The Perfect Man

by Kristine Dexter

  He would just get there.

  Tasha needed him.

  He hoped he would reach her in time.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  TASHA SECURED THE handcuffs to her belt, then grabbed for Beebe’s other hand, but he swung around, nearly knocking her off balance. She still had his wrist, and she concentrated on holding it as he whirled her around the room. His free hand was moving. She couldn’t see it, and she knew that was a bad sign.

  He hurled her into the coffee table, hitting her knee and sending pain shooting through her leg. She concentrated on bringing her hand up on his wrist until she found his thumb.

  He shoved her toward the couch, and she slipped a foot beneath his leg, yanking it out from underneath him. He seemed to anticipate her, twisting his leg, and catching hers.

  She brought her knee up, slamming it into his crotch. He yelped with pain. At that moment, she bent his thumb all the way back, and he screamed. Then she bent his wrist back as well, forcing him to kneel on the floor.

  She yanked his free hand behind his back. Getting the cuffs would be the trick. She hated this part. She bent his thumb back as far as she could, forcing him forward until he was prone. Then she stuck a knee in his back as she wrestled his arms.

  At that moment, the door opened. She didn’t turn to look, trusting it was Rick. She loosened her grip on Beebe’s thumb, caught both hands in hers, and reached for her handcuffs.

  Then he reared back and flipped her off him. She tumbled sideways and hit her head on the coffee table. Pain shot through her and she struggled not to pass out.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  FOR A MOMENT, Rick froze in the doorway. Tasha had the Creep, and then had lost him because Rick had come in at the wrong point. Tasha was lying beside the coffee table, her eyes barely open.

  The Creep had risen to his knees, and was fumbling at his side.

  “You’re not Jessamyn!” he screamed, and pulled a gun, leveling at Tasha’s head.

  Rick had had enough. He lunged at the Creep, tackling him. He landed near the table and chairs, jarring his arm. The gun went off, shooting what sounded like a hundred rounds, blowing a hole in the window. Shattered glass fell all around them.

  Rick hoped it had missed Tasha. He could see her shadow moving. She was fumbling for something.

  The Creep struggled against him. The little bastard was strong. Rick had grabbed his waist, not his arms, and that hampered all of his movements.

  The Creep flipped him and slammed him against the floor. The breath left Rick’s body, but he managed, somehow, to free a hand and grasp the Creep’s gun arm.

  “That’s it.” The voice belonged to Tasha.

  The Creep froze. Tasha was pointing a gun at his head. Her green eyes blazed and she looked fierce.

  “Where’s Jessamyn?” the Creep wailed.

  Tasha’s gaze met Rick’s, and then she smiled. A slow, impish smile. “Jessamyn?” she repeated. “Why, you’re holding him.”

  “Je-Jessamyn?” the Creep asked, sounding stunned.

  “Haven’t you ever heard of pen names, you idiot?” Rick asked, tightening his grip on the Creep’s gun arm. Tasha reached over and grabbed the Creep’s gun out of his hand.

  “Pen names?” The Creep looked confused. “But I met Jessamyn. In Chicago. She—”

  “Her name was Rita,” Rick snapped. He wasn’t willing to let go of the Creep’s arm yet. “She was my girlfriend, and you drove her off.”

  “No,” the Creep said. “She was Jessamyn. I know she was Jessamyn. She lived in your house.”

  “Not when you met her.”

  The Creep blinked once, then frowned. His face was pudgy and poorly defined, but Rick recognized him anyway. That was the man he’d found in his computer search the night before.

  “What the hell is this?”

  Rick glanced behind him. Lou was at the door, with hotel security flanking his back. The rent-a-cops looked terrified.

  “This,” Rick said cheerfully, “is the Creep. Creep, this is Lou. He’s a detective with the Portland police.”

  The Creep looked up at Lou. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Then why is Detective Morgan holding a gun to your head?”

  The Creep’s eyes got wider. “I—She—I—She’s the blond? But her hair should be up.”

  “He thought I was his imaginary friend.” Tasha hadn’t moved from her position. She looked ready to shoot the Creep if he so much as breathed wrong.

  Rick’s hand was getting tired from clutching the Creep’s gun arm. “Anyone have handcuffs?”

  “I do,” Lou said, “but you guys look so pretty there, posing, that I thought I’d enjoy the view for a moment.”

  “Lou,” Tasha said through gritted teeth. “I could shoot twice. One of the bullets could easily hit Mr. Beebe here, but the other could go wild. No one would blame me if my partner took some friendly fire.”

  “Doesn’t seem that friendly to me.” Lou crossed the room and yanked Beebe’s arm. “Breaking and entering, pissing all over someone’s house, menacing, attempted murder, oh, man, have we got some things to talk about.”

  “I haven’t given him any warnings,” Tasha said.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of the formalities. We got some guys meeting us downstairs.” Lou grinned. “Besides, it looks like you gotta dry your hair.”

  “You owe me breakfast!” Tasha said.

