Divorced, Desperate and Dangerous

by Christie Craig

  • • •

  Reese had thought Frank had gone to lie down, but she heard some noise coming from the back of the house. When she went to check, she saw the master bedroom light was on and the door was partly open.

  She moved to the door. “Hey. You feeling okay?”

  “Yeah,” he said and he glanced down at the pink robe in his hands. “It was Bessie’s.”

  He walked over to the bed where a cardboard box sat in the middle of the mattress. Lifting the robe to his face, he sniffed it, then carefully put it in the box.

  “I haven’t been able to do this before.” He paused. “But today, when . . . when I felt that bullet, I realized if I’d been a few inches over, I wouldn’t be here. It just hit me how fleeting life is and how much time I was wasting. How pissed Bessie would be with me. Life’s short, Reese. Don’t waste it.”

  Reese nodded. “You want some help?”

  “Actually, I think I need to do this myself. It’s time I moved on.”

  “With Casey?” Reese asked.

  “I’d like to see where that leads.” He grinned. “I think she liked my butt.”

  Reese giggled and when she turned to walk out, Turner was standing at the door.

  Their eyes met. Life’s short. Don’t waste it. Frank’s message played in her head, and right then, she realized most of her anger toward Turner was because she was afraid. Afraid to really let go and live life because it could be taken from her.

  Then again, he hadn’t called her. And that wasn’t right. If he’d called her, she wouldn’t have been so afraid, and maybe with her logical fears lessened, her illogical fears wouldn’t have taken flight.

  He motioned for her to follow him out of the hall. When they were in the living room, he turned and faced her. “Can we please talk?”

  She nodded.

  “Outside on the patio, okay?” he asked.

  “That’s fine,” she said and followed him. He shut the French doors and the soft ocean-scented breeze lifted her hair off her shoulders.

  She sat on the swing. He chose the wicker chair across from her.

  “You’re upset with me,” he said.

  She nodded again.

  “I didn’t kiss you, and I know you’re probably mad . . .”

  “What?” she asked.

  “When I left earlier today, I didn’t . . .”

  She shook her head. “I’m not upset about that. I mean, I noticed and it did worry me, but . . .” She stopped and closed her eyes for a second and then opened them. “You didn’t call me, and I was needing to hear from you, and yet you called Chase.”

  He ran a hand over his face. “I had my phone out to call you a dozen times. I thought you were upset with me for not . . .” He paused as if reassessing what he had to say.

  The pause lasted several long seconds, and with each flicker of time that passed, the more frightened she became. Was he regretting making love to her? Was he going to tell her it was a mistake?

  He exhaled. “Okay, let me just be completely honest. I’m scared, Reese. I’m scared of screwing up. I thought I was doing things right with my ex-wife, only to realize that nothing was right. So, now I’m scared that I’m going to get hurt again. Scared because I’m so damn in love with you and you might not love me back.”

  He loved her? “I’m scared, too. Scared you could die. Scared that I’ll lose someone else that I love.”

  “You love me?” he asked.

  “Afraid so.” He stood from the chair and dropped down beside her on her swing. “Do you think we could help each other not be so afraid?”

  She slipped her hand in his. “I think we could.”

  “Me, too.” He squeezed her hand and then leaned his face into her hair. “You smell like strawberries. Don’t ever change shampoos.”

  She laughed.

  He put his arm around her and she let herself lean against him, listening to the pull and push of the ocean, and feeling a sense of happiness. She’d run away from home to find peace, and found it in his arms.

  “In case I didn’t make myself clear, I love you, Reese Morris. And right here . . .” He pulled her just a little closer. “This is where you belong.”

  Turning and lifting up on her knees, she straddled his lap. Resting a hand on each of his shoulders, she looked into his blue eyes. She smiled at him. “It’s a nice place to belong. I kind of like it here.”

  She kissed him then, and nothing had ever felt so right.

