The British are Coming Box Set

by Nancy Warren

  She contemplated the room, which was tidy and feminine and restful. “Sometimes I wish I was a lesbian.”

  “And then a man like Rafe walks into your life.”

  “And out of it again so fast he’s like a blur.”

  “I asked Rafe outright what was going on between the two of you and all he would say was that it was complicated. If he thought it was a one-off, he wouldn’t have called it complicated, would he?”

  Stephanie shrugged. She’d learned early not to trust her own judgment about men. Unfortunately, she still followed it. She felt miserable, was certain she looked worse.

  “Well,” said Chloe brightly, “As Shakespeare said, ’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

  “Actually, that was Alfred Lord Tennyson.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. ‘In Memoriam,’ written in 1850.”

  “I didn’t know you were literary.”

  “We studied it in school. I remember weird stuff.”

  “How extraordinary. I wish you could remember where I left my house keys.”

  “Sorry. I only remember useless stuff. And it has to be written down.”

  “Do you have a photographic memory?”

  She wished she’d never mentioned Tennyson. She should have kept her mouth shut. “Not really. Sort of, I guess.”

  “But that’s wonderful. I think it could be really useful for our business.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m absolutely certain something good will come of it.” She smiled and uncurled from the bed. “Well, you’ve cured me of misquoting poor Shakespeare. That’s bound to be useful.”

  “So, if Rafe didn’t come here to tell you about me, what did he come here for?”

  “Ah, yes. I’m not sure you’re going to like it, actually.”

  Her heart sank. “He is here to break up with somebody.” While they were going at it in her apartment, he probably had another woman waiting at home for him. She’d never asked. Never even thought about it.

  “No. Quite the opposite.” She snuggled deeper into the pillows. “I didn’t know anything about the two of you, of course, but I’ve asked him to help me professionally.”

  “He’s a cop. What’s he going to do? Moonlight as an investigator?” That would be interesting. She wasn’t quite so furious now that she knew he hadn’t come to inform her employer of her little problem. If he was here to do some investigating, she might at least see him occasionally. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  “Not exactly. He’s going to make another woman interested in him, enough that she’ll realize she’s not in love with her current fiancé.” Chloe ran her finger around the white circle on her bedspread.

  “That is the stupidest, craziest idea I’ve ever heard.” Except that he’d done exactly that for her. Ridden an escalator into her life and within days caused her to dump her fiancé. She wailed, “What if he falls for her?”

  Chloe glanced up. “Then you’d better do what you’re good at. Steal him back.”

  Chapter 15

  Matthew needed some air. If he didn’t get out of the house he was going to tell Brittany that cranberry in the bathroom did not make his heart sing. Any more than sage, or pumpernickel, or any of the other colors she was shoving at him—all of them based on foods he didn’t like.

  He felt as though the walls were closing in on him. She never got mad. Even when he was being a pig. If she’d just yell at him once in a while, he’d have a chance. But she never did. So he tried to stifle his irritation and accept that if she was going to share his life, she had a right to choose colors. But did she have to be quite so nice? He was being smothered in niceness.

  He left her drawing the living room furniture on graph paper, no doubt so she could change its colors to pumpkin, quince, and seaweed and then move everything around. He claimed he had some garden work to do, figuring he’d sweat off some of his frustration.

  Instead, his frustration level shot up like a geyser when he stepped outside and saw Rafe’s motorcycle outside Chloe’s place.

  Cozy.

  None of his business; Rafe and Chloe were both single and if Rafe had lost his mind, Matt figured there wasn’t much he could do about it. But the burn in his esophagus didn’t abate. He pulled a muscle moving boulders—the same pointless rearranging that was going on inside his house—but he needed something dirty and physical to do. He didn’t bother thinking about why.

  He was staggering a boulder from one cactus bed to the other when he heard a familiar voice say, “Need a hand?”

  He shook his head, made it the rest of the way, and dropped the thing in the garden.

  “I think you just obliterated a succulent,” his old partner said.

  “You’re spending a lot of time in this neighborhood.”

  Rafe looked at him with steady eyes. “You got a problem with that?”

  “Hell, yeah. That woman isn’t half sane and for all we know, she’s up to something illegal.”

  “You sure that’s all that’s bothering you?”

  His hands were scraped raw, his T-shirt was sticking to him with sweat, his breathing was ragged from overexertion, and he felt like his bum leg was about to collapse beneath him. The thought of Chloe and Rafe together made him want to howl. “Yeah.”

  Rafe shook his head. “Stupido,” he said, and turned away.

  Now, Matt wasn’t fluent in Spanish by a long shot, but you didn’t have to be to translate that one. “Make sure it’s me who’s the stupid one and not you.”

  Rafe turned back to face him. Women had always gone for his slovenly partner, he remembered, cursing himself for being the one who had introduced him to Chloe. “She’s not doing anything illegal.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because she told me about her business.”

  “What business is she in?”

