Or being scolded by a policeman too handsome for his own good.
Because thinking of him made her chest hurt, she forced her eyes to Katrina. “So you and Alec are getting a pet?”
Katrina shrugged. “Not really. He’s thinking of buying the shelter, but first wants a look around to make sure the place is legit.”
“They are.” When Katrina’s eyes rounded, Rachel shrugged. “I’ve been there before.”
“For?”
It was ridiculous to be embarrassed, and yet she was. “I’ve thought about a pet a few times,” she mumbled. Unable to ignore the warm yeast scent any longer, she grabbed a breadstick.
Katrina took a second to react before busting out in full laughter. Rachel scowled as several people near them turned to look. “It’s not funny.”
“Sure it is.” Katrina flashed her a wide grin. “You pretend to be so tough, Miss Jaded PI, but secretly you want a kitten just like Scooter.”
Rachel bit her lip. Was she really harboring some secret longing for a pet like her childhood cat? She eyed Katrina. “For your information, no pet will ever replace Scooter. And I’m not jaded.”
“Cynical, then.”
“Nope. Realistic. I see too much to be convinced people aren’t out for themselves twenty-four seven.” Rachel swirled the lemon in her tea, the edge of her spoon clinking lightly against the sides of her glass. She pulled the spoon out and set it on a napkin.
“Maybe you should volunteer, feel things out a little.”
“I’m not going to volunteer at the shelter just to see how a pet might fit into my life.”
Katrina’s lips quirked but she didn’t say anything.
Rachel was glad Katrina didn’t respond. She knew good works were a staple of the Christian diet, but there was no way she could go into that smelly place and clean litter boxes.
The pizza came and Rachel wolfed it down. She needed to go to her office in Orlando today to check on some videos before calling a different client. Mrs. Harms wouldn’t be too happy to know why her husband came home late every night. A familiar pang hit Rachel. She didn’t like being the bearer of bad news, but someone had to warn the victim. Someone had to deliver the truth, even when it hurt the recipient.
She was reaching for her wallet when Katrina cleared her throat.
Rachel looked up.
“I heard you ran into Grant Harkness the other night.”
“Last time I saw him was at dinner with you.”
“What about the night before?”
The mayor’s house. “I guess you could say we ran into each other.” Rachel tossed some bills on the table.
“He told Alec I should get you under control.”
Her nerves jolted like live wire. “What?”
“Yeah, he said you broke into someone’s house.” Katrina’s expression was questioning, wary. Katrina didn’t like butting into other people’s business. She must be concerned.
Breathing slowly and evenly, Rachel slid her wallet back into her purse. “I didn’t break in. The client gave me a key.”
Katrina squinted.
“Fine.” She jerked her head forward, elbows on the table. “I knew she wasn’t supposed to have a key, but I had to do it. Her husband cheated on her. She paid me to find the proof.” And she wanted to avenge her sister. But that was a secret no one could ever know.
“What if you get hurt? Grant saying something, well…you know. He’s worried.”
Rachel sat back. Katrina’s eyes were round with fear. Grant had done this. He and Alec. They’d scared Katrina over nothing. “Look, it’s personal. He’s not worried. He just doesn’t like me.”
“I don’t think—”
“That’s exactly what it is. Trust me, he pretty much spewed on me when we were there.” Rachel glanced down. No need to let Katrina see the hurt.
“I’m sorry.”
"I guess I’m glad he didn’t say more than that. Maybe cuss me out.” She grabbed her purse, her knuckles white on the strap. “It’s not my problem he’s got anger issues.”
“Actually...you might not have heard, but last month Grant walked up to the altar during church. It seems like he's changing a lot of things in his life now.”
Shock crawled through her, then settled heavy in her belly. “He is?”
Katrina nodded. “Yeah, Alec has been praying a lot with him lately.”
“Oh.” Rachel fiddled with the purse strap.
“You missed him at church last week because you were out of town. Which reminds me, Alec and I are leaving for New York after we visit the shelter. We’ll be back for your birthday.”