  The Creep turned toward her, looking even smaller now. “If you’re not Jessamyn, where is she?”

  The plaintive sentence sent a shiver through Rick. He thought they’d already dealt with that.

  Tasha seemed unaffected. “Jessamyn only exists on the cover of books.”

  Lou took the Creep’s arms and dragged him out the door. The Creep looked up at him. “But I saw her. In Chicago. Please. You’re a police officer. You have to look for her. He’s hiding her somewhere....”

  Tasha slammed the door closed, then leaned on it. Her hair was damp and curling. Her cheeks were flushed.

  She looked beautiful.

  Rick was still on the floor. He had a hunch standing up would be work. His head ached. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

  She holstered her gun. “Bruised a little. But I’m not sure he’ll have the use of his right hand any time soon.”

  “He’s going to go for insanity, isn’t he?”

  She shrugged. “He could be crazy as a loon, but as long as he knows right from wrong, he won’t win an insanity plea. And no certifiably crazy person could have tracked us to this hotel.”

  “I used my own name to check in,” Rick said.

  “Still,” she said. “It takes a bit of smarts to find you. And motivation.”

  “What happens now?” Rick asked.

  “Statements all around. Delayed breakfast most likely. Then we have to charge him, and the legal dance begins.”

  “But he’s out of my life?”

  Her gaze was compassionate. “If we stop him, Rick.”

  He felt his stomach clench. “What does that mean?”

  “As long as Jessamyn is secret, he’s going to believe you’re hiding her.”

  Rick eased himself off the floor. Damn. It was as painful as he thought it was going to be. He’d bruised a lot going down too. And that run took a bit out of him. He hadn’t run like that since he moved from Chicago. “So? He’ll be in jail.”

  “For a few days. But from the information you found, this is a first time offense. He’ll probably make bail.”

  Rick let out a large sigh. It wasn’t going to end. It would never end. “So I have to let the world know I’m Jessamyn?”

  “They’ll find out anyway. If I were Beebe’s defense attorney, I’d play up the Jessamyn angle.”

  He turned away from Tasha, and went to the window just to collect himself. He knew even better than Tasha what was coming. The tabloids, the constant media reports, the silly television interviews he’d have to endure.

  Why’d you do it, Mr. Chance? Why did you wan
t the entire country to think you were a woman?

  A woman’s pen name, Mr. Chance? Robert James Waller did it without one.

  He heard Tasha walk across the floor. She stopped just behind him. He could feel her warmth against his back, her breath against his neck, but she didn’t touch him.

  “You know,” she said, “it’ll be easier to go through all this if you have someone standing beside you.”

  “Yeah, well,” he said, “life has never worked that way.”

  “I’d like to be there. I’d like to be the person at your side.”

  “Why?” he said bitterly. “So that the tabloids will have more fodder? Female Cop Falls for Lying Writer. Is It True Love or Just Research for the Next Book?”

  “What if it’s both?” she said.

  He turned. She was so close to him that he had to strain not to touch her. “Tasha, they’re not going to believe anything. It’s going to be hell for a while.”

  She gave him that impish smile again. “I can handle hell.”

  He shook his head. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because I love you, Rick.”

  “Are you serious?” His heart was beating hard. He felt giddy. He had the strange thought that the sensation he’d been describing in his books wasn’t adequate enough to describe this feeling, this mixture of hope and terror that filled him.

  Her smile faded and she suddenly looked uncertain. “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

  “But we just met last Friday. Yesterday, you thought I assaulted a deliveryman.”

  “And today you did.” She shrugged. “See, I can adapt.”

  “Tasha—”

  “Rick, you believe in love at first sight. I know it from your books. Besides, we’ve gone through more in the past five days than most people do in years of dating.”

  He may have used that line in his books. He wasn’t sure. “But your family—they already disapprove of me.”

  “That was before they knew you were rich.”

  The muscles in his shoulders tightened. Tasha must have noticed because her smile returned.

  “Relax,” she said. “I probably have more money in trust than you and Jessamyn earned in the past eight years.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” he said. He longed to touch her. “Tash, what you’re proposing—it would take a hell of a commitment. Your life would be trashed too.”

  She smiled at him. “For you, I’d do anything.”

  “Anything?” he asked.

  “Well.” She tilted her head as if she were considering that idea. “I don’t think I could do a society wedding. Or the yacht club. Or any more pink taffeta dresses.”

  He slipped his hand in her hair. “I think we can make a commitment without that.”

  “We?” she asked.

  He nodded. “If you commit to me, I commit to you. And I don’t take commitment lightly, Tasha.”

  “Neither do I,” she said.

  They stared at each other for a moment, and then she caught his hand and pulled him close. They kissed. A deep, passionate warm kiss. A kiss that even put the one from the night before to shame.

  He wrapped his arms around her. And before he completely lost himself to sensation, he had one thought:

  With her at his side, he could survive anything.

