by Susan Fox
A male voice called, “Herb? That you? Jango?”
As Jake hightailed it out of there, the door crashed open behind him, and a voice yelled, “Hey!” A powerful beam lanced the darkness and caught him. Shots rang out. He knew he’d been hit but he didn’t stop in his dash for the woods. More shots sounded behind him but the trees provided cover and he got away.
He wanted to fire back, but that might’ve blown his chance of identifying the killer. He guessed the guy shooting at him was a minion who might not even know the identity of the top man. No, he and Jamal were handling this undercover, and he wasn’t going to change the game plan now.
In a couple of minutes the truck roared to life and he froze behind a clump of bushes as the vehicle barreled down the road, its headlights acting like search beams. The driver must have been an idiot because he kept going, not stopping and listening to see if he heard another engine. Obviously he was certain the intruder had made his getaway by vehicle.
Jake regained the road and hurried toward the Harley, not stopping to deal with his wound, fearful the truck would return before he reached the bike. He made it safely, though, and pulled the Harley out of its hiding place. Shivering uncontrollably from shock, he managed to pull on his jacket, but forgot about his helmet. His side ached fiercely by then and he felt a little light-headed. He held tight to one thought: He had to get back to the motel before the driver of the black truck found him.
So he’d ridden hard, until finally his strength deserted him and he crashed. And ended up in Brooke’s hands.
Small, shapely hands with unvarnished nails cut short. Capable hands that could be gentle when she wasn’t scared or mad.
He turned his face into her pillow and inhaled an enticingly feminine scent. Almost, he wished he could have met Brooke in different circumstances. She had a few years on him—he’d learned her vital stats when he searched her files in her desk last night—but she was a strong, feisty woman, as well as a lovely, sexy one.
And, he was coming to think, she was an innocent one. When she’d been out at her meeting he’d called Jamal in Vancouver. Not wanting to waste time in case Brooke changed her mind and came back, he deferred giving a report and just had his buddy run a quick computer check on her. Aside from an impaired driving conviction from years back, her record was clean.
Jake had then searched the house thoroughly and was just going to see if he could log on to her computer when he felt dizzy and barely made it to her bed before passing out.
He’d learned that she paid her bills immediately and kept invoices and receipts filed methodically. Her employment records were from a place called Beauty Is You, so he guessed she was a hairdresser. Her son had sent her money over the years they’d been estranged, and she’d saved every penny. After he returned, she donated it to a charitable organization called Riders Boot Camp, which her daughter-in-law started up last fall. Brooke was an active member of the board of directors.
As for hobbies, she had a collection of well-read books—romances, mysteries, and biographies—and also made good use of the library. She clipped recipes from magazines and, from the stains and tattered corners, it seemed she actually tried them out. She also had books on gardening.
Her house was a cozy nest of domesticity, in which she clearly lived alone. But the girl Robin was a frequent visitor. Brooke’s granddaughter.
He was still stunned to think his angel could be a grandma.
He’d learned from his search that Evan, the son she’d mentioned last night, was the man in the wedding picture. Jessica was his bride and the driving force behind the no-frills riding camp operation. Robin was Jessica’s eleven-year-old daughter. And Brooke was forty-three, several years older than he’d guessed.
Jake would have thought that knowing she was a grandma would make Brooke less attractive, yet when she’d come home last night he’d had trouble keeping his hands off her. In fact, he hadn’t. He remembered the resilience of her thigh under thin cotton, the responsiveness of her hand as he caressed it. Just touching her hand had turned him on in a major way.
Oh Christ, what was he doing sprawling in bed musing about his sexy, reluctant hostess when there was a killer on his trail? When he was a step closer to solving Anika’s murder, yet in desperate need of a new cover? He’d kept his time on the phone with Jamal to a minimum because he wanted to search Brooke’s house, and now he really needed to talk to him and figure out a plan.
