Dangerous To Love

by Toni Anderson, Barbara Freethy, Dee Davis, Leslie A. Kelly, Cynthia Eden, J. Kenner, Meli Raine, Gwen Hernandez, Pamela Clare, Rachel Grant

  Mark and the other officer shout in low, menacing voices as my brain tries to process it all. Eric panics and drops my arm, then runs away from the road. He can’t hide. We’re on a desert road. There’s nowhere to hide. It’s nothing but brown dirt for miles.

  He looks kind of stupid, but panic does that to people.

  “I got him!” the other officer shouts, taking off at a run, while Mark comes over and grabs my arm in the exact same place Eric was just touching.

  “What the hell just happened?” he demands, breathless. Mark’s still holding his service revolver in one hand.

  “Put that away, please,” I say. It comes out like a whispered growl.

  “What?” he shouts. “You’re telling me to put my weapon away when that freak just nearly kidnapped you?”

  “What freak?” I scream back.

  “Eric! I told you to stay away from him. And I find you by the side of the road with him about to throw you in his car and steal you away? What the hell were you doing here with him, Carrie? Is there something going on between the two of you I don’t know about?” His words fly out like angry crows on the attack, all aimed at my heart.

  I slap Mark’s face so hard. So hard. It’s like it happened in the crack of a gunshot and in slow motion, all at once. My palm reaches out and my shoulder inflicts the blow with so much force. It feels like I’m slapping a giant slab of granite, though.

  He doesn’t move an inch.

  I don’t know why I slapped him. Every cell of my body feels full, like I’m about to explode.

  And then I turn and run.

  I guess I become stupid when I panic, too.

  My legs pump hard with the effort of the damned. My calves start to scream within seconds, my heart rushing to fill and empty faster and faster as my blood pours through me. Oxygen and effort go hand in hand. My ears fill with the rush of a thousand waterfalls.

  I am light. I am air. I am muscle and fear and pain and nothing but the flow of my bones and muscles and skin moving me through space and time.

  “Carrie!’ Mark shouts from behind me. “Don’t make me tackle you.” He’s puffing from running, but his voice has a chilling calm to it.

  I don’t answer.

  I just run.

  Underbrush turns a pale green color as I go up a small ridge then down a gully. I see an unfamiliar sight: a small river, wider than the road, but just a few inches deep. It must be a mirage. Have I reached the point where I’m hallucinating?

  Maybe that’s the trick. Just go crazy. Let your mind unravel.

  My lungs fill and empty, over and over, my breathing like white lightning being dragged across my ribs. It hurts, but oh, the pain feels so good. The ache of doing something is always a million times better than just sitting there and letting the world take its pot shots at you.

  No, I think. No. I won’t stop.

  And then—ice chips on my skin. Cold. I can’t breathe. My face is underwater and oh—the water is deeper than I thought. A wall of weight is on me, then a hand snakes around my waist and under my knees.

  I’m wet. Soaking wet, and being lifted out like a child who won’t come when she’s called.

  “PUT ME DOWN!” I scream.

  “Not until you see reason.”

  Mark’s skin is hot under his wet uniform shirt. I try to wrench away and feel nothing but curved muscle. He’s hard and strong and I can’t wriggle away.

  “Reason? All I see a stubborn, thick-headed, controlling—”

  “Then you must be looking at me—”

  “ASSHOLE!”

  “Ouch,” Mark says through mirthless laughter. “Then that means I’m doing my job.”

  “It’s your job to be an asshole? Funny. I didn’t know they gave paychecks for that!” I bark back.

  “And I didn’t know that the woman I love spends her spare time hanging out with men I warn her to stay away from,” he says, the words dripping with sarcasm.

  “You don’t own me!” Wait. Hold on. My brain slams on the brakes.

  The woman I love? Did he really just say that?

  “I may not own you, Carrie,” he says as he wades through the water, eyes forward and scanning the horizon for Eric and the other cop, “but I’m not going to stand by idly and watch you get hurt because you’re being an impetuous child.”

  Child? CHILD?

