The dog jumped up on the lounge and barked. Vicki bit down on her lip, debating. Then, “I’ve got her. Again.”
“I’m sorry. Again. I forgot about the fence. Had to work. I’m fixing it tomorrow. I’ll come around.”
She was still trying to get Sweetie off her lap without spilling her wine when he showed up. Standing over her, wearing a pair of dark jeans and a white button-down shirt, Juan looked devilishly handsome. She noted he stood slightly to the side, as if hiding his scar.
Was the move subconscious? Probably not.
Sweetie jumped off the lounge chair. Feeling awkward, Vicki went to stand, but as she got one foot on the ground, her second came down on the dog. Trying not to hurt the poodle, she reared back and watched in horror as her wine splattered against Juan’s white shirt.
“Crap,” she said again, then without meaning to, she laughed.
He looked down at his shirt, and instead of the scowl she expected, he smiled.
“Sorry.” She worked on taming her own smile.
“Not a big deal.” His grin reached his eyes and butterflies took flight in her stomach.
Sweetie stood on her hind legs and begged to be picked up. He scooped her up.
“Bad dog, Sweetie.”
Hearing him say the dog’s name unleashed her smile again. “You didn’t name her, did you?”
“No,” he said.
“A girlfriend?”
A pause hung in the air. Pulsed like it was important. “My wife.”
“Divorced?” she asked, unable to shut up. Yeah, when she drank she got chatty. Dan had pointed that out several times.
“No. She died.”
“Sorry.” When she drank she also got a little too emotional, and she felt his loss filling her chest. Or maybe it was her own loss she was feeling.
She pulled her glass closer.
“Me too.” As the dog reached up to lick his face, he lifted his chin. “You?”
“Me?”
“Divorced?” he asked.
I need to stop this. Need to shut up. “Yes. Yes, I’m divorced.” Was it her, or did that sound like a lie?
His gaze stayed on her eyes. Why was he looking at her like that? Finally, his attention shifted to the ground beside her lawn chair, where she had set her flashlight and wine bottle.
“Still looking for your necklace?”
“Yeah.” Was it getting hotter?
“I have a metal detector that might help you find it.”
“Really?”
“Let me get it.” Before she could stop him, he’d left. Or had she not wanted to stop him? Or was she just halfway drunk?
Or am I just lonely?
Was there an all-of-the-above box to check?
Sober up! Before…
Before what? He came through her gate with the metal detector, minus the dog, and walked directly toward her. “It should work.”
He moved in. Close enough that his nearness became her only thought, but not in a bad way. He smelled like her wine and fresh night air. He turned the detector on and smiled. It hummed and she felt the hum create a purr of sweetness low in her abdomen.
“You got anything metal to test it?”
“Wine opener.” She pointed beside the lounge. He moved the detector over the opener. It beeped.
“Good to go. Let’s see if we can find it.” He walked past her to the spot where they’d struggled. His white shirt stretched across his wide shoulders. His jeans hugged his backside like the material had memorized his shape.
He took a few steps forward and then back, waving the detector side to side. She stared at his— The detector’s beep sounded and she brought her eyes up.
“You found it?” She hurried over. They both knelt and reached for the grass. Their hands met. Both jerked back and looked up. Their eyes met.
She looked away first. His hands shifted back across the grass.
“It’s not your necklace.” He held up a nail.
She stood. “Can I try?”
He passed her the detector. She handed him her wineglass.
He brought the glass to his nose. “Cabernet?”
“Yes. Feel free to finish it. I’ve…I’ve had enough.” And the fact that she’d just offered him a drink proved it. “There’s a little left in the bottle.”
“I think I will.” He snatched up the bottle and emptied it into her glass. She started moving the detector back and forth. When she looked up, he had her glass to his lips. Probably where her own lips had touched.
There should be nothing sensual about someone using her glass. And yet there was. Maybe it was the moonlight. Maybe it was the late hour.
