Undercover Love (The Women of Manatee Bay, Book 2)

by Jessica Nelson

  “I’ll check on that, sir.” Grant glanced at the door. “I’ve got some reports due so I’m going to head on out.”

  “Before you go, whatever happened with that woman? The one who broke into my house?” The mayor snapped his fingers, deep concentration temporarily wrinkling his features. “The McCormick girl.”

  “Gerta gave her a key. Not much we could do about that.” He planted his hands on his hips and studied William. “How’d you know who she was?”

  The mayor waved a hand. “That doesn’t matter. I think it’s important you keep an eye on her. I think my computer was tampered with. There’s sensitive city information on there.”

  “On your personal computer?”

  “I take work home with me. Some of the dates on my files don’t match when I remember opening them. I think that girl did something…”

  If you only knew. Grant tamped down his annoyance. “Anything else?”

  “I just think she should be careful.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Crime is escalating. She seems the sort who takes risks without thinking about the consequences.”

  Had she visited the mayor last night? Threatened him?

  “She should get a warning at the very least,” the mayor continued. His eyes glittered beneath the fluorescent lights of the room. “Before she gets hurt.”

  Aggression rose in Grant, a sharp protectiveness that coursed through his blood and made his fingers itch. “Has there been a threat made against her?” he asked coldly.

  William jerked back, suddenly the benign father figure he’d always appeared to be. “I’m just stating my concerns for her.”

  “Duly noted.” Grant gave William a stiff nod and opened the interrogation room’s door, chagrinned at how close he’d just come to punching the mayor of Manatee Bay in the face.

  ***

  How good would she need to look to obtain a ballistics report?

  Rachel studied herself in the rearview mirror one more time. A little more lip gloss for good measure. Pete had a particularly sweet way of blushing every time she saw him. He was a reliable snitch, too. She wasn’t above using her looks to get what she needed. She smoothed her hair, straightened her skirt, and got out of the car.

  Afternoon humidity seeped into her clothes.

  If Pete couldn’t share any information on the bullet type, or who the shooter was, then she’d press Charlie. He owed her for a tip she’d passed his way last month.

  Bracing herself for glares, she squared her shoulders and marched into the tiny station. It was mostly empty except for the receptionist. Ms. Riccio didn’t even look at her, just kept talking on the phone. She did manage to point her finger in the direction of Charlie’s desk.

  Rachel smiled her thanks and shot that way. She slowed as soon as she saw her self-proclaimed uncle snoozing behind the desk. Hat tipped, boots up, as a faint snore trembled through the air.

  Perfect, absolutely perfect. Barely containing a grin, Rachel edged behind Charlie’s desk. His boots were propped near the keyboard, but not on it, thank goodness. She glanced again at Ms. Riccio. Still talking, her hands fluttering through the air for emphasis. She didn’t even look Rachel’s way.

  She'd have to make this quick because on a normal day, Ms. Riccio kept a glare trained on Rachel's every move.

  Breath shallow, Rachel reached forward and nudged Charlie’s mouse. The screen flickered to life. It looked like he’d been in the middle of a report when he’d dropped off to sleep. Minimizing the screen, she clicked to his e-mail and held her breath as the box pulled up.

  A list of opened e-mails filled the screen. She shot him a dirty look. Figured he didn’t clean out his inbox. She scanned the subject lines but saw nothing about ballistics or shootings.

  Maybe he wouldn’t get that e-mail. Even though he’d been in the force forever, he’d never tried to move up from the rank of officer. More likely Grant, a former homicide detective and now a sergeant, would have that information.

  She’d have to look at his desk, but would Ms. Riccio let her over there? She glanced at the desk. Still on the phone.

  Closing the inbox, Rachel pulled Charlie’s report back up on the screen and then crouched down. There was always the chance Charlie stored information in his desk. What about the suspect they’d supposedly caught? The one who tried to link her to the shooting?