Jake had been traveling as Stan Browning, and had used that name to rent his room at the Gold Rush Trail Motel, as well as to charter the Cessna he’d taken up to scout for the grow op. The man he was chasing wasn’t stupid. When he learned his operation had been infiltrated, he’d have checked with the small airports and probably the motels. Likely he knew by now that a long-haired dude named Stan Browning had paid cash at an airport fifty miles away to rent a small plane for a couple of days. That Browning had registered at the Gold Rush Trail Motel, and that he rode a motorbike. Jake’s cover was blown. He dare not even go back to the motel to pick up the few clothes and toiletries he’d left there along with his fake ID. Nor—fuck it—could he use the Harley, even if it was functional after the crash.
Initially, when he and Jamal had constructed the cover identity of Stan Browning, he’d planned to appear as a shady, savvy drifter. A man who knew the drug scene and wanted to make some money off it. He’d hoped to infiltrate his quarry’s operation in the same way he’d done with gangs when he worked undercover. But now the killer would be on his guard, so Jake had to think of a different approach.
Thank God he’d had his back turned when that beam spotlighted him. If he’d been facing the scumbag who shot him, it really would be game over.
He could call in the troops and shut down the grow op, but there was no guarantee that’d net them Anika’s killer. If he was going to stick to the plan and do a U/C investigation of the upstanding citizens of Caribou Crossing, he needed a whole new cover. That meant he had to talk to Jamal. He glanced at the phone on the bedside table. No, it was too risky. Brooke was somewhere in the house, and might pick up a phone herself.
The cat head-butted him in the shoulder and he stroked it, feeling it throb before he heard a hearty purr. Yes, Jamal could help him work out a cover and get him the necessary ID, but before he called, it would help to know more about Caribou Crossing. Should he come in as a traveling salesman, a backpacker looking for some good hiking, or a dude who wanted to play cowboy?
He didn’t want to drag Brooke any further into this, but she could be a useful source of information. She’d lived here for years, but, even more than that, she was a hairdresser. People talked to their hairdressers.
Could he get her chatting about the town? The idea seemed far-fetched, given what she believed him to be.
If only he were sure he could trust her. But even if he did, it could be dangerous for her if he took her into his confidence.
He gave the cat a final pat and eased himself gingerly toward the side of the bed. He ached fiercely but his mind was clear and his headache was ten times better than yesterday’s.
As he headed for the bathroom across the hall, he noted a plaid robe lying on the foot of the bed. He’d have preferred jeans and a shirt, but his search last night had told him there were no men’s clothes in Brooke’s house. The robe would have to do, and at least it meant he could rinse out his briefs.
He did that, and hung them on the shower rail. She’d left him a toothbrush, still in its wrapper, and the aspirin bottle was a welcome sight. He probed his bandages warily and concluded she’d done a good job. No heat, no swelling, probably no infection. He’d have loved a shower, the opportunity to wash his hair, but settled for wiping himself down with a washcloth and dousing his head in the sink. He toweled his hair and ran his fingers through it.
Feeling far more human, he opened the bathroom door, planning to go back to the bedroom and put on the robe.
Naked, he stepped into the hall, then stopped abruptly.
“Oh!” Brooke gasped. She’d been about to enter the bedroom, and froze in the hallway, her gaze skimming his body, then settling on his package. Color flushed her cheeks and sexual awareness surged through him. She was utterly feminine in a pink blouse and slim-fitting beige pants that revealed her curvy hips and long legs. Utterly beautiful.
He remembered the softness of her skin under his fingers, and felt himself harden. He wanted her. And, much as she might hate him, she felt it, too. There was a heat that flared between them, like nothing he’d ever experienced before. If he stepped toward her . . .
Instead he strode past her and into the bedroom, grabbed up the robe, and held it in front of him.
She gripped the door frame as if anchoring herself to it. Staring over his left shoulder, she said, “You’re up.”
Behind the bathrobe, he definitely was.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
Horny. Wasn’t it obvious? He took a deep breath and the pain in his side brought him to his senses. “Much better.”