She continued waving the detector over the grass, hoping not to miss an inch. But she wasn’t thinking about her necklace. Her thoughts went to Juan without that white shirt. While her eyes stayed downcast, she felt his warm gaze on her skin.
“You know I’m a cop, but I don’t know what you do.”
She bit down on her lip and felt the blades of warm grass between her toes. “I teach fitness classes.”
“What type of fitness?”
“Yoga, Zumba, Pilates.”
“Kickboxing?”
She looked up. Even through the darkness she saw his smile. He touched his bruised eye.
She grinned. “No. Don’t teach that.”
“Maybe you should.” Humor laced his tone.
“I did say I was sorry, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did.”
“Good.” She looked back at the ground.
He moved in, stood close. “Do you teach at your own studio?”
“No. I got a job at a gym close by.”
“Which one?”
She hesitated, not liking the questions. “You going to take a Pilates class?”
He chuckled. “No. My sister-in-law works at Finally Fit across town.”
“That’s where I work, but the one here on Main.” Thank goodness it wasn’t the same one. She didn’t need another connection with this man.
“Small world,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“What brought you to Anniston?”
The question came off as casual, but considering it would require a lie to answer, it felt complicated and intrusive.
“Just needed a change.” The night seemed warmer. The air thicker.
“Where did you live in Colorado?”
A drop of sweat slid down between her breasts. The closer she let him to her, the more questions he’d ask. The more lies she’d have to tell. She had to nip this in the bud now.
“Boulder.” It was where Nikki Hanson, a year younger than her, was from. Where the real Nikki had lived before she moved to South America when she was nineteen and was killed in an automobile accident. Normally, AWACO legally changed someone’s name, but because Pablo had worked for the police, they were afraid he’d still have contacts. They’d given her the name of someone whose death had gone unreported. Someone who was as close to invisible as possible.
Vicki’s palms felt sweaty holding the detector, and she cut it off. “You know, it’s getting late.” Moving closer, she held the detector out to him.
“Keep it,” Juan said. “You can search more tomorrow.”
She should say no, but she really wanted her necklace. “Thanks.”
He held up the glass, still half-full.
“Take it with you,” she insisted.
“Thanks. I’ll return this when you return the metal detector.”
“Deal.” Her gaze shifted to his chest again. “You should soak your shirt. If it doesn’t come out, I’ll pay for it.”
“Not necessary.” He took one step backward, his eyes on her. “Goodnight, Nikki. Sleep well.” The way he said her name, the way the words slipped off his lips, made it feel intimate, like a pillow-talk kind of tone.
“Goodnight.” She swallowed a sigh of desire.
When he left, she took the detector inside, set it by the door, dropped down on the sofa, and indulged in a few more minutes
of self-pity.
* * *
Juan got back to his house and downed the wine in one gulp. Then he ran a rough palm over his face. When his hand hit the numb area of his right cheek, he realized that not once had Nikki’s gaze gone to his scar. And not once while he’d been standing in front of her had he thought about it.
His pulse raced at the base of his neck. His blood stirred down south in ways it hadn’t in years. What was it about that woman that made him want things he hadn’t wanted since he lost Angie? If she’d looked like Angie or even had some similar characteristics, he could blame it on that. But that wasn’t the case.
There was nothing about Nikki’s jean shorts and blue T-shirt that screamed Come and get me, boy. She hadn’t even had on any makeup. Not that she needed it. The most erotic thing about her was her bare feet, her light pink painted toenails.
Yet when he looked at her not-so-short shorts, not-so-tight T-shirt, and pink toenails, all he thought about was sex. Him removing her clothes. Her removing his. Their limbs tangled up in the sheets. Him on top of her. Her on top of him.
Shit! Was it the roll on the ground they’d had last night? The first pair of breasts he’d felt under him that flipped a switch? It didn’t make any frigging sense.