  Rafe had faced down some of the toughest criminals in Texas. He wasn’t about to crumble because a guy had stopped gardening to give him a hard time. “I don’t think she wants you to know, my friend.”

  Then, with a careless salute, Rafe sauntered to his motorcycle and mounted it with fluid grace.

  Matt scowled. “You wouldn’t even have met her if it wasn’t for me,” he yelled, but his words were drowned by the roar of the bike.

  Deborah slipped a super-strength painkiller into her mouth and swallowed it down with water. She stopped what she was doing to make a note in her headache diary. Headache diary. What was her life coming to when she had to keep a headache diary?

  Her temples throbbed and she wanted nothing more than to pull the blinds in her office, turn off the lights, and curl up on her faux living room couch and sleep.

  Of course, she’d do no such thing. She had patients to see and they didn’t stop having problems simply because she had suddenly developed a nasty thing called cluster headaches.

  Are you under more than the usual stress? the doctor at the clinic had asked her. Is something bothering you?

  Those were her questions. The ones she asked her patients in a more carefully phrased way.

  But a person didn’t suddenly develop cluster headaches—painful episodes that seemed to hit her almost daily. She’d agreed to keep a diary only when the MD had agreed to send her for testing for a physical cause. Not that she wanted to discover she had something awful like a brain tumor, but neither did she want to believe there could be a psychological trigger to her head pain when everything in her life was going so well.

  She resolutely put her own problems out of her mind and prepared herself for a new client.

  Rafael Escobar.

  She rubbed her temples with her fingertips and tried some deep breathing, but the throb had barely dulled when her receptionist buzzed through to say that Mr. Escobar had arrived.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  She rose and walked to the door. Opened it. Outside, her gaze was immediately drawn to the man who looked so out o
f place in her deliberately soothing, orderly office.

  He was not soothing. And he most certainly wasn’t orderly. In fact, the man was a mess.

  He rose when she called his name and came toward her with guarded eyes and a reluctant gait. He didn’t want to be here. Interesting. Who was making him? An employer? Parent? Spouse or girlfriend?

  Soon, she’d know. Usually the idea of fixing someone, especially someone so disorderly as Mr. Escobar, filled her with anticipation, but today she felt irritated that she was going to have to hear the boring problems of another screwup.

  Shocked at her own thoughts, she put a smile on her face and, offering her hand, introduced herself. “I’m Deborah Beaumont,” she told him.

  “Rafe,” he said.

  When they got into her office she ushered him to the living room area. “Would you like coffee or tea?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Water?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Fine.” Why did she feel rattled? She picked up hostility and reluctance all the time and didn’t react. Why today? Must be the headache. Or the fact that while most people’s confessions in this office were surprisingly similar, she had a feeling this guy’s secrets included things like where the bodies were buried.

  They sat across from each other and she let silence fill the air. Some of her patients were so desperate for relief from their problems that they couldn’t wait to unload them.

  The silence lengthened.

  Rafe was not one of the desperate ones.

  She picked up her notebook. “Do you have any questions before we begin?”

  “Nope.”

  “Fine. Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

  He dropped his gaze to the coffee table. A sure sign that what he was about to say was likely not the truth. “I’m not sleeping too good.”

  “I see.” She waited until he’d raised his gaze. “Any ideas as to why you’re not sleeping?”

  He shrugged. “I do a lot of night work. My schedule gets screwed up.”

  If his trouble was a sleep disorder he needed an MD, which he must know. He wasn’t the first patient who had a problem he needed pried out of him. “Why don’t you sleep?”

  “I told you. I work a crazy schedule.”

  “It says on your intake sheet that you’re a police officer.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Is there something about your work that’s bothering you?”

  “I’ve been a cop for eight years. Only had trouble sleeping recently.”

  “What’s changed?”

  He shifted on the leather couch.

  She decided to take another tack. “Tell me about the rest of your life. What do you do when you’re not a cop?”

  “I eat. See my family. Hang out with my buddies. Go dirt biking.”

  “You’re not married, I see. Any girlfriends?”

  He glanced up, his eyes hot, and then his gaze dropped to the table again. He crossed his arms and turned so his body was protected from her. But he must have studied at least as much body language as she had, since she watched him deliberately turn his body forward and look up at her. “Not really.”

  “Not really? What does that mean?”

  “There’s a woman. But it’s pretty casual.”

  She made a note to come back later to this woman who was so casual.

  “You get on well at work?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is there a case that’s bothering you?”

  “I can’t talk about that.”

  She resisted the urge to tap her foot. If he wanted to waste his money, who was she to stop him? “Your family. How do you get on with your family?”

  “They’re great.”

  He’d slipped back into his defensive posture. She ought to continue with gentle questions, use one of the techniques she’d learned—but she had a headache and it seemed to her that life was too short to give up hours to people who only wanted to waste her time.

  She put down her notebook. “Rafe,” she said, “why are you really here?”