“Good.” She bit her lip, then finally focused on his face. “I guess you don’t want me to go to work today?”
“Not today. But that’ll be it. I’ll be gone by tomorrow.” He had to be. The longer he hid out at her place, the higher the risk of discovery and the greater the danger to her.
“Yesterday afternoon my boss called and we agreed I’d take another day, so I don’t spread germs to our clients.”
“What kind of work do you do anyhow?” He couldn’t let her know he’d searched her house and already knew where she was employed.
“I’m a beauty consultant.” She cleared her throat. “I’m going to make breakfast. Can you make it downstairs?”
“Thanks, that sounds great. Yes, I’ll be down in a minute.”
She frowned in puzzlement and he realized too late that he was behaving out of character, being too polite. He’d done it last night, too. His only hold over her was the threat that he’d harm her family, so he had to play a believable bad guy. He’d done it undercover, many times, yet with Brooke it was far too easy to break cover.
He scowled. “Bacon and eggs. The works. Coffee, too. Lots of it.”
The grooves in her forehead deepened and he barked, “Now!”
She jerked, then darted away.
Jake frowned as he pulled on the robe. He hated bullying his sexy angel of mercy.
He tried to wrap the too small robe around his body, and scowled again. He’d screwed up at the grow op and now he didn’t even have a pair of pants to call his own.
He thought briefly of abandoning the whole murder side of this investigation and foisting it back on the Vancouver Police Department. But the issue had become personal and he was determined to bring Anika’s killer to justice—for homicide, not just for trafficking.
When he hobbled downstairs, the smell of frying bacon and fresh coffee brought a rush of saliva to his mouth, and his spirits rose. The sight of Brooke, leaning into the fridge to find something, was pure pleasure. A guy could get used to this—if the woman’s motivation was something other than fear, or marriage.
He had a habit of moving quietly and he guessed she didn’t hear him until he pulled a chair out from the table, because she took a sudden leap backward, away from the fridge. She shot him a quick glance—maybe to reassure herself he was decently covered—then said, “Bacon’s on. Do you want your eggs scrambled or fried?”
“Scrambled.”
She poured coffee into a mug and plunked it down on the kitchen table beside a pale blue milk jug and sugar bowl.
He sat down, wincing, and picked up the coffee mug. He blew on the coffee to cool it, then took a sip. She made a mean cup of coffee.
Almost subconsciously he noted the open back door, the fresh outdoor smell that underlay the stronger ones of coffee and bacon, the twitter of birds, the cat on a windowsill. The radio played softly, apparently permanently set on that country station. A newspaper lay on the table. The Caribou Crossing Gazette.
As he drank his first cup of coffee, he skimmed through the paper. This place could be the model for small towns everywhere. There were a few token stories about national and international news, but the prime focus was on tourism and local personalities and events: photos and scores from a Little Britches rodeo, the event schedule for Gold Rush Days Park, a farmers’ market, a huge fish some tourist from Texas had caught, kids’ sports, a church bake sale on Saturday, a Heritage Committee fund-raiser at the town square.
He tensed at the sound of a car engine in the distance, then relaxed when the car drove past. He turned his attention back to the article on the fund-raiser. His quarry was reputed to be a solid citizen, so he might be attending. Might even be the chair of the committee, a man named Dave Cousins, who also owned an inn called the Wild Rose.
What identity could Jake take on that would give him an entrée to the event?
Brooke put a plate of bacon, scrambled eggs, and hash browns in front of him. She added a couple of slices of the delicious bread she’d served the previous night, toasted golden brown. “Strawberry jam? Peach? And would you like orange juice? Milk?”
“Uh . . .” So much to choose from. “Strawberry jam. And orange juice.” He clamped his lips shut before he said please and thank you. “I see this place has a Heritage Committee. Folks are really into restoring the old buildings?”