  Books by Christie Craig

  Divorced and Desperate Series

  Divorced, Desperate and Delicious

  Divorced, Desperate and Dating

  Divorced, Desperate and Deceived

  Divorced, Desperate and Dangerous

  Divorced, Desperate and Dead

  Hotter in Texas Series

  Only in Texas

  Blame It on Texas

  Texas Hold ’Em

  Tall, Hot & Texan

  Gotcha!

  The Cop Who Stole Christmas

  Weddings Can Be Murder

  Shut Up and Kiss Me

  Murder, Mayhem and Mama

  Love, Laughter and a Little Murder: 3 Novels by Christie Craig

  (anthology containing Murder, Mayhem and Mama;

  Weddings Can Be Murder; and Gotcha!)

  For more information: www.Christie-Craig.com

  YOUNG ADULT NOVELS BY

  CHRISTIE CRAIG WRITING AS C. C. HUNTER

  New York Times Bestselling Shadow Falls Series (Young Adult)

  Born at Midnight

  Turned at Dark (free novella)

  Awake at Dawn

  Taken at Dusk

  Whispers at Moonrise

  Saved at Sunrise (novella)

  Chosen at Nightfall

  Spellbinder

  Shadow Falls: After Dark Series (Young Adult)

  Reborn

  Unbreakable (novella)

  Eternal

  For more information: www.CCHunterBooks.com

  Keep reading for an excerpt

  from the new book in the

  Divorced and Desperate series

  by Christie Craig,

  Divorced, Desperate and Dead!

  After a disastrous marriage and divorce, Detective Cary Stevens vowed he’d never let another woman into his heart. But when his latest investigation puts him in the way of a bullet, his bachelor days—and one-night stands—may be numbered. On the brink of death, he finds himself in Room Six, a waiting room in the hereafter where in-betweeners’ fates are truly decided. He resigns himself to dying of boredom, if nothing else, in the lineup of senior citizens with their AARP magazines, when in walks the one woman who could make him want a second chance at life . . . and love.

  Chloe Sanders learns the hard way that no good deed goes unpunished when she pushes a little girl out of the way of a moving car and wakes up in some type of purgatory. Or maybe it’s heaven, because she couldn’t have asked for a hotter guy with whom to await her final judgment. The sweeping glances of his bedroom eyes and sharp-tongued flirtatiousness tell her Cary’s certainly no angel, but is he real? When she finally wakes up, Chloe’s determined to find out if he’s truly a man of magnificent flesh and blood or just a figment of her imagination. But before she can track him down, will the murderer that first put them both in Room Six come back to finish the job?

  Chapter One

  “Don’t move or I’ll shoot. I swear I’ll do it.”

  Detective Cary Stevens had just stepped out onto his sister’s patio when the threat rang low but clear. He could hear his two older sisters, Kelly and Beth, chatting at the poolside, enjoying their Saturday afternoon, oblivious to what was going on.

  He turned around and faced the owner of the small voice. She aimed the gun right at his chest. And the dang thing was loaded, he could tell from the drops of water spilling out of the tip. “You wouldn’t do that, would you?”

  “I will if you don’t give me what I want. And don’t tell me you don’t have any, because
you always do. So reach into your pocket and pull it out.”

  He tucked two fingers into the front pocket of his jeans and brought out the wrapped piece of bubble gum that he’d put in there just for her. Then, because he didn’t completely trust his niece, he snatched the water gun. “Your mom is going to make me pay for your next dentist appointment,” he said.

  “That’s your problem,” his eleven-year-old niece, Bella, said and grinned.

  “Peewee,” his older sister called from the lounge beside the pool.

  “Yeah,” Cary answered reluctantly. But holy hell, he’d give anything if his family would stop calling him that. Supposedly, they’d named him that the day his mom brought him home from the hospital. He’d been premature, and according to them, the name fit. But now, at six feet, three inches and two hundred pounds, he should have outgrown the nickname.

  And he had. No one dared to call him that, but his sisters.

