Divorced, Desperate and Dangerous

by Christie Craig

  She recalled that certain night with a certain undercover cop—whom she hadn’t known was an undercover cop. But sex was like horseshoes, close didn’t count. For all intents and purposes, Trey Freedman—or the guy she’d thought was Trey—could pull a Clinton and stand up in court and swear, ‘I did not have sex with that woman.’ And when the trial came to be, he probably would say that.

  She wouldn’t say differently. Being a fool was one thing, admitting it to a jury of twelve was another.

  The fact that she’d crossed the finish line didn’t count. His Tab B hadn’t entered her Slot A. But he had amazing fingers. And kisses. And body. And . . . Don’t go there!

  He was a no-good, lying, hot-looking scumbag. The first one in two years that had her pulse dancing to the tune of romance. The first one in two years that made her let go of Jacob, her first and only love in her life. The guy who she was supposed to marry and live happily-ever-after with. She and Jacob had dated since tenth grade. They had planned their lives out. College. Get married. Buy a house. Have two kids. And there had been only one little hiccup.

  He died.

  Leaving her as empty, lonely and heartbroken as when the universe had taken her parents.

  How was that fair? It wasn’t.

  But the universe wasn’t finished toying with her. The one and only guy who had her thinking maybe she wouldn’t wind up an old spinster school teacher ended up to be a complete lie.

  But as much as she held Trey . . . AKA, Turner, accountable for the lies and deception, she couldn’t blame him or the universe for that one night. She’d gone to him—tiptoed into his bedroom, uninvited. Oh, they’d flirted, almost kissed, but then he told her he’d been hurt before. She knew all about being hurt, and she thought maybe they could help heal each other.

  With a brazenness she didn’t think she’d possessed, she went to him that night, pulled her nightshirt off and slipped under his covers wearing nothing but a pair of lacy pink panties.

  Shaking her head to get her mind off her stupid mistake, she studied her phone. The screen showed she had four missed calls and three voicemail messages from . . . Anonymous.

  She hit a few buttons to listen to the messages.

  “Reese . . .”

  It was his voice. Saying her name. She tossed her phone in the passenger seat and let out a little “eek” as she tried to convince herself she’d simply imagined it. That maybe thinking of his fingers, and body, and sexy smile, had simply had her mind playing tricks on her.

  She snatched up her pink-covered cell, put it to her ear, and heard the same dad-blasted sexy voice. His words, didn’t matter. She only heard the voice.

  “No,” she moaned and let the phone fall to her lap.

  When she could still hear his deep tenor, she yanked the phone up and hit delete. And she kept poking at the word over and over, to make sure she got them all. Only when she didn’t have any new calls left did she stop finger-jabbing her cell.

  What the hell did he want with her? What part of, ‘The tooth fairy will be serving cherry popsicles in hell before I give you the time of day again,’ did he not understand? Had she not been clear?

  Feeling a little better now that she’d gotten all traces of him off her phone, she switched the cell off. It would remain off until she needed to make a call. And since she’d checked in with Granny last night, she wouldn’t have to turn it on until tomorrow.

  • • •

  Turner drove all night and was beginning to feel it. He tried to get a flight. But taking the first plane out of Houston would have put Turner in the closest town to Hung at eight a.m. on Sunday morning. Driving, he arrived at Hung’s police department at six a.m.. They were closed. A sign said they opened at nine. In case of emergency call 9-1-1.

  Exhausted, he almost dialed it, too. But knowing this wouldn’t qualify, he decided to drive around town looking for a purple Volkswagen until he could have a chat with the local authorities.

  Not a purple bug in sight.

  Still thirty minutes before he could show up at the police department and ask for assistance, he pulled over and parked at the beach. Six different groups of people were out there with metal detectors. One group was dressed like . . . pirates. He blinked, thinking he’d imagined it, and gripping the wheel, he pulled himself forward to get a better look.

  Nope. Pirates—outfitted like Black Beard with swords and old-fashioned guns strapped to their sides.