She gave him a glass of juice and put a jar of jam on the table. She sat down across from him, her own plate holding only a small serving of scrambled eggs and a slice of toast. “Caribou Crossing got its start as a gold-mining town back in the 1860s. A lot of gold rush towns became ghost towns when the gold wore out, like Barkerville, but that didn’t happen here. Folks got into ranching, and for well over a hundred years Caribou Crossing’s had cattle, cowboys, rodeos.”
While she talked, he dug into the meal she’d prepared.
“So,” she went on, “we’re a historic site. One of our main sources of income is tourism, with both a gold rush focus and a cowboy one. Preserving and restoring our old buildings is a matter of good business as well as community pride.”
“And this guy Dave Cousins is chair of the Heritage Committee?”
She frowned suspiciously. “Why are you asking about Dave?”
“No reason.”
“He’s a fine man.” She spread a skim of jam on her toast and bit off a corner, giving the impression she wasn’t saying anything more on the subject.
Right. Cousins was just the kind of man who might be leading a double life, selling drugs on the side. Heading down to Vancouver on the pretext of hotel business, doing drug deals, frequenting prostitutes. Killing a fifteen-year-old who got in his way.
“You planning on going to the fund-raiser they’re holding?” he asked.
She glanced at him nervously. “I was. I volunteered to help prepare snacks. Dave is—” Suddenly she stopped and ran a hand through her hair, messing the soft curls. “Why are you asking these questions?”
“Just making conversation.”
“Don’t feel you have to be polite on my account,” she snapped. “I’d far rather you told me when you’re planning to leave.”
He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. He needed this information, yet could understand why she didn’t want to gossip about her friends and neighbors with him.
He had a decision to make and it wasn’t an easy one. It went against his nature and his training to trust anyone, but the evidence, not to mention his own instincts, told him Brooke was no criminal. But if she was innocent, trusting her with the truth could mean putting her in danger. He couldn’t do that.
“You are planning on leaving today, aren’t you?”
He glanced up, into anxious blue-green eyes. And for a moment he saw another woman’s eyes—Mrs. Janssen’s brown ones, swollen and wet as she talked about her daughter, Anika. Anika, a troubled teen who’d become a hooker and ended up discarded like trash in a Dumpster.
He was an under
cover cop. He relied on sources all the time. This wasn’t the time to get squeamish. If Brooke was his best chance of finding Anika’s killer, he had to use her. And if he did, he had to protect her.
Her cat jumped onto his knee and he stroked it, feeling the purr throb against his hand.
“Sunny! Down!” At her firm tone, the cat leaped to the floor.
“All right, John Doe. What’s going on? Isn’t it time I knew? You look like a member of a biker gang, you order me around at gunpoint, and yet something doesn’t ring true. If you’ve robbed a store or you’re involved in a gang war—if, as you said yesterday, someone is trying to kill you—it doesn’t make sense that you’re sitting here eating bacon and eggs asking about heritage buildings in Caribou Crossing.”
Her ocean eyes blazed at him. “Besides,” she asserted, “Sunny is a good judge of character and he approves of you.”
He let out a surprised snort of laughter. Damned if he didn’t like this woman, as well as want to leap her bones. He kinked an eyebrow. “You trust your cat’s judgment?”
“He was an abused stray when I found him. He’s learned about human nature the hard way. If he says you’re all right, I’m going to listen.”
An abused stray. The cat had landed on her doorstep and she’d taken it in. Yesterday, she’d done the same with him. He didn’t care for the analogy. He might be injured but he was tough, independent. Not abused, and certainly not a stray. He was a pro, on a job. “I’m RCMP.”
She gave him an up-down look that took in his scruffy hair and beard, the skimpy bathrobe. “And I should believe that because . . . ?”
Damn but he liked her. “I don’t have ID with me. I’m undercover, out of Vancouver. You can call there and confirm I’m a member.”
“Or I can have our local detachment check you out.”
“No. That’s why I couldn’t let you call anyone. One of your members may be dirty.”
Her mouth fell open. Then she crossed her arms across her chest. “I don’t think so!”