  She’d give anything to read what the perp had to say. A hard knot of determination formed in her belly. Jaw set, she peeked over the edge of the desk at Ms. Riccio. The receptionist hung up the phone and caught her glance. Her eyebrows wiggled in a warning way as she began typing on her computer. To gossip or not to gossip…

  Charlie snuffled beside her, snorting and creaking in his chair. Rachel groaned and straightened from her crouch. She might have a better chance chatting with Ms. Riccio about the suspect, depending on the secretary's mood.

  Sparing Charlie one last look, Rachel moved out from behind the desk. “Hey Ms. Riccio, I heard you guys found the guy who shot at me?”

  “We did.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard. “What’s it to you?”

  Rachel’s jaw cramped. “A lot. The guy tried to kill me.”

  “That’s not what he said.” Ms. Riccio stopped the infernal clicking to give Rachel one of her signature over-the-rim-of-her-glasses look. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but Chief Weathers and Sergeant Harkness aren’t going to be happy to see you here.” She resumed typing a thousand words a minute.

  What a bad attitude. Stifling the urge to stick her tongue out at the irascible receptionist, Rachel slapped her hands on her hips. “My taxes pay for this building. I don’t really care if they’re happy or not. Shouldn’t I know who shot at me?”

  “Knowing you, you’d like to learn a lot more.”

  “Of course.” She used her most humble voice as she sidled up to the receptionist’s desk. “Do you have anything to tell me?”

  Ms. Riccio sighed and removed her glasses. She peered up at Rachel, a directness in her eyes that sent apprehension spearing through Rachel to pucker her stomach and dry her mouth.

  “You don’t have any business being here,” the receptionist said.

  The words stung. Rachel looked away to hide the blanch that must show on her face.

  Pushing down the hurt at the point-blank words, Rachel met Ms. Riccio’s gaze head-on. “I do have business here and if you don’t answer my questions, someone will.”

  Pursing her lips, Ms. Riccio donned her glasses and resumed typing. “You’ll ruin things again,” she muttered.

  “Ruin what? Is there something besides my shooting going on?”

  “That boy should be in jail right now, not free to roam the streets.”

  “Who?” For a moment Rachel was lost. Then things clicked. Ms. Riccio’s granddaughter was about the same age as Marnie Smith, the girl who’d pointed out waitress Barb’s son as her rapist. Hadn't they been friends? It had taken tons of research and digging to prove Barb’s son not guilty.

  “Lee didn’t rape anyone; he was innocent.” Rachel leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest. “Is that what this is about? You’re having a bad attitude because I was right and the cops were wrong?”

  Ms. Riccio shook her head, refusing to answer, refusing to even look at Rachel. Anger boiled through her and with effort she clamped her mouth shut.

  Behind her the door opened and light streamed in.

  “Everything all right here?” That deep voice only belonged to one man.

  Conscious of her skirt, the lipstick she’d so carefully put on, she turned to face Grant. Chief Weathers came in behind him and sent a nod her way before disappearing into his office. Grant studied her, his eyes flitting from her face, to her lips, then down the length of her outfit.

  It was a light-weight thing she’d picked up cheap at Macy’s. A flowy black skirt and white camisole type tank. She rubbed her bare arms, aware of how pale they were despite the summer sun. At least she looked better
than she had at the hospital…

  Finally, he glanced past her. “You okay, Ms. Riccio?”

  A sniff. “I tried to tell her to leave.”

  Doing an eye-roll, Rachel focused on Grant, blocking memories of the last time she’d seen him here, the kindness of his eyes, the gentleness of his touch.

  The feelings he’d released.

  Nope, this was business. In the corner, Charlie snorted. One of his feet slipped of the desk and crashed to the floor. The poor guy jolted mid-snore and almost fell off his chair.

  A giggle bubbled in Rachel’s chest, especially when Charlie looked wildly around the room, dazed, hat askew. Pressing a hand to her mouth, she crossed to him and fixed his hat.

  “Sleep well?” She pointed to his computer then patted his hand. “You better get back to work.”

