by Susan Fox
He got up carefully, trying not to jar his injuries, and refilled his coffee mug. He brought the pot over to her. “More?”
She held out her mug wordlessly—she took it black too, he noted—and he filled it. When he glanced at her face he saw her eyes do a quick skim down his naked legs, up again, then quickly away. He remembered the way she’d stared at him when he was naked. His skin heated and his body responded, as it had then. He turned away to hide his reaction.
A half loaf of that homemade bread sat on the counter, tempting him. He cut a couple of slices. “More toast?”
She took a deep breath through opened lips. The air sighed in then out again. “One slice, please.”
He put the bread in the toaster and, his body under control now, turned and leaned against the counter, watching her. “We have a lead that the guy we’re looking for is viewed as a respected member of the community. That could mean a cop.”
“Or a banker, businessman, lawyer, doctor. A schoolteacher, for heaven’s sake.”
“Yeah. But maybe a cop. So I’m not about to announce my presence to them. And that’s not just me talking, that’s my sergeant too, and he’s running this op. If I’d let you call nine-one-one yesterday, the hospital would have had to report a gunshot wound.”
She nodded slowly. In understanding, not necessarily agreement, and he remembered that she read mysteries.
Outside, he heard another car engine and turned toward the open kitchen door, waiting until the vehicle drove past. The toast popped and he carried the slices to the table, putting one on each of their plates. He forked up the last of his bacon and eggs, then applied liberal portions of butter and strawberry jam to his toast. Everything tasted wonderful. “You make the jam yourself?”
Her mouth opened and closed. “Yes, I did.” She put jam on her own toast, using twice as much as before.
He had her off balance; he could read the signs. He wasn’t sure which was the bigger problem: the sexual pull between them or the story he was telling. Maybe he should just clear out now. She was a recovering alcoholic. How much stress could she stand? Besides, there was the prescription bottle he’d found in her bathroom last night. For something called Eskalith. What did a person take Eskalith for? He’d planned on looking it up on the Internet if he could get logged on to her computer, but he’d collapsed before he made it that far.
She reached out to shove the jam jar away from her and gave a little groan.
“What’s wrong?”
“My neck and shoulders ache. From dealing with you and your bike yesterday.”
Jake couldn’t resist the excuse to get up close and personal with her unique blend of femininity and strength. He went to stand behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders.
Her body jerked.
“I’m not going to hurt you. Just massage some of the aches.” He began to rub and knead gently, feeling how strained and knotted her muscles were. Tension, plus the unaccustomed labor yesterday morning.
He wanted to just enjoy the sensations of touching her, but his brain produced a mental checklist for him to run through. “You said you hid the bike in a shed? It’s completely out of sight?”
“Yes. In my tool shed.”
She’d told him she had fixed the fence. Last night he’d found his T-shirt and jeans—clean now—cut up in a rag basket in her laundry room. She’d even washed her own clothes, the ones he’d bled on. She’d really thought of everything; clearly those mystery novels had trained her well. Except . . . “Where’s my jacket?”
Her body tensed under his hands. “It’s ruined.”
“Yeah, I figured. And I liked that jacket.” He dug his fingers deeper into knotted muscles, feeling them relax slowly, almost grudgingly. “What I mean is, where did you put it? You didn’t throw it out in the garbage, did you?” Damn, he hadn’t thought to check her garbage last night.
She shook her head, her curls a soft tickle against his fingers. “I didn’t put anything in the garbage. Your jacket’s in the tool shed in a garbage bag, your other clothes are cleaning rags now, and I washed all the bloody cloths I used. Even the bedspread you bled on is in the dryer. The stains did come out.”
“That’s good.” His fingers stilled momentarily as he considered how much trouble he’d caused her. “Thanks.” He began to massage again. “Thanks for everything, Brooke. If it hadn’t been for you . . .”
Her shoulders moved up and down under his hands in a shrug. “I’m just relieved that your pursuer didn’t turn up at my door. I couldn’t have handled two guns in one day.”