Rachel wrinkled her nose, trying to hide her surprise at Grant’s new direction in life. “Please, celebrating my thirtieth is the last thing I want to do. Don’t come back for me.”
***
Grant pulled into the parking lot of the trailer that served as Manatee Bay’s one and only police station. He switched off the engine, grabbed his phone and trotted to the door. Charlie Barrows better have a good reason for texting him to come in on his morning off. His fellow officer tended to page Grant over minor issues.
Grant unlocked the door to the station, opened it, and flipped on the lights. Charlie lounged on a ratty recliner the chief kept in a corner of the small trailer. Smoke spiraled toward the ceiling as he puffed away.
Grant knew Charlie was forging through the mental files of his current case. The smoking gave it away.
Grant leaned against the edge of his desk, setting the phone on a pile of paperwork. Reports he needed to turn into the police chief tomorrow. Not that it would matter if it was on time. The chief wasn’t known for being efficient in the office. Or on the streets.
That would change soon enough. Grant shouldn’t feel any guilt over the choices he’d recently made to straighten this police department up, but nevertheless, a deep regret rolled inside him.
He squashed the feeling and focused on Charlie. “What’s up?”
Charlie’s mustache twitched as cigarette smoke plumed slowly toward the ceiling.
“Dude, it smells like a furnace in here. You need to smoke outside.” Thirty years on the force didn’t give Charlie license to stink up the work space. Grant shuffled the papers on his desk, catching sight of the circled date on his calendar. That was a meeting he didn't look forward to.
“I’m onto something.”
Grant stilled, thoughts tripping away from tomorrow’s appointment. “Yeah?”
He knew Charlie’s tone. The older officer might bug Grant with silly stuff, but the man had been a cop long enough to have learned how to go with his gut. And Charlie’s gut was rarely wrong.
Charlie ground the cigarette in the ashtray beside him and stood. “I left my clothes on the bed, my cigs in the sink.” He looked up, the skin beneath his eyes sootier than usual. “She left me, Grant. Just a little note on a table, stained with spilled coffee.”
Grant crossed his arms, frowning. “You text me when I’m off shift to tell me Angel is gone?”
“Had to talk to someone.”
“If you want advice, I’m the wrong guy.” He rubbed the back of his neck. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel for Charlie. The poor man had been besotted by his girlfriend since they’d met at a bar two weeks ago. But Grant didn’t have woman troubles. Women liked him and he liked them. For awhile. Then he moved on. As far as he remembered, no woman had ever left him.
Which made him the worst guy to ask for advice. He shifted against the desk, feeling like he should say something but not knowing what.
Charlie scratched his chin with tobacco-stained fingers. “Forty years of dealing with females and I thought she was different. The one.” When Grant didn’t say anything Charlie let loose a rusty laugh. “Aw, you’re right. Talking to you is like asking a camel if he’s ever felt snow.”
“She’ll come back.” That was helpful, right?
“I don’t know where she is.”
Grant grunted. “Maybe you ought to marry
her.” There, that was good advice. The Bible encouraged marriage, right? Sound theology from in Grant's way of thinking. Maybe his mother wouldn’t have given him to the government if she’d had a husband to help raise her little boy.
Charlie shrugged. “Two weeks isn’t long enough for marriage.” His face cleared. “I guess this means I’m free to ask Miss Jane out.”
“I’m going home.” Rolling his eyes, Grant grabbed his phone and walked to the door. “See ya.” He was only too glad to get back out in the fresh air.
“Wait there, son.”
Grant paused at the door. Charlie met him there, keen gaze fixing on him.
“Something’s going down. I can sense it.”
“One of your feelings again?”
“In my bones. There’s crooked people in Manatee Bay.”
“Crooked people everywhere.” Grant hiked a chin to the left, toward the west section of town. “Slasher’s been busy.”
“Up to no good, as usual. It’d be nice if someone just shot that dealer and saved this city some trouble.” Charlie scratched at his bristly chin.