  Grant was sitting at his desk when she turned around. She marched to him, aware of the way her skirt flowed around her knees, feminine, making her feel vulnerable and in no position to demand information.

  “You’re here for the ballistics report.” Grant shuffled through his paperwork, avoiding her as though he hadn’t just devoured her alive with his eyes only seconds ago.

  “Can I have one?”

  He looked up then and she felt foolish, dressed up with no Pete in sight, no one to impress at all. “I don’t know what you’ll do with it, but here you go. Make yourself a copy and bring me back the original.” He motioned to the copy machine.

  Dutifully, she made her copy, feeling his gaze on her back the entire time. And why shouldn’t he stare at her? Maybe even dislike her? Heart sinking, she listened as the machine whirred. She’d enjoyed being the object of Grant’s desire. But she’d rejected him. Not once, but twice. Could she blame him for being, at the very least, annoyed with her? Possibly even hurt?

  Frowning and heart pounding, she snagged her copy and Grant’s original, and then trudged back to his desk.

  He wasn’t even looking at her.

  Gulping back a sudden sadness that clutched at her throat, Rachel placed the original on Grant’s desk. “Thank you,” she said.

  “No problem.” He typed on the keyboard.

  Wheeling around, she flipped Charlie a quick wave and then scooted out of the office. Sunlight slapped her across the face, blinding her. She welcomed the pain.

  Anything was better than going back to that cold truce she’d had with Grant. Was he reverting to their previous relationship? Just because she’d said no to a date? Or was it because she’d visited Corrine? His treatment of her seemed so immature, so unlike the Grant she’d come to know.

  Sure, he dated too many women. Made them cry and acted like he didn’t know it. But he wasn’t the type to freak out when a woman said no. To be possessive or overbearing. She reached her car and had just opened the door when she heard her name being called.

  She looked up, shielding her eyes. Grant stalked toward her, a sober expression painted on his face.

  “About last night at church,” she began, then halted as the full scope of what she’d just said hit her.

  “Yeah?”

  Now what? Too surprised at herself to protest, she forged ahead. “I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings or anything. I just can’t date now.”

  What was she doing? Stupid, stupid.

  Grant didn’t grin at her like she hoped. He stared, jaw square and firm, blue eyes serious. “That’s over and done with. What were you doing last night after church?”

  “What?” It took a second for her mind to wheel from fantasy land where Grant’s feelings were hurt to reality land in which Sergeant Harkness cared more about cases than potential dates.

  “I’m just curious. Were you out snooping around? Asking questions even after I warned you to stop?”

  Snooping? Really? She drew herself to her fullest height, annoyed that it didn’t bring her eye level to him. “I’m always asking questions, Grant. It’s who I am.”

  “Were you cozying up to the mayor?”

  She recoiled. “No. Never.”

  “Okay.” He shook his head slow, like he was processing her response and deciding whether to believe her or not.

  “Am I still a suspect?”

  “I would’ve told you if you were.” Grant stepped forward. “Be careful. Pay attention when I tell you to back off Owens.”

  “You think he’ll hurt me, don’t you?”

  He hesitated too long. “No. Not William Owens.”

  “Someone else then.”

  “Just stay clean. Stick to adulterous couples.”

  “Adultery isn’t the full-scope of what I do,” she said hotly. “Any more advice?”

  “Stay away from Miss Hadley.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it.” He pushed a hand through his hair and looked off behind her. “I don’t know why I do this. You’re not going to listen to a thing I say, are you?”

  “I might,” she shot back, confused by his annoyance. What did he care? He thought she was interesting. Wanted to take her on a date. That was about the extent she figured she played in his life, and it didn’t count for a lot considering all the women who’d played the same role.

  When he didn’t say anything else but pinned her with that ice blue glare of his, she stiffened. She poked her chin in the direction of the building. “Better get back before Ms. Riccio sics some guard dogs on me. Why don’t you remind her that Lee was innocent? She seems to have forgotten justice and the rule of law is what works in this country, not the whims of a fickle crowd.”