And he was a “sense” kind of guy. He liked his ducks in a row. And right now his ducks were running amok.
Why did he feel certain she’d lied about being divorced? Was she running from a husband?
He fought the temptation to call his sister-in-law and ask for a copy of Nikki’s employment application. Christina not only managed the south-side gym, she helped oversee the gym on his side of town, too. But that request would require an explanation. And could result in Nikki losing her job.
He couldn’t do that.
Because everything pointed to the fact that Nikki Hanson was afraid or hiding from something. Or someone. Was that the connection he felt? Empathy? He knew what it was like to run from something. Even if that something was a memory. Make that memories. Juan had plenty of demons to run from, and not just the ones from the night his wife and child died. There was the loss of his mother many years before that.
He’d thought he’d spend his whole life living with the pain and regret of not having been home earlier to save his mother’s life. But Angie changed that. She’d pulled him out of those shadows and given him a future that was beautiful and hopeful. Then, because of his mistake, he’d lost her, too.
He walked to his laptop and put Nikki’s name and Boulder, Colorado, in the NCIC, National Crime Information Center. There were two hits. One was a fifty-year-old woman, and the other was the right age. He clicked on the second and waited for the information to download. It wasn’t worth the wait. Nikki V. Hanson had nothing on her record. Other than her old driver’s license number, he got zilch.
He grabbed his credit card and paid for the public record search. More times than not, private searches gave more than the official police searches. When it finally handed over the information, he realized he’d wasted forty dollars. Other than an old address, it gave him nothing. No family, no employment history. No marriage or divorce records, either. Hell, he didn’t even know if Hanson was her married or maiden name.
He did another search of the social media pages and got zilch again. What was he missing? Then it occurred to him, there was one he hadn’t checked: Myspace. While it had fallen out of favor years ago, he’d recently read about someone finding a fugitive through an old Myspace account.
He found two twelve-year-old accounts on a Nikki Hanson. He clicked on the age-appropriate one. She was from Boulder. Hope spiked when he saw her middle initial was V. And her profile wasn’t restricted.
He’d found her. But there was only one blurry image of her dancing with her hair swinging around her face. He leaned in and stared at the blue-eyed teenager on the screen. It wasn’t his neighbor. Or was it? If he ignored the hair and eye color, because those could be changed with dye and contacts, it could be her. But was the shape of the chin the same? Perhaps it was the angle of the photo that made it appear different.
What were the chances that there was another girl about the same age, with the same name, same middle initial, who lived in the same town? Slim. And yet…
He searched through her friends and found three from Colorado, then switched over to Facebook to track them down. Unfortunately, the names were common. He sent messages to eight possible matches. One of them should be able to tell him more about Nikki V. Hanson. Somehow, some way, he was going to get to the truth.
* * *
Eight hours. Eight fucking hours Pablo waited, parked in his rented Chevy Malibu, in front of Dan Jefferies’s house. Where the hell was the guy? Jefferies worked as an engineer for an oil company. Which meant regular hours.
At three a.m., Pablo’s patience snapped. His stomach growled from hunger. Thirst made his mouth dry. And he had to piss.
Putting gloves on, he got out of his car. His footsteps sounded too loud in the silence of the night. He crept to the back of the house, wrapped his hoodie around his fist, and broke a window.
Shattering glass echoed. He glanced around, afraid the neighbor’s lights would flicker on. They didn’t. The idiot didn’t have an alarm.
Ten minutes later, he sat at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of Cheerios. When he’d worked for LAPD, there’d been a serial killer who broke in, killed his victims, and helped himself to whatever was in the fridge. For some reason, that bothered the public and his fellow officers, but Pablo kind of admired the guy. Pablo didn’t want to see the food go to waste.
He kept his Glock resting right beside his Cheerios just in case the bastard returned. When Pablo finished eating, he rummaged around looking for any connection this guy might still have to Vicki. A stack of mail was on the table in the entryway. He thumbed through it. Nothing but bills and junk mail. But holy hell he wanted Vicki found. He wanted his money found. He wanted a new life, instead of living in the damn shadows.