Manatee Bay had been a fairly peaceful place until a few years ago when John Welch, AKA Slasher, started doing business near the river. One of the silliest street names Grant had ever heard, but it was accurate. Welch had a reputation for bloodying up dealers who didn’t make their quotas. Still, Grant blanched at Charlie’s implication the criminal should be killed in cold blood. Justice wasn’t so easy.
“I’d like to know who his supplier is.” C’mon, Charlie, tell me what you know.
Not that he thought Charlie was involved, but he had a duty to explore every lead, a duty to search for the truth and to defend his hometown from evil.
But Charlie only rolled his shoulders before moving past Grant to open the door. The guy didn’t possess the drive to track down criminals, but he had the instincts to smell them. He stared mournfully out the street. “Guess I’m going home to a cold bed tonight.”
“She might come back.” Grant clapped the older man on the shoulder and slid past him out the door. “I’ll be in this afternoon to relieve you.”
Grant felt a momentary surge of pride on his way out. At least he didn’t have to worry about some girl being The One. But then Rachel’s face flashed in his mind. Her pale skin, the way her cheeks colored from translucence to blush in a second. Her eyes, greener than any Floridian summer lawn.
He might be in bigger trouble than he’d thought. Just because she piqued his interest shouldn’t mean anything. But he had an uneasy feeling it did.
Opening his truck door cracked the stillness of early morning. He slid in and shut the door behind him. He’d go home, get a nap before his shift tonight and think on how he’d like his future to pan out.
And how to keep nosy Rachel McCormick out of it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ripples of light flashed on the river, like sapphires catching the sun and winking at Rachel. That was a stone she hadn’t added to her collection yet. Maybe a birthday present to herself…
She crossed her arms and glanced around the deserted headsprings. Crystalline waters surged upward from several large springs hidden beneath the sandy bottom of the Manatee River. The springs formed the beginning of the river, called the headwaters, and the surrounding lush foliage and year-round seventy degree water temperatures drew tourists every summer.
On weekends this area would be crowded, teeming with scantily dressed teens and relaxed parents. The man-made park would be filled with the heady scents of grilled burgers and burning charcoal. But today water drifted quietly against the grassy banks. A bird screeched somewhere, then quieted. The sudden silence made Rachel squirm.
She stepped back, bringing herself closer to the shadowed trees and away from the edge of the water. She didn’t see Mrs. Owens anywhere. Her watch read 4:40. Ten minutes past meeting time.
She fingered the key in her hand, then slid it into her pocket where proof rested on both flash drives. If Mrs. Owens didn't keep their appointment, she could come to the office later and pick up the pictures of the mayor’s infidelity along with her house key. The other flash drive was for Rachel, but she hoped Mrs. Owens might be able to help her crack the encryption if she thought it confirmed more philandering.
Rachel wasn't positive about what she’d copied on the second flash drive but a hunch told her the files proved more than just adultery.
No matter what, the sleaze would finally get what was coming to him, even if punishment only meant his name plastered on the news.
She glanced at her diamond encrusted watch, a fancy gift from a grateful client. 4:45. She couldn’t wait any longer for Mrs. Owens, despite the deep nagging to find out what hid behind the mayor’s encrypted files. She had to bundle up paperwork on a different case and get it ready to mail out before the post office closed. Clients often liked hard copies of her findings.
Pivoting, she left her spot beneath the trees. Her sandals clicked against the cobblestone path, echoing the briskness of her walk. Clouds drifted in front of the sun. With the river behind her and the trees in front, she suddenly felt hemmed in.
And scared. The scent of danger rode on the breeze that curled through her hair.
She stopped and rubbed at the goose bumps on her arms. Leaves fluttered, scraping against the path like the scuttling of insects. What was wrong with her? Bad pizza, she decided, and kept going.
Then the heel of her sandal stuck in the cobblestones. As she lurched forward, a dull pop split the air. She hit the ground hard. Her palms scraped against the rough stones and her chin smacked the cobblestones.