  “You’re being a jerk!” I thrash and kick. Mark’s arms are like bands of steel. He’s pulling me to his chest and I almost bite him. I could if I wanted to, but that seems too juvenile. Babyish. In my fury I realize I need to have the upper hand by being the mature person in this interaction.

  So I try to kick him in the balls.

  His grip tightens so swiftly it’s like he has bionic arms.

  “Hey,” he says, hot breath covering my ear and neck. His voice goes low and sensual, dangerous and primitive. “You liked that part of me just a few hours ago. Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

  A red cloud of pure anger takes over me.

  “You don’t get to do this, Mark!” I reach up and grab his nipple, twisting it. He grunts, but doesn’t let go of me. Damn it. Nothing I do works.

  And then he drops me on the ground like a sack of potatoes.

  “Ow! Why’d you do that?”

  He shrugs and gives me the thousand mile stare. You know the look. The one cops give you as you complain about the speeding ticket they’re giving you.

  That look.

  “Because you wanted me to put you down.”

  I stand up slowly and rub my sore butt. “Not like that.”

  “Pardon me for not meeting your every whim, Oh Queen, while I try to save your life,” he says through gritted teeth. His eyes look like a pale fire, blazing in the sunshine, his hair half wet and half dusty from the desert dirt.

  We look like something out of a sad part of a Mad Max movie.

  “Sarcasm? Seriously, Mark? With me? You’re the one who lied to me for three years. You lied about who you are, you lied about what I meant to you, you lied and you lied and you finally tell me the truth—”

  His eyes go uncertain suddenly.

  “—and I let you in. Oh, my God!” I pick up a rock and wing it at his head.

  He has really, really good reflexes. Mark just moves subtly, six inches to the left. It whizzes by.

  “I gave myself to you last night. This morning—”

  “I remember,” he says thickly. “I can still smell you. Taste you.”

  My anger turns into a tangled ball of string with a big, heaping dose of arousal mixed in for fun.

  Urg. All my words become a whirling dervish.

  I hate him and I want to ride him, all at the same time.

  “And because you’re still on me, lingering on my skin, scraping against my lips, infused in my fingertips, my mouth, and all of the rest of me,” he says softly, looking down at me. Mark’s words stop. He looks up and I follow his gaze.

  The other cop has Eric handcuffed and is stuffing him into the police cruiser. Hard. I hear Eric make a sound of pain.

  Mark makes a hmph sound and turns his attention to me. It feels like a laser of intensity aimed straight at my soul. His hands flex with tension and his arms are slick with water and sweat. He looks so masculine. So powerful.

  All male, all fight, all primal.

  “And because of that, Carrie, there’s no fucking way I’m letting you get away again,” he adds. “And I’m sure as hell not letting those bastards steal you and turn you into one of those—”

  My chest is heaving from exertion. My arms feel like they’re ten feet long. Whatever this day was supposed to become has unraveled. All I know right now is that Mark is being some over-controlling man who doesn’t even resemble the person I know, and I just tried to kick him in the nuts and threw a rock at his head.

  We’re both doing a great job of being anyone but the real us.

  “One of those what?” His last few words ricochet around in my head.

  He reaches fo
r his squawking radio. I can’t make out the words but I’m pretty sure it’s his partner. I take a good, long look at Mark. I lick my lips. I can’t help it.

  Even exhausted, baking in the hot sun, dragged through this weird little mirage and half wet, half muddy, I stand here in awe of him. My body aches from sex with him just a few hours ago. I have thighs that quivered from the brush of his cheeks against them as his mouth went to places so intimate I blush at the thought.

  My fingers wrapped around his private flesh. Guided his body into mine. We stroked and thrust, arched and gasped, drawn together by instinct and kept together by need.

  And now he’s being a caveman and I’m standing here drooling?

  “One of those what?” I repeat, finding my voice.

  “Huh?” He seems genuinely confused.

  “A minute ago, you said you wouldn’t let me be turned into ‘one of those’—what, Mark? What aren’t you telling me?”

  Ah. There it was. That instantaneous uncertainty that ripples through his face sometimes when he’s deciding whether to lie.