  THIRTY-NINE

  RICK SUDDENLY HAD a lot of personal business to complete. And before he did any of it, he had to talk to Jane, and he had to do it alone. Tasha wanted to be with him, but he wouldn’t let her.

  Instead of cooking Jane dinner on Friday, he did it the evening after they caught the Creep.

  Rick invited his sister to his home after all, cooked her a fantastic roast chicken dinner, and watched her eat it, his stomach knotted in a ball. For the first part of the meal, she took in his home, especially the refrigerator, which seemed like a great toy to her. After a while, she set her fork down.

  “Are you going to eat or did you invite me over to poison me?”

  He picked up his own fork. He had never felt less like eating in his life. “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “If it’s about Teri, don’t bother,” Jane said. “I never should have believed her.”

  “She was credible.”

  “Then,” Jane said. “But she pulled a similar stunt a few years ago with one of your old friends. Did you know that?”

  He shook his head. He hadn’t kept up with his old friends.

  “And I realized just how dumb I was.”

  “You weren’t dumb, Jane. Everyone believed her.”

  “Mom and Dad didn’t.”

  He pushed his plate away. “Yes, they did. They yelled at me.”

  “For getting involved with Teri.”

  “For not living up to my responsibilities.”

  Jane nodded. “They didn’t believe her by the end, Rick. They wanted to tell you that.”

  He folded his hands in his lap. “Thanks for that. Even if it isn’t true.”

  “Are you accusing me of making up stories?” she asked.

  “No.” He took a deep breath. In for a penny, in for a pound, as Tasha said. “I’m the one who does that.”

  Jane grinned. “Are you confessing?”

  He froze. “To what?”

  “To writing all those Jessamyn Chance books?”

  He frowned. “What makes you think that?”

  “Oh...” Jane shrugged. “Maybe it was the details of Mom and Dad’s plane crash in that first book. Or the story of Teri in Betrayal. Or maybe it was the little things, like the way you described our family’s house so perfectly in Pretty One. Or the way a young boy chipped his tooth in Brainy, just like you did when you were twelve. Or—”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” He was stunned. He hadn’t expected her to know.

  “I wanted you to tell me, Rick.”

  “But I didn’t tell anyone.”

  “What about Tasha?”

  He waved a hand and sighed. “That’s a whole new story.”

  “I want to hear it,” Jane said, and shoved his plate back at him.

  ***

  “She already knew?” Tasha said that night as she curled against him on his big bed. She had been pleased to learn that the bed was as comfortable as she had imagined it would be.

  He nodded, drawing her close.

  “And she didn’t tell anyone?”

  “Jane’s cool.”

  “I’ll say.” Tasha wondered if her family was going to be as cool when they found out about Rick. Probably. He was rich, after all.

  Ironically, as far as she was concerned, that was the least important part about him. His kindness, his warmth, and his intelligence—not to mention his fantastic body—they were all much more important than his bank balance.

  In fact, she still hadn’t confessed that she knew his bank balance. She’d been too busy finishing the case against Beebe, and arresting Damon Pfeiffer.

  It had been a productive few days.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “I was remembering the first time I saw this bed,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “I was helping Lou search for the Creep. Do you know that I was paying more attention to the bed than I was to backing up Lou?”

  “I’m not sure I wanted to know that,” Rick said. He was generally fine with her job, but, she suspected, he would worry about her, like every cop’s lover did.

  “I usually pay attention,” Tasha said. She had to reassure him.

  “So what distracted you?” he asked.

  “The thought of you. Sleeping here. Naked.”

  “Were you really thinking about me sleeping?” he asked, his voice low.

  She smiled. Then she slipped her hands under the covers. “You know, you promised me a night in which we could do whatever we wanted.”

  He smiled back. “So I did.”

  “How come we put it off?”

  “I don’t know. Arrest warrants, statements, family oblig
ations, repairs, wedding plans?”

  She found what she had been searching for. He squirmed at her touch.

  “And, um,” he said, his voice breaking a little, “I seem to recall one or two sexual interludes in the last twenty-four hours.”

  “Interludes,” she said, moving her hand. “Not an entire night. Awake. Doing all sorts of things that romance writers are supposed to specialize in.”

  “Putting together really witty sentences?” he asked.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes,” he said softly. “I believe I do.”

  And then, as if to prove his point, he kissed her long and slow and passionately.

  The way heroes always kissed.

  In books.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Kristine Dexter is the romantic suspense pen name for USA Today bestselling author Kristine Kathryn Rusch. Rusch also writes romance under her own name as well as two other pen names, futuristic sf as Kris DeLake, and paranormal romance as Kristine Grayson.

  Her mysteries (written as Kris Nelscott) have been nominated for the Edgar Award, the Shamus Award, and the Oregon Book Award.

  For more information about her work, go to KristineKathrynRusch.com.

  LOOK FOR THESE OTHER TITLES FROM KRISTINE KATHRYN RUSCH

  Bleed Through

  Cowboy Grace

  Simply Irresistible (written as Kristine Grayson)

  Drinking Games

  Spinning

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

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