Trying to ignore the stinging in various parts of her body, she gaped at a twig resting inches from her nose. At least no one was around to see her sprawled like a broken puppet across the path. She stood, grimacing when her hair brushed against her stinging neck.
She hoped her heel hadn’t broken. Twisting, she saw the shoe intact on her foot. Which meant the pop had been something far different.
It took a second for the meaning to register. When it did, her skin prickled. She dropped down. A silencer. She’d heard that sound years before in a gun safety training course. Or maybe it had been in a movie? Whatever. She wasn’t staying to find out what the sound was.
She dove into the woods. Branches gouged her palms, dug into her knees. Quietly, she kneeled behind a tree and carefully picked her way through the crowded underbrush. Her lungs hitched painfully as she struggled to breathe in slow, calm breaths, rather than frantic gulps. Sweat trickled down her neck. The musky scent of dirt filled her senses, punctuated by the occasional high-pitched call of a coot.
Time blurred for her. Every few seconds she’d stop, hear nothing, and then keep going. Eventually she reached the edge of the parking lot and realized she’d paralleled the path.
She surveyed the paved area. Empty. Just her Escalade, sitting there like a beacon, screaming her presence. She sat back on her heels. Took a slow, shuddering breath.
Nothing moved behind her. It was probably safe to go to her car. But her limbs were paralyzed. Heavy and shaking.
She patted her hips and groaned. She’d left her cell in the car. She always kept her iPhone in her pocket but she’d planned on just dashing over to meet Mrs. Owens. Besides, her capris only had shallow pockets. No room for a cell phone. The one time she needed it…
Rachel smoothed hair back from her face and tried to pray.
“Jesus, I need help here.” It came out a quivery whisper. She didn’t hear any kind of whisper in return but a measure of peace filled her. She stood, brushing leaves from her bottom, and cringed at the pain radiating through her arms. Her legs wobbled so badly she could barely walk but somehow she made it to the car. She slid in, locked the doors. Gunned the engine and got out of there.
It didn’t take long to get to the police station. Not that it was much of one. Just a small building on the edge of Manatee Bay, plopped between the library and Al’s Garage.
Sh
e screeched into the parking lot. Jerking to a stop, she turned off the car and rushed into the station.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the difference in light. Bulbs couldn’t compare to the summer sun. First face that came into view was Charlie’s. His glasses caught the glare from the lights and hid his eyes. His lips stretched into a familiar broad grin.
“Well howdy, Miss Rachel.” He slapped his cowboy hat on his head and stood. “I heard about your shenanigans the other night.”
Rachel ignored him and moved further into the station, letting the door slam behind her. The gray walls, the bland carpeting; for once they comforted rather than annoyed.
“I need to talk to Chief Weathers.” She tried to say it firm, strong, but frowned when her voice came out little more than a croak. She cleared her throat.
Charlie’s thick brows pulled together. His grin melted. “You alright? What’s on your neck?”
To Rachel’s right a door squeaked open. She turned and met Grant’s mocking gaze head-on.
“Come to say hello?” His eyes twinkled, belying the sarcasm in his voice.
Rachel swallowed, alarmed when her legs wouldn’t stop shaking. “Is the chief here?”
Grant’s face changed. The smile faded. He strode forward, grabbed her shoulders. “You’re bleeding.”
“What?” She tried to jerk from his grasp, didn’t succeed. He had a firm grip. “I’m not.”
He touched her neck. She flinched as hot pain zigzagged through her.
“Charlie, get me the First Aid kit.” Grant guided her to a chair, sat her down. Rachel blinked. His hands were still on her shoulders, warm and comforting. He smelled like Big Red gum. Her grandpa had always kept a pack in his shirt pocket.
She blinked when something pricked her eyes. Oh, no. Not now. Her shoulders snapped back. No crying in front of Grant. This couldn’t be happening again. She never, ever cried. When he turned to take the first aid kit from Charlie, she swiped the back of her hand against her eyes.
Undercover Love (The Women of Manatee Bay, Book 2) Page 3