He wanted Vicki dead, right after he fucked her.
He’d had a hard-on for her the first time he’d met her. They’d gotten to talking after both attending an interest group for triathlon training. But she’d made it clear from the start she wasn’t interested.
He wasn’t used to being rejected. But he hadn’t given up. Instead, he convinced her they could just be training buddies, certain he’d win her over. That never happened. Then she’d introduced him to her sister.
He’d decided if he couldn’t have Vicki, he’d have Alison. But she turned out to be a poor substitute. Then the bitch had gotten pregnant and he was stuck. He’d married her. A huge fucking mistake. She kept her nose all up in his business. Yeah, he worked for LAPD, but his real money came from his side jobs. The badge was the reason Rex Esparza had hired him. It afforded Pablo the things he deserved. Things he’d provided to Alison and the little brat, but neither had appreciated the extras.
Then she’d started getting mouthy, talking back to him, asking questions about where he got his money. He’d had to teach her a lesson, because how else was she going to learn? The last time, Vicki got involved.
If not for her, Alison wouldn’t have left. She wouldn’t have stolen his money or the logbook. If not for Vicki, he wouldn’t have had to kill Alison and then fake his own death to get out of going to prison. He hoped like hell Vicki knew it was her fault that her sister died. When he found her, he’d make sure she knew.
But damn it, where was Dan? He rummaged through drawers and cabinets. He found a framed photograph of Dan and Vicki taken in what looked like Hawaii. He recalled her telling him they’d gone. Did the image being hidden away mean they were no longer together? Did it mean Dan wouldn’t know where she was?
He wouldn’t believe that, not until he got Dan alone and demanded answers. Unlike Sam, Pablo knew how to make people talk.
Furious that tonight had been a waste, he grabbed his phone and dialed Sam’s number. It rang, rang, and rang.
�
��Do you not know what time it is?” Sam bit out when he finally answered.
“It’s time for me to get answers. I’m here at Jefferies’s house. Where the hell is he?”
“You’re what? Fuck, Pablo, I already spoke to him. He might recognize you. He could go to the police. They might believe him. Then they’ll start looking into my calls with him.”
“If he recognizes me, I’ll take care of it.”
“You’re crazy. This could lead back to me. Then who are you going to get to help you? Leave Jefferies alone!”
“Did you talk to the bitch’s clients to see if any of them had heard from her?”
“I don’t know where Jefferies is and none of Vicki’s clients knew she was leaving. They were pissed.”
“Someone knows where she is, and I’m losing patience. Find her or I swear, that sweet little wife of yours is going to know that I’m not happy!”
There was a pause, then, “I’m trying.” He could hear the fear in Sam’s voice. Good. He should be afraid.
“Look, I checked with a contact I have at the underground railroad for abused women,” Sam continued. “There’s two of them here in L.A. Someone’s supposed to call me back.”
“She wasn’t abused,” Pablo snapped.
“Yeah, but she saw you at her place. She knows you’re alive, and if she convinced the organization that you’re still alive, maybe they helped her. Like you said, someone had to have helped her disappear. I’m working this. So back off.”
“I’m not backing off, Sam. Find her.”
Chapter Six
The next morning, Juan, with a cup of coffee in his hand and a phone to his ear, stared at his computer screen.
“You coming to dinner?” his brother asked.
“I said I was, didn’t I?”
“Just checking,” Ricky said.
“I’ll be there. See you then.” Juan hung up. He hadn’t gotten any replies to his Facebook messages about knowing a Nikki Hanson.
After downing the cream-laced brew and taking care of Sweetie, he took off to go buy wood and supplies to fix the rotten fence boards and even picked up a couple of gifts for his nephews for tonight. When he pulled back into his driveway, his gaze shifted to the house next door.
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