“I’d bet you could. You could handle almost anything if you set your mind to it.” God but she felt good, her body so firm and warm under the thin fabric of her blouse. He wanted to lean down and bury his face in those golden curls.
“Don’t overestimate me,” she murmured, arching under his hands just like her cat did when he stroked it. “Yesterday I was right on the edge, just barely hanging on.”
“But you did hang on. You didn’t panic. You didn’t drink. You decided you needed to go to a meeting and you made me let you go. Against my better judgment.”
She turned her head to the side so she could see him. There was a mischievous gleam in her blue-green eyes. “Are you saying I got the better of you?”
He chuckled. “I guess I am at that. And you didn’t even need a gun to do it.”
He gazed into her smiling eyes and again felt the spark flare between them. He ran a finger along the line of her jaw, then drew it across her top lip, glad she didn’t wear lipstick. Those pink lips parted, to let out a little sigh. Under the bathrobe, he was hard.
The world went still as they stared into each other’s eyes.
A sound broke the quiet. This time Jake hadn’t even noticed engine noise, but now he definitely heard the crunch of gravel. Someone had turned into Brooke’s driveway.
Chapter Six
Jake leaped past her, ignoring the stabs of pain from his injuries, barely aware that his erection was rapidly wilting. He grabbed his plate, cutlery, and mug, the only things in the room that would give him away. Where could he hide? Outside, in the tool shed she’d mentioned? But did he dare risk sprinting out the back door, when someone might at any moment walk around the side of the house?
His firearm—the one he’d found concealed in her laundry basket—was upstairs. He’d left it in her hiding spot when he came downstairs, foolishly thinking more about Brooke than about danger.
She had sprung to her feet, and their gazes locked across the table.
“I’ll be in your bedroom closet,” he said. “Remember, you’ve never seen me.”
He raced for the stairs, feeling ridiculous in bare feet and her plaid robe, carrying his breakfast dishes. Upstairs, he dashed into the walk-in closet, leaving the door open a crack, and retrieved his Beretta. Now everything was in Brooke’s hands.
A firm knock sounded at the front door.
He held his breath. Could he trust her? If she believed his story, she’d know the threat to her family had been pure bluff.
He should have told her all of it. About Anika’s death, her parents’ remorse, and the hooker who called herself Sapphire who’d told him about the marijuana grower from Caribou Crossing who’d taken Anika on her last “date.”
He heard Brooke say, “Sergeant Miller? What’s going on?”
The RCMP. Miller, Jake knew from research he’d done before coming here, was the commander of the local detachment. Damn it! What reason had Jake given Brooke to trust him rather than the local cops?
He heard Miller ask if he could come in. Brooke barely paused before saying, “I’ve got coffee on. Would you like some?”
Brooke didn’t like this man. Jake could tell that from her overly polite tone. Good. It was a point in his own favor because he knew that, despite her better judgment, she was beginning to like him.
“Thanks, Ms. Kincaid, but I don’t have time for anything,” Miller said. “Just wanted to ask you a couple of quick questions.”
“Go ahead.”
What did it mean that the RCMP commander was at Brooke’s door? Was Miller the man Jake sought, and using his position to track down the person who’d infiltrated his grow op?
He tightened his grip on the gun. Brooke could already be in danger.
“Guess you’re in a hurry to get to work,” Miller said.
“Uh, actually I’m staying home today. I wasn’t feeling well yesterday. I’m a lot better now but I don’t want to pass bugs on to my clients.”
Jake noted that nothing she’d said was an out-and-out lie.
“So you were home all day yesterday?”
“Yes, until evening. I didn’t want to miss my A.A. meeting.”
Jake would bet it galled her to mention the meeting. But in a small town her alcoholism wasn’t likely to be a secret, especially from the police. Perhaps that was why she didn’t like Sergeant Miller. Maybe she’d had run-ins with him in her drinking days.
“Did you hear or see anything unusual yesterday?”
“Unusual? Such as?”
Jake breathed a quiet sigh of relief. She was on his side. God knows why, but she’d decided not to turn him in.