  She felt for the first time that she had his full attention. Maybe he was as surprised as she that she’d pretty much accused him of lying to her. She had the odd feeling that he respected her for her directness.

  “I read your book.”

  Okay, not exactly the answer she’d been looking for, but interesting.

  And surprising.

  “You did?”

  “Yeah.”

  No more was forthcoming, but he’d mentioned her book for a reason. “Was there a chapter you found particularly interesting?”

  “Chapter eight.”

  Mentally, she scanned the table of contents. “Bad relationship choices.”

  “Yeah.”

  Good. This was progress. “What bad relationship choices are you making, Rafe?”

  He blew out a breath, the kind of breath he’d been holding for years. “Wounded doves.”

  “You have a Galahad Complex?”

  “You’re the shrink. You tell me.” He snarled the words, but he wouldn’t have brought this up if he didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Give me an example of one of your wounded doves,” she said softly.

  He shook his head.

  Once more, she wondered who had made him come to her. This visit certainly wasn’t voluntary. “Tell me about the first person you ever loved.”

  “My mama.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “A saint.”

  “You meant she’s passed on?”

  “No. She’s the best person I know. She was planning to be a nun, but—” His face suddenly lightened in a grin. “My dad came along and gave her other ideas.”

  She found herself smiling back at him. “How many brothers and sisters do you have?”

  “Two brothers. Three sisters.” He clasped his hands tightly together. “Used to have four sisters.”

  “What happened?”

  “Drugs. Drugs happened. Angel was my younger sister and she got into drugs and some bad shit. She died.”

  “And you couldn’t save her.”

  He shook his head.

  “How old were you?”

  “Seventeen.” His voice was husky. “She was fifteen.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault.”

  “Not yours either.”

  He glanced up then, and now she knew they were where they needed to be. His gaze was intense and she could see the pain shimmering there, not wet like tears but hard, like steel. “I was the one who knew what was going on. I didn’t say anything. I thought I could handle it. But I couldn’t.”

  “And now you keep trying to save other women?”

  “I guess.”

  “How did your mother react when your sister overdosed?”

  The woman’s words were matter-of-fact, but they banged into Rafe like nails into his flesh. “You were supposed to protect her,” his mother had screamed at him. And, even though she’d later begged his forgiveness for her harsh words, he’d known they were true.

  “I was born on December twelfth,” he said. The shrink looked at him with the same polite expression she’d worn since he got in here. Of course she wouldn’t know. Even now he was surprised how often he forgot that what was part of his culture wasn’t part of Texas.

  “It’s the day of Our Lady of Guadalupe.” How to explain? “She’s the patron saint of Mexico. To be born on that day is—” He shrugged, unable to explain. He saw his mother and his grandmother, smelled the incense in the church. “A most blessed event. My mother and grandmother wanted me to go for the priesthood.” He was vaguely aware that his accent had thickened. If he didn’t pull himself out of the past, he’d start speaking Spanish.

  “And did you consider it?”

  He nodded. “When I was a kid.” And what a disaster that would have been.

  “What happened?”

  “Too much hate.” He felt it welling inside him
again as he went to that dark place in himself. She’d been so young. His special charge from the moment she was old enough to idolize him. “I found those guys that sold her the stuff. I nearly killed them.” He’d nearly been killed himself, but fury had driven him, given him strength unlike anything he’d ever known. “Then I left and came here.”

  “And became a cop.”

  “That’s right.” He wished he hadn’t come here today, hadn’t agreed to this stupid session. He felt like shit, didn’t want to talk about this stuff. Why hadn’t he told that English chica no?

  “You’re still dispensing justice and, I suppose, vengeance.” The shrink had green eyes that were pale but looked like they didn’t miss much, and red hair, also pale, tied back off her face.

  “I do my job,” he said tightly.

  “And when you’re not working, you rescue wounded doves.”

  He pretty much thought that summed it up. He wasn’t stupid. He’d figured this out himself. Damn it. Why had he bothered coming here? Putting himself through this? She couldn’t help him. No one could.

  And as for falling in love with him, that was a laugh. Unless she was wounded, he wouldn’t be interested. And unless he was some asshole with a bunch of degrees and an Armani wardrobe, he didn’t think she’d be interested in him.

  “What happens after you fix their wings?”

  He gazed at her. Her eyes were clear and intelligent, but she kept rubbing her temple as though she was in pain. “What always happens when a bird’s wing is fixed? It flies away.”

  “Not always.”

  He didn’t answer. He felt his body slouching into the chair and resisted the urge to put his boots on her perfect glass tabletop.

  She gave him a minute to answer, and when it was clear he wasn’t going to, she pushed. “What happens when they are healed but don’t leave you?”

  “Nothing happens.”

  “Do you leave them? Do you lose interest?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Tell me about this latest woman.”

  “She’s messed up. I think I messed her up some more.”

  That calm, still voice was relentless. Like a dentist’s drill. “What do you think you should do about that?”