  White rage fills me again.

  “You are still lying to me,” I hiss.

  The other cop comes right up to us as my last words light across the air like an arc of electricity. Mark’s eye widen and a message passes between us.

  Don’t say anything.

  I’m tempted not to follow that order. I’m not exactly in the mood to do as told. But then:

  “Joe says they found another van load. Seventeen of them,” the officer murmurs to Mark.

  “Fuck!” Mark shouts.

  “Van of what?” I look at the officer’s name tag. Murphy. Can’t read his first name. Not that I care right now. I open my mouth. My lips stick together. I realize I’m parched. Desperately thirsty. Aside from the coffee and the apple I threw up a few minutes ago, I haven’t had anything to eat or drink. And before everything went crazy with Mark and guns and running and our fight, I cried all the available moisture out of my body.

  I’m dehydrated. I’m tired.

  I’m done.

  Murphy looks at Mark, who shakes his head just slightly enough to push me over the top.

  “You bastards! Both of you!”

  Murphy gives me a look that says no one ever calls him bastard.

  “You’re hiding information from me that I need!” I bend down and pick up a rock.

  “She’s not planning to throw that at you, is she, Officer Paulson?” Murphy asks. He looks familiar. Maybe someone’s older brother? Murphy. Wait. I remember a Murphy in high school. Geeky band kid. Played tuba.

  “She’s a little unstable,” Mark says with a grin, folding his arms across his chest. He’s practically daring me to hit him.

  “She’d be assaulting an officer if she threw that at you.”

  I stop my arm.

  Damn. He’s got a good point.

  But then again, is Mark technically really a police officer? He told me he’s undercover. That means he’s a federal agent with the DEA pretending to be a cop.

  Is it okay to assault a federal agent?

  Even if it’s illegal, I don’t care. I’m done. So done with this day.

  “Why are you harassing me and Eric when there are women who need to be rescued?” I shout at both of them.

  They share a look.

  “I am rescuing a woman,” Mark says slowly. “You.”

  “I don’t need to be rescued! Eric just showed up while I was puking and crying.”

  Mark’s eyes change so fast. “You were sick? That’s why you stopped the car?”

  “Uh, Officer Paulson?” Murphy asks. I know they use each others titles when they’re around the public. “What are we booking the guy in the back of the squad car for? What charges?”

  Mark gives me a hard look and says, “Assault.”

  “He didn’t assault me!” I protest.

  “Because he didn’t get a chance to because Murph and I got to you before he could!” Mark’s words blast at me like a huge burst of heat.

  “So now you’re charging people with pre-crime? It’s like I’m in a sci-fi movie!” I shout back.

  “Women are aliens, so that would make sense,” Murphy mutters.

  “Shut up!” Mark and I shout at him in unison. At least we agree on something.

  Mark makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. He plants his hands on his hips and runs one tight hand through his hair. Mud falls off in droplets.

  “Shit,” he says slowly, looking at the ground. He’s obviously thinking. “I guess we have to let him go.”

  “He didn’t hurt you?” Murphy asks me quietly.

  I shake my head.

  “Not one little bit?” Murphy pries.

  “If you have to arrest anyone for hurting me,” I say through gritted teeth, “you should arrest Officer Paulson. Look at me! He tackled me!”

  Murphy gives me a slow up and down look. He’s so careful in his inventory of my body that I start to feel uncomfortable. You know the phrase, “He undressed me with his eyes”?

  Murphy looks like he’s undressing me with his eyes, his hands, his nose, his mouth…

  “Enough!” Mark thunders, giving Murphy a shove. “No one’s charging anyone with anything. And I never laid a finger on Carrie.”

  “Not true!”

  “Not an assaulting finger.”

  “Not true, either!”

  “You want to press charges, Carrie?” Murphy asks me.

  “Against who?” I squeak.

  Murphy jabs his thumb towards Mark. Mark gives him an incredulous look. I can tell Murphy’s trying not to laugh.

  I suddenly like Murphy a lot more.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  I pretend I’m actually considering it.

