger, with dark, wavy hair and brown eyes. He strode toward her, his broad chest a wall of silver badge and imposing navy-blue uniform.
“Why?” It was more a squeak than a question as she tipped up her chin to maintain eye contact.
“You’re under arrest on suspicion of selling pirated software and prohibited firearms.” He unclipped the handcuffs from the back of his utility belt.
Shelby stared at the dangling steel bracelets in morbid fascination. “Firearms?”
“Hands behind your back, ma’am.” The cop latched onto her nerveless wrist, twisting it neatly into the small of her spine.
“But I didn’t…I’m not…”
“You can tell it all to the judge.”
“The judge?” A series of rapid clicks echoed in her ears as the cold cuffs clapped tightly around her wrists.
“Gerry,” she called, trying not to let panic collapse what was left of her stomach. “Tell them I had nothing to do with this.”
“Nothing to do with what?” asked Gerry as pug-dog steered him toward the exit. He shook his head in apparent disgust. “It’s a bogus bust.”
“The detectives are out back searching your warehouse right now,” said pug-dog, shooing the twelve teenagers out of the Game-O-Rama in front of him.
“But, I’m innocent.” Shelby couldn’t get arrested. It was nearly four-thirty, and Allison was expecting her. They were going dancing at Balley’s tonight.
She’d hauled herself out of bed early this morning to drop her emerald dress off at the Flower-Fresh Dry-cleaner’s. Which, by the way, closed in half an hour.
“So am I,” called Gerry.
The second cop clapped his hand on Shelby’s shoulder, and she felt a renewed jolt of panic as he urged her into a walk.
“Don’t you need evidence or something?” she asked, mind racing for a way out of the predicament. She wasn’t a criminal. She was a cashier, a cocktail waitress. Sure, maybe she didn’t have the best judgment in the world, particularly when it came to men, but that was hardly a crime.
His look was grim, all business. “We have some pretty compelling evidence.”
“On me?”
“On you.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Did you or did you not make a pickup in the company van at Michigan and Eighteenth yesterday afternoon?”
Shelby searched her memory as they cleared the counter and headed for the door. “That was coffee.”
The cop rolled his eyes. “Two hundred-pound crates of coffee?”
“Two sixteen-ounce cups of coffee.”
“I’m talking about the merchandise they loaded in the back.”
“Who loaded? What back?”
“The two crates of Uzis. Surely you remember that little detail. We have it all on videotape.”
Uzis? Shelby blinked. “Uzis?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She’d been inside the coffee shop all of three minutes. “How can that be? It was coffee. I bought coffee.”
The cop pushed the door open in front of her, and car horns and engine revs overtook the beeps of the computer terminals. “That’s your story, and you’re stickin’ to it?”
An exhaust-filled breeze hit her square in the face. “It’s the truth.”
“Right,” he drawled. “The Uzis in your warehouse tell a different story.”
“I didn’t even know we had a warehouse. And I’ve never seen an Uzi. Well, except on television. And that one time at the airport in Brazil. I’m an innocent bystander.”
“I believe the technical term is ‘accomplice.”’
“This is outrageous,” Shelby protested, anger asserting itself over her confusion.
But then they crossed the sidewalk, and her momentary bravado disappeared. She cringed, suddenly conscious of the drivers and pedestrians passing by on the busy street. Not that she’d ever see them again. And not that she was the first person to be arrested on Black Street.
Still…
“You can tell it all to the judge when we get downtown,” said the cop.
Shelby felt the first ray of hope. “You mean, right away? Like tonight?” The judge would have to believe she was innocent. Maybe he’d free her before Allison could worry. And then her life could carry on as normal—such as normal was this month.
“Could we stop at Flower-Fresh on the way to the station?” she asked.
“No.”
“But, my dress—” She caught the look in his eyes and snapped her mouth shut.
“You won’t need a dress where you’re going.”
Shelby swallowed, gaze sliding away from his, her optimism bottoming out. “You mean, the station house, right?”
“I meant the lockup.”
“They might put me in jail?”