“Didn’t see any strangers passing by on the road?”
Jake tensed. Was Miller hunting for him? If so, didn’t that have to mean he was dirty, involved with the grow op, maybe even the killer himself?
“I didn’t notice any strangers on the road.”
Despite his anxiety, Jake had to grin at that. Technically, he’d been on the shoulder, not the road itself. He’d gotten the sense yesterday that Brooke didn’t like to lie, and her behavior this morning confirmed it.
“Ray Barnes rode by on his way to breakfast,” she said, “and we spoke for a few minutes. We noticed a small plane flying over. Ray thought it might be the eldest Paluski boy.”
A small plane? Looking for him? Had the pilot seen him, seen Brooke helping him into the house, moving the Harley? Was that why Miller was here? No, if that was the case, surely he’d have been here yesterday.
“After that I was either inside or sitting on my back porch,” Brooke went on. “Why are you asking these things? What’s happened?”
Jake, too, sure as hell wanted to know why Miller was there.
“There was a break-in at Patel’s store. Happened early Tuesday morning.”
“Oh, my. What was taken?”
“Not much. Broke a display case and got some jewelry. May have been scared off before he could get anything else.”
A break-in that occurred the same night Jake was shot? A coincidence, or was it staged? By Miller, if he was the bad guy, to give him an excuse to hunt Jake?
“He?”
“That’s the most likely scenario. Couple folks said they heard a motorbike riding down the back roads near here, just around dawn. Going fast.”
“Hmm. I’m not sure I’d recognize a motorcycle engine as opposed to a car. I don’t recall much traffic on the road, though.”
“Okay then, Ms. Kincaid, guess that’ll be it. Oh, by the way, Ray Barnes said you had a little accident with your car? This’d be Monday night, same night as the break-in?”
“Oh!” For the first time she sounded flustered. “That’s right. Yes, Monday, but it was early evening. I, uh, backed into my own fence and took out a couple of boards.”
A lie. Her first out-and-out lie.
“How’d that happen?”
“Well now, it was so silly. I was heading to Bly Ranch for a meeting of the board for Riders Boot Camp. Anyhow, I realized I’d forgotten the pie I’d baked. I should have just parked the car on the road and walked back, but instead I decided to turn around. I misjudged the distance and clipped the fence.”
“Didn’t hurt yourself?”
“Oh no, I’m fine.”
“Didn’t notice any damage to your Toyota. Hope you don’t mind, but I strolled into your carport and took a look.”
He could almost hear Brooke grinding her teeth in an effort to stay polite. “No, it was just the fence that suffered.”
“Saw the repair job you did on the fence. Did that yourself yesterday? When you were home sick?”
Damn, Jake thought, the man wasn’t bad at all.
“I don’t like leaving things undone.”
But Brooke was good too. Alcoholics had experience telling lies and half-truths. He knew she hadn’t lied about the board meeting, because he’d seen the agenda and her notes on her desk. Good thing, because he’d bet Miller would check that story.
“You tell your family and the rest of the board members about your little accident?”
“No. I was embarrassed and I didn’t want them to worry.”
“Hmm. Well, if you remember anything else, you give me a call.”
“Of course. But I’d likely remember if I’d seen a man speeding by on a motorcycle.”
Jake crammed his fist against his mouth to stifle a snort of laughter, then listened as they said polite good-byes. When he heard the front door close, he slipped to the bedroom window, stood to the side, and watched as the police car drove away. He stayed there for a few minutes, to make sure the sergeant didn’t come back.
Boards creaked and he swung around, Beretta still clenched in his hand, as Brooke stepped into the bedroom.
Her eyes widened.
He stuffed the firearm into the pocket of her robe. “Thanks. I, uh, found my gun.”
She thought about that for a moment. “Last night. That’s why you were upstairs.”
He nodded.
“All right, Mr. John Doe, come back downstairs and tell me the whole story. Starting with your real name.”