  “What are you doing? If you’re giving my kid gum again, I’m going to kick your butt.”

  Bella laughed. “You know she won’t really do that, don’t you?”

  Cary smiled at his niece and walked over to his sisters. “She held me up at gunpoint. I had to give it to her.” He set the gun down on the bottom of his sister’s lounge chair.

  “Bullshit,” Kelly muttered.

  “Hey, you grounded me for saying that last week,” Bella called from the other side of the pool.

  Kelly frowned. “You’re early. But that’s fine. Where’s your swimsuit?”

  “I didn’t bring it,” he said, knowing both of his sisters were going to get mad. But they would just have to get over it. Thanks to his brother-in-law, to whom he now owed a beer, he knew what they were up to. No way in hell was he going to let them fix him up with one of their friends. No doubt the girl was beautiful, smart, and witty—all traits he liked. But he was a love ’em and leave ’em kind of guy, and he doubted any of their friends were love and leave kind of girls.

  Thankfully, due to the call he’d gotten thirty minutes ago from a snitch who had info on the Jones case, he didn’t even have to lie. Good thing, because he sucked at lying to his sisters.

  “I told you it’s a pool party,” Beth said.

  “I know, but I can’t stay. I have to meet someone. I just wanted to stop by a minute and apologize for missing it.”

  “No,” Kelly said. “You can’t leave. I’m grilling hamburgers. And . . . I want you to meet someone. She even went out and bought a new swimsuit.”

  “Darn,” he said, only mildly regretting that he was going to miss the new swimsuit. “Sorry. But seriously, I have to be somewhere.”

  “Is it a date?” Beth asked. “You going out with someone?”

  “No. It’s work,” he answered honestly.

  “You’ve been divorced over two years,” Kelly said, sounding more and more like their mom. “It’s time you start dating.”

  “I date.”

  “No.” Kelly looked to see where her daughter was. When she was sure the girl wasn’t in earshot, she said, “You have sex. That’s not dating.”

  He frowned. “I thought that counted.” All of a sudden, he felt something tug at his jean leg. He looked down, expecting to see his sister’s toy poodle, Bucko, who for some ungodly reason thought his leg was a pissing post. But no. This thing was . . . was . . .

  “What the hell is that?” he asked, as the thing stood on its back legs.

  “That’s Pooch, my new foster dog,” Kelly said and studied the animal trying to climb up his leg. “Wow, he must like you.”

  After his sister’s second miscarriage, she’d started fostering dogs, and she tried to push each and every one on him. She knew damn well he wasn’t going to take in a dog, but it was her way of guilting him into making a donation to the Canine Foster program. It worked each and every time, too.

  “That’s a dog?” he asked. He’d figured his donations had amounted to the cost of feeding each of the dogs for six months. He was going to get off cheap this time. It couldn’t have a stomach any bigger than a tablespoon.

  “Yes, it’s a dog. Don’t make fun of him. He has a Napoleon complex.”

  “He?” Cary asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe his complex has to do with the pink ribbons.”

  “Dogs are color blind. And he was like that when I got him. His name is Pooch,” his sister offered and studied the animal. “This is odd. He doesn’t like anybody.”

  The thing kept trying to climb up his leg, so Cary reached down, and with one hand scooped it up and held it a foot from his face.

  “Be careful,” Kelly said.

  “Of what?” he asked. “I’ve seen mosquitoes that scared me more.” The animal had black eyes. He brought the thing closer and a pink tongue came out and lapped him on his nose.

  “Oh, my God. He really does like you,” Kelly said. “You should adopt him.”

  “No.” He studied the animal closer. “You sure it’s a dog?”

  It growled, almost as if insulted by Cary’s comment.

  “Yes. And he might be small but he has the attitude of a pit bull. He bit Bucko.”

  “Bucko probably pissed on him.”

  “Are you going to let him get away with this?” Beth jumped in. “Don’t you see what he’s doing? He’s using Pooch to change the subject.”

  “What subject?” He pretended to be innocent and set the creature down.