“That’s the usual procedure.”
“But, I didn’t do anything.”
The cop reached down to open the back door of his cruiser. “That’s what they all say.”
“Don’t I get a telephone call?” Allison’s new fiancé was a lawyer. Maybe Greg could rescue her.
“Not yet. Watch your head.”
Staring into the murky, pungent depths of the cruiser’s back seat, Shelby’s entire body recoiled in a wave of instant claustrophobia. She had to fight an urge to kick the cop in the shin and make a run for it.
She was going to Balley’s tonight—to drink shooters and laugh with Allison about rotten, cheating boyfriends and their nasty blond floozies. She wasn’t going to get strip-searched, eat gruel and sleep on a lumpy prison mattress with a woman named Spike.
But the cop was a whole lot bigger and stronger than she was. He planted her firmly on the bench seat.
“There’s been a mistake,” she whispered.
“Then you have nothing to worry about.” He slammed the handleless door shut and headed around the hood of the car.
Shelby hated to disagree with the nice policeman, but she had plenty to worry about. The cops didn’t believe she was innocent. Gerry wasn’t going to help her. And they had her on videotape making an Uzi pickup at a coffee shop cum firearms depot.
Her shoulders slumped and she let her head drop back against the hard seat, closing her eyes in defeat.
Gunrunner was going to look even worse than philosophy major on her résumé.
IF HONOR and principles weren’t already keeping lawyer Dallas Williams on the straight and narrow, the thought of spending more than ten minutes in the Haines Street lockup certainly would.
It had to be one of the most depressing places on earth. Fluorescent overheads buzzed and flickered against faded, gray ceilings. Prisoners shouted profanity from the long lockup hallway behind the desk sergeant’s counter. And the smell of mildew permeated the punky, dark walnut paneling, circa 1930.
“Got that arrest report ready for Dallas Williams?” the desk sergeant called to the officer behind him as two uniforms brought a man and a woman to the desk for processing.
Dallas automatically shifted away from the handcuffed female. He was here to get background information on a witness in an embezzlement hearing, and then he was out of here.
<
br /> “Be about two minutes,” the sergeant called to Dallas. He gestured to the royal-blue, molded plastic chairs that lined the opposite side of the hallway. “Want to have a seat?”
Dallas shook his head. “No thanks.”
Rule number one in the Haines Street lockup was to stay well away from both the furniture and the clientele. He didn’t need gum stuck to the backside of his Armani’s. And he had no desire to chat with the colorful southside characters camped out, waiting for friends and relatives to post bail.
He felt the female prisoner staring up at him and glanced down to meet green eyes that were surprisingly clear and lucid.
“Are you Dallas Williams?” she asked.
She was five-foot-six, with wavy auburn hair that just brushed her tanned shoulders. She was too fresh-faced to be a Lakeshore Drive hooker, but that black tank top and the tight miniskirt gave him pause. She was willowy thin, and he was sure she wasn’t nearly dangerous enough to warrant the cuffs.
“Of Turnball, Williams and Smith?” she continued when he didn’t answer.
“I am,” he acknowledged with a cautious nod.
She smiled, tipping her head to one side, revealing white teeth that had probably cost her parents a fortune. She looked instantly relieved, as if he’d just admitted to being her guardian angel. “Thank goodness. I was going to try calling Greg, but this is even better.”
The desk sergeant pushed a manila envelope across the scarred countertop. “Here’s your report, Mr. Williams.”
“Thanks.” Dallas picked up the police report and started past her for the door. Last thing he needed was to let this woman pour out her soul.
“Wait,” angel-eyes called, lurching toward him before the arresting officer grabbed her firmly by the elbow and yanked her back.
Focusing on her hairline, and ignoring a jolt of hostility toward the officer, Dallas gave her a polite nod of goodbye and kept moving.
“You have to help me,” she cried.
Dallas shook his head, and fixed his focus on the exit door. Fresh-faced or not, he didn’t represent hookers, drug addicts and petty southside criminals. Not now, not ever.
Out Of Order Page 1