Brooke trailed her uninvited guest as he painstakingly made his way down the stairs. She’d heard his running steps as he pounded up those stairs ten minutes ago, and guessed he was now suffering the aftereffects. She didn’t know whether to feel sorry for him. She still didn’t know for sure if she believed his story—or if he was simply a common criminal who had broken into Vijay Patel’s gift shop and somehow gotten shot in the process. She had checked his jacket pockets when she’d hidden it in her shed; there was no loot, no ID, no nothing.
And thinking of pockets, she didn’t like it that he had the gun stashed in her bathrobe pocket.
Nor did she like it that the garment looked so skimpy on him, baring expanses of virile chest and legs, reminding her of everything that lay beneath the thin flannel. He should have looked absurd in the robe, together with his beard and the hair that curled to his shoulders. Instead, he looked sexy and dangerous.
She didn’t like how good his hands had felt, massaging her shoulders, touching her lip like a kiss. Nor did she like the way he could, with just one glance, make her burn for him. Nor the way her mind kept returning to the image of him as he’d emerged, naked, from the bathroom. Nor how his body, under her scrutiny, had begun to harden.
She was a grandmother, for Pete’s sake. She shouldn’t be having these thoughts. What was this—a second adolescence? If so, she should really worry. Just look where the first one had landed her.
Brooke grabbed the coffeepot, refilled their mugs—her third cup, and normally she only allowed herself one—and plopped down in a kitchen chair. Grimly she said, “Talk.”
He sat across from her. “My name is Jake Brannon.”
“Jake Brannon,” she repeated, thinking that the name suited him.
“Corporal Brannon. You can call headquarters in Vancouver and ask for Sergeant Jamal Estevez—”
“Jamal Estevez?” she broke in. That name was as unusual as Mohinder McKeen, her ex’s, and she guessed that it, too, had a mixed-race origin.
“Yeah, he’s coordinating this op. He’ll confirm my identity.”
“This ‘op.’ The operation that has you working undercover in Caribou Crossing hunting some man who’s known as a pillar of the community. Because?”
“Because he killed a fifteen-year-old girl in Vancouver.”
“Oh!” The words s
ent a chill through her. Could it be possible? Was one of Caribou Crossing’s respected citizens a murderer? Maybe even Sergeant Henry Miller?
She’d never liked Miller—not since he’d been so snarky and suggestive to her back in her drinking days—but she couldn’t imagine him murdering a girl. But then she couldn’t imagine anyone in Caribou Crossing committing such a horrible act.
“Who was this girl? How would someone from Caribou Crossing be involved with a Vancouver teenager?”
“Anika, the victim, had parents who were very religious, old-fashioned, strict. She rebelled. That’s normal, right? Well she got into drugs, sex, partying hard. One night she didn’t come home. When she finally showed up, her parents said that if she did it again, she shouldn’t bother ever coming home because she wouldn’t be welcome.”
Brooke thought about her own teen years. She’d been a pampered princess until she got pregnant. Her parents hadn’t thrown her out then; they’d tried to fix things. “That’s harsh,” she said slowly, “but I guess they just wanted her to shape up.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t make a teenager shape up by insulting them and threatening them.” Jake sounded annoyed, and Brooke wondered if it was at her or at Anika’s parents.
“Anika stayed out again?” she asked.
“She ran away. To the street. She wanted to be independent, to live her own life. I can relate. Can’t you?”
Sure. She’d craved excitement, asserted her independence, fallen in love with a sexy bad boy. “I suppose. But how did she survive?”
“She started out with casual jobs, waitressing and so on. But she got pretty heavily into drugs. It was inevitable she’d end up in the sex trade, to pay for her habit.”
An addict and a sex trade worker, at age fifteen. At the same age, Brooke had been married with a baby. Bad enough, stupid enough, but nothing like what had happened to Anika. Her own parents had, in their fashion, stood by her. They’d made her and Mo get married, and then they’d taken the two of them into their own home. Mo got along with her dad better than with his own; the two of them had shared more than a few beers.
Shoving away the memories, she said, “Her parents didn’t report her to the police as a runaway?”