  He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and almost dozed off when his mind flashed an image of her face again. Blue eyes. A wide smile. Then he saw her standing at the foot of the bed, pulling her white nightshirt over her head—completely naked except for a pair of lacy panties. All that perfect skin, dips and curves, bathed in the moonlight that spilled in through the window. He couldn’t remember ever wanting a woman so much.

  And he’d almost let himself go there. He’d lied, and said that they didn’t have protection to put a stop to it. Then she’d moaned and told him how much she wanted him. So he’d slipped his hands in those silky panties and made her come with his hand.

  His jeans got tight remembering how soft she’d felt against him and how sweet she’d tasted and smelled. He could still hear that little sound she’d made against his neck as he took her to the peak of pleasure. In painful detail, he recalled how he’d ached to let himself go there. His conscience wouldn’t let him do it.

  He’d pretty much figured out that she was going to hate him when the case was over. But the last thing he wanted her to think was that he’d used her.

  And he could still remember how much hurt she’d held in her eyes the next day when she’d learned he was undercover. That his name wasn’t Trey Freedman. That he was behind her brother’s arrest.

  Hell, she could hate him all she wanted. He just needed to know she was safe.

  “Where are you, Reese?”

  His phone rang and he answered so fast, thinking it might be her, that he didn’t even check the number.

  “You find her?” Abigail Cannon asked.

  He pressed his palm to his forehead. “Not yet. How is Ricky?”

  “Doctor says he’s gonna be fine. I tried calling Reese, but she’s not answering. That’s not like her. Please tell me this asshole hasn’t gotten to her, too.”

  “I’m gonna find her,” he promised her. And he hoped like hell he could keep his word. He hung up, and drove right to the police department.

  There was one police car parked out front, so he knew someone was there. As he got out of his car, he saw her—blond, body of an angel, walking a half a block down the street.

  “Reese?” he called out, slammed his car door shut and shot off.

  He only got about thirty feet when some big dude walked up to her, turned her in his arms and kissed her. One word echoed in Turner’s head. Mine.

  He clutched his hands. His chest filled with unjustified jealously until he realized his mistake. The blond bombshell being kissed, and kissing back, wasn’t Reese.

  Exhaling, he ran a hand over his face, and started back to the police station. Walking in, he saw an empty desk in the corner.

  “Can I help you?” a deep voice came from behind him.

  Turner turned as a tall, dark guy wearing a uniform walked out of the office door. “I’m Sheriff Wilson.”

  “Yeah.” Turner pulled out his badge. “I’m with the Glencoe, Texas police. I’m looking for a girl.”

  “We’re all looking for one,” said another deep voice.

  Turner looked back and saw a guy also wearing a uniform, stepping from out of the hall. The man, almost a carbon copy of the sheriff, had to be his relative.

  “My brother, Deputy Wilson,” said the Sheriff. The man in charge eyed Turner’s badge for one second.

  “She must be something to bring you all the way to Hung,” the deputy said.

  She was something, Turner thought, but kept that to himself. “Her name’s Reese Morris. I got word yesterday she was here in town.”

&
nbsp; “What did she do?” asked the sheriff.

  “She didn’t. She’s a witness on a case I worked. I’ve got reason to believe that the asshole drug dealer who’s in jail waiting for trial might have hired someone to make witnesses disappear.” Turner slipped his badge back into his pocket. “She’d be easy to spot. Drives a purple Volkswagen bug.”

  Turner saw the Sheriff’s eyes flinch and then the two uniforms looked at each other. “You sure she’s here on the Island and not in Katyville?”

  “Why?” Turner asked, thinking the guy knew something.

  “I heard about an incident involving a purple Volkswagen and a woman. The report called it a car accident, but the authorities are suspicious that it wasn’t really an accident.”

  Turner’s chest gripped. “Name? Did you get the woman’s name?”

  “No, they hadn’t released the name when I heard the report.”

  “Is she okay?” Turner’s mouth instantly went dry and he had to push the words out.

  “Sorry,” the sheriff said, looking remorseful. “She didn’t make it.”

  Chapter Three

  “Find out her name, damn it!” Turner seethed, and he had to fist his hands to keep them from shaking.