  “Oh, c’mon, Carrie,” Mark says with disgust. “Don’t even joke about it.”

  “Will he have to wear handcuffs?” I ask Murphy, completely ignoring Mark.

  “I can cuff him, ma’am, if you consider him a danger.”

  We both turn and look at Mark.

  “You’re serious?” he says to no one and everyone. Actually, he looks up at the sky, like God’s playing a sick joke on him.

  Huh. Maybe He is.

  “You’ve taken a simple situation and turned it into a nightmare, Mark! From jumping me in the parking lot yesterday to—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa—hold on there.” Murphy’s face tightens. He moves, his face shadowed now, and I can see him better. He puts himself between me and Mark. He’s beefy and short, the opposite of Mark. Bald head. Clean shaven. Bright blue eyes, keen and sharp, shine out from under the brim of his uniform hat.

  “You attacked her in a parking lot yesterday, Officer Paulson?” Those last two words come out with some bite.

  “It’s not what you think,” Mark protests. He shoots me a look that says, Help me out here.

  “The perps always say that,” Murphy replies.

  “Whose side are you on?” Mark roars, turning toward him, fists flexing.

  “The law’s side,” Murphy says in a deadly voice.

  Oh, great. Now I have to break up a fight between two cops who are fighting over…what? Not me. Over—

  “Hey! Hey! Get me out of here! Carrie! Help!” Eric’s voice floats on the wind.

  The three of us turn toward him. Murphy scowls.

  Not at Eric.

  At Mark.

  “I’m releasing him,” Murphy says.

  Mark makes a sound like a caged animal. Three years ago, he was the most reasonable guy in the world. Charming. Sweet. Easygoing and casual.

  This Mark? This Mark is a neanderthal.

  “Fine,” he barks. “But you warn him. If he comes anywhere near Carrie again, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” I challenge.

  “He’ll regret it,” Mark declares. The sun is shining behind him. His face is obscured. If I could meet his eyes I’m sure I could see a killer instinct for blood in there. Eric’s blood.

 
; Murphy just stares at Mark, like he’s studying him. “Easy, there,” he finally says. “You need to be careful what you say about a citizen who’s done nothing wrong.”

  “He’s done plenty wrong,” Mark shoots back.

  “How do you know?” Murphy and I say in unison.

  “I—” Mark struggles to say something, and a cold wave of misery washes over me. He can’t say anything. What he knows comes from being a DEA agent, and Murphy has no idea.

  Sympathy replaces the misery in me. Mark lives all these different lives inside the same, single body. It must be hard. So hard.

  “Eric’s fine,” I say, stepping between the two officers and putting my hand on Murphy’s forearm. He jolts, but doesn’t move it. Those blue eyes meet mine, fierce and intense. “Let him go. I’ll talk to him at work on Monday and clear this all up.”

  “You will not talk to him,” Mark demands.

  I ignore him. Murphy gives me a curt nod and walks back to the squad car.

  “Carrie!” Mark shouts.

  “Mark!” I shout back, mimicking him. “What is wrong with you?”

  “You have no idea what Eric is involved in.”

  “You keep saying that, but then you don’t tell me anything.”

  I watch in my peripheral vision as Murphy helps Eric out of the back of the car, undoes the handcuffs, and sends him back to his car. Within fifteen seconds Eric peels out, his tires screeching away.

  “Good riddance to bad trash,” Mark says.

  Murphy walks back, a sick look on his face. “Scanner says they got another one.”

  Mark’s eyes dart everywhere but to me. “WHAT?” he bellows.

  “Yeah. This one has no arms, no legs, and…” his words die out as Murphy looks at me. He closes his mouth like a steel trap.

  “What?” I ask. “And what?”

  “And another three women have gone missing. Reported at various times in the middle of the night, and this morning. All of them from parking lots or…” His words die out again and he looks at Mark. Then at my car.

  Then at me.

  “What Murphy’s trying to say,” Mark says to me in a voice filled with acid, “is that these motherfuckers are stealing women from parking lots and the side of the road.”

  I look over at my car.