  Kelly groaned. “You’re right,” she said to Beth, and then glared at him. “Don’t you want someone real? Someone you can actually have a conversation with? Someone you could share more than a few bodily fluids with?”

  “I have conversations,” he said, but damn it if he hadn’t thought that same thing three nights ago when Paula, the stewardess, jumped out of bed five minutes after she’d been screaming out his name, and took off because she had a plane to catch.

  “I mean more than heavy panting.”

  Cary grinned, ignoring that his sisters’ comments resonated a little too much. “I kind of like heavy panting.” And he did, but . . .

  The animal started yanking at his jeans again.

  “You won’t even have a relationship with an animal,” Beth said. “Why are we wasting our breath?”

  “Because we love him,” Kelly said, glaring up at him from her lounge chair. “Because underneath all of that playboy attitude is a decent guy who deserves to be happy—with a dog. Not all women are like Korine. You have to give love another shot.”

  Cary frowned. “No, I don’t. And I’m . . . fine.” He was going to say “happy,” but it wouldn’t slip off his tongue.

  Then, because he refused to have this conversation with his two sisters—especially when it involved his ex-wife—he grabbed his phone and looked at the time. It was almost five. “I have to go. See ya.” He turned to leave and almost tripped over the pint-sized dog at his feet. He picked him up and passed him to Beth. “Hold this before I accidentally step on him and make it into a smear on the patio.”

  “Oh, hell,” Kelly seethed and snagged her daughter’s water gun.

  Cary took off, but right before he made the door, he felt the spray of water on his back. He stopped and turned. “I’ll get you for that.” The spray got him right in the face this time. As he stopped to wipe the water from his face, he saw Bucko at his feet lifting a leg.

  “Damn it,” he muttered.

  Five minutes later, he drove windows-down, to dry his shirt and pissed-on jeans, toward Mason Road and the abandoned warehouse. He’d met Tommy Fincher, a snitch, here before, but for some reason today, Cary got a bad feeling. He slowed down and looked left to right. If the guy wasn’t exaggerating, he had info on who’d killed Marc Jones, a sixteen-year-old kid, who after resisting joining the local gang had taken a bullet in the head.

  Cary could still hear the kid’s mother sobbing when he’d knocked on her door with the news last week. She’d already lost Marc’s brother to a gang. And now, if she was right in her suspi
cions, and he thought she was, Marc had been killed because he refused to get involved. How unfair was that?

  While he couldn’t do anything to help Marc, or take away his mother’s grief, he could find the idiot who’d killed him to give the family a little peace.

  Cary suspected it was gang-related but couldn’t prove they had been involved—not yet. But damn if he’d stop trying.

  The hair on the back of Cary’s neck prickled. He slowed his car down, debating if he should call anyone for backup, like his partner, Danny, at Glencoe Police.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Tommy, the snitch, but he had a big problem with a lot of the guy’s friends.

  He turned down another row of warehouses and spotted a couple of teens skateboarding. They shouldn’t be here. Too many bad people hung out here. And on the way out, he’d tell them to take their boards elsewhere.

  The next row, he saw Tommy’s old Honda parked at the side of building fifty-six. He stopped thinking about danger to himself and thought of Marc’s mother. The woman deserved a little peace of mind.

  He stopped his SUV and looked around. Only when he didn’t see anyone did he get out of his car. The big metal door to the building stood ajar. He unhooked his holster, so he’d have fast access to his gun. He’d started for the door when he noticed a spray of red on the passenger side window of Tommy’s car.

  “Shit,” he seethed, knowing what it was before he glanced down to the see Tommy, a fifty-year-old full-time alcoholic and part-time drug addict, slumped over the wheel of his car, part of his head missing.

  Cary’s gut knotted. He drew his gun and reached for his phone to call it in. But before he got the words out, he heard the roar of an engine. He looked up and saw the black pickup coming right at him. The vehicle had no front license plate, and the driver wore a black ski mask.