  Was he too late? Emotion filled his lungs, making it hard to breathe.

  “Junior, call Sheriff Docker and see if there’s any more info,” the man in charge told his deputy brother.

  Turner watched Junior walk over to a desk and pick up his phone.

  “Why don’t you sit down?” the sheriff said, and motioned toward a chair against one wall, as if he could read Turner’s emotional shock.

  Turner shook his head. If he tried to move, he wasn’t sure his legs would take him. Images of Reese, snapshot memories, flashed in his head. Her laughing. Her eating ice cream. Her alive. Damn it, she had to be alive.

  “She’s more than just a witness, isn’t she?” the sheriff asked.

  The man’s question scratched across Turner’s soul. She’d been more from the first time he’d seen her.

  A snitch had turned Ricky Morris in for helping Jonnie Harper move drugs. Turner’s job had been to befriend Ricky and get information. He started hanging out at the bar where Ricky and his band played for a couple days of the week. The kid was an easy mark and with a couple of weeks, Turner had rented out part of his house to him. Turner suspected the kid wasn’t nearly as dirty as the people he was running with, but he had a job to do. So, instead of trying to help the kid, he just stood by and watched him get himself deeper—waiting for his mistakes to lead Turner to Jonnie Harper.

  Then Reese showed up—innocent, sweet, and concerned her brother was up to no good.

  At first, Turner tried to push her away. But as long as her brother was there, Reese wasn’t going anywhere. She showed up day after day. Tried to talk her brother into going back to college. She’d cook dinners. Even stayed the night while she’d nursed the kid when he had the flu.

  Turner tried keeping her at an arm’s length—physically, he’d managed it, except for that one night. But emotionally, she crawled inside his heart—even before she’d crawled into his bed. He’d savored every second of her company. She was funny, interesting, full of life. When Ricky wasn’t there, he’d invite her into the house to wait. He’d started finding excuses to see her.

  After a month, he’d told himself getting close to her was part of his job. He’d been lying to himself. Reese was like sunshine. And he felt so cold, for so long, that he’d craved being near her. He fed off her smiles, her spirit, her optimism.

  She reminded Turner of who he used to be. A part of himself he’d left behind after his divorce and after he’d started working undercover. Undercover meant you were submersed in everything ugly and tainted. Reese was clean, so pure that even sharing the same air with her made him feel more human.

  Friggin’ hell, if she was dead, it was his fault. He could have worked harder to run her off, to get her away from her brother, before she got caught up in the shit.

  He continued to stare at Junior as he spoke into the phone, asking for more information. Turner couldn’t tell by the one-sided conversation if it was Reese or not.

  “And the license plate?” the deputy asked and nodded. “Yeah. I’ll tell him.”

  Tell him what? Where to claim the body? Turner’s soul had never felt darker.

  He held his breath as the man took down some notes and then hung up.

  “The license plate on the Volkswagen is from Georgia and they have the victim down as Kathy Anderson.”

  Air released from his throat so fast he could feel his lungs collapse. “It’s not her.” He ran a still trembling hand over his face.

  “Doesn’t look like it,” Junior said, “but Sheriff Docker is interested in talking to you. Wondering if perhaps your case could be connected in any way. The victim was a thirty-something-year-old mom. They haven’t ruled it homicide yet, but it looks fishy.”

  It took Turner about two seconds to realize the two cases could be connected, especially if Kathy Anderson was blond. Some idiot spotted a purple Volkswagen with a blonde driver and assumed they’d found their mark.

  He inhaled again, trying to chase away the misplaced panic. “As soon as I find Reese, I’ll be happy to sit down and have a long chat.”

  “What does this Reese look like?” Sheriff Wilson asked.

  Mine. That one word from earlier rang in his head again. “Blond, twenty-seven, pretty.” Blue eyes that, when hurt, could cut through a man’s heart.

  “Hey . . .” the deputy said. “There’s a new girl, a real looker—if you like that type—working at Casey’s diner. I heard rumors that she was an out-of-towner. Sounds like it could be your girl.”

  He’d pictured Reese getting away to relax, not work, but . . . “Where’s this diner?”

  • • •

  Reese had been here since four in the morning and waiting tables since four-thirty. She’d never known people ate liver and eggs for breakfast, but the place had been jam-packed. By the time the strange ones disappeared—and yes, they had sort of given her the creeps—the beachgoers started popping in. She’d barely had time to take a pee, much less think.

  Which was a good thing. Because all she’d done last night was think. Think about Trey, AKA Turner. Think about how just his voice melted her inhibitions like cheese on a pizza crawling out of a wood fire oven. About how she’d crawled into his bed.

  And how he’d turned her down.

  Sure, he’d had her chasing the Big O, and yes, she’d caught the sucker, but she’d wanted more. She’d wanted the whole shebang, all tabs and slots in perfect alignment. When he pointed out they didn’t have protection, and took care of her, she’d wanted to give as good as she got. But no, he’d thrown himself on the sacrificial alter and refused to let her lead him there.

  Tired and grumpy wasn’t the way to start a new job. The only bright side of last night was she’d been staring at the ceiling at the Hung Hotel, which agreed to rent to her by the week. Hopefully soon, she’d find something a little more accommodating to a waitress’s salary.

  As Reese filled coffee and served up grits and eggs, she spotted Frank stepping through the front door.

  He winked at her. Not a smile, but a wink. It still didn’t set off her dirty ol’ geezer alarm. She’d bet her best bra—and that thing hadn’t come cheap—that the man was bonkers about Casey.

  He sat in Reese’s section. She delivered a cup of coffee, plopped down three creamers and a twenty dollar bill.

  He looked up at her and smiled. “I always love it when a woman throws money at me.”

  She grinned. “But just in case you didn’t understand, I only paid for the first one.”

  He chuckled. “So I can go back to being cantankerous?”

  “I wouldn’t,” Reese said. “You got a nice smile.”

  “So do you,” he said and as crazy as it seemed, she felt a kind of kinship with the older man.

  “What cha’ want to e
at?” she asked.

  “Just tell Casey I want my usual.”

  Reese jotted down ‘Frank,’ on the ticket, turned it in, and went to refill some coffee before the out-of-towners had a cow.

  Less than five minutes later, she heard Casey slapping her hand against the bell—twice—letting her know she had an order to deliver. One time was for Margaret’s tables, and three times for Kelly’s. Reese turned around and saw the ticket with Frank’s name on it.

  Casey looked back from the grill. “Serve it up, he doesn’t like it cold.”

  Okay, so Casey not only knew what the man ate, she knew the exact time he’d show up. Why hadn’t these two figured out they had the hots for each other? Then she remembered what Casey had told her about Frank losing his wife. She knew all about that hurt. Maybe that was why Frank hadn’t opened himself up to it.

  Reese was about to set Frank’s plate of over-easy eggs and cheese grits down on his table, when she heard the voice. Deep. Sexy.

  It was like the movies. All the sound coming from the diner—people chatting, forks clanking, coffee being sipped—was suddenly muted. All she heard was that deep, masculine voice say, “I’ll sit in Reese’s section, please.”

  It was how he’d said her name, or maybe how he’d said “please,” that made her completely lose it. Not her sanity, she had that. No guy was going to make her lose that. Though he had come close.

  It was the two eggs, over easy, that she was losing. They slipped off the plate and landed sunny side down on Frank’s chest like two boobs.

  Yellow goo oozed from the perfectly round egg whites and ran down his nicely pressed short sleeve dress shirt.

  While his stunned expression was hard to look away from, look away she did. One head swivel, glancing back over her shoulder, put Turner in her line of vision. All six feet two of him, standing by the ‘Wait to be Seated’ sign for out-of-towners, staring at her as if . . . as if he had the right to stare at her.

  He didn’t. He lost that right the day he ripped her heart out of her chest, arrested her brother, and then dared to ask her for a chance to explain. Explain what? That he’d been lying to her. Did he think she hadn’t figured that one out herself?