  Scowling, knowing it twisted her face but not caring, Rachel slipped into her car and started the engine. Grant strode back into the station before she’d even turned out of her parking space.

  Feeling grim, she headed home to face a sister who didn’t feel like a sister and a cat who still hissed every time Rachel pet her.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Your cat clawed my silk nightie.” Maggie whipped a skimpy red thing through the air as she spoke.

  “Close your door.” Rachel sipped her coffee, trying to down the rest of it before she left for work. Exhaustion made her groggy. Maggie hadn’t been coming in the last few nights until early morning hours. Being a light sleeper was a definite curse for Rachel. Hopefully the caffeine would kick in quick. A glance at the kitchen clock told her she had less than five minutes if she wanted to beat Orlando’s morning traffic and open the office on time. Thank goodness she didn’t open on Saturdays until nine.

  “I did close the door.” Maggie frowned and balled the nightie. “Miss Priss snuck in.”

  Rachel scanned the newspaper she held in her other hand. “That’s nice,” she murmured. Maggie was beginning to get on her nerves. Her sister left things lying around, didn’t wash her dishes, and was an overall slob.

  Definitely messier than Rachel remembered.

  “I want a new one,” Maggie said.

  The petulance hadn’t changed either. Her voice scraped against Rachel’s already raw nerves. She folded her newspaper and tucked it beneath her arm.

  “Miss Priss is getting used to her new home. I don’t want you stressing her out.” Rachel glared at Maggie, remembering the disgusting cat mess she’d cleaned up last night from her bathroom floor. At least it hadn’t been the carpet.

  “Look at this.” Hand fisted around the negligee, Maggie punched it toward Rachel and pointed to the slashes of missing silk.

  “So what?”

  “It’s your cat, your fault.”

  “Who are you going to wear it for anyway?”

  Maggie’s chin lifted. “I wear it for me. I like how it feels.”

  “That’s all you’re about, isn’t it?” Rachel stalked into the kitchen and rinsed her cup in the sink. Carefully she loaded it into the dishwasher, then turned and left the kitchen. Maggie stood in the hallway near the door, hands on her hips.

  A dull pink flush had crept up her cheeks. “Just what do you mean by that?”

  As if she didn’t know. Rachel grabb
ed her purse off the wall table and hugged the paper to her chest. “I need to leave if I’m going to beat the traffic.”

  Maggie didn’t move. “You’ve always hated me.”

  “Not always.”

  Color drained from Maggie’s cheeks. She stepped back, into the living room, shrinking before Rachel’s eyes.

  Rachel swallowed and looked away. This was what bitterness did. It rose mean and ugly, choking goodness right out of a person. She wanted to tell Maggie she didn’t hate her but the words stuck in her throat. Tension stretched across her chest and made her head pound. She took a deep breath, wishing the memories would fade. If she didn’t leave now, she’d snap. Maggie didn’t need that. Not now.

  “I’ll see you later,” she said and rushed out of the apartment.

  The drive to her Orlando office didn’t take long. During it she called the hospital to check on Corrine, who she hadn’t seen since that first morning. The hospital receptionist refused to release any information. Annoyed, Rachel made a mental note to visit, maybe this evening.

  When she reached her office, she unlocked the doors, turned on lights and booted up her computer. Thoughts of her sister, the betrayal, beat against her mind. She pulled open her lace curtains and turned the blinds. Routine would drown out the deluge of feelings trying to overwhelm her.

  First things first. She walked to the small bathroom, filled a glass with water, and soaked the dark soil around her flowers. There weren’t many. Just a few hyacinths and other blooms Katrina had cut from her garden. They livened up the place. Made it smell soft and inviting. Filled it with natural color, God-designed.

  Rachel could afford a nicer office, but she didn’t want one. People felt comfortable in here. The muted gray carpet hid stains well. Her cherry wood desk dominated the room and she’d placed a small couch opposite it, beneath the only window in the office. She liked her little space. It was convenient and in one of the nicer, albeit older, sections of Orlando.

  After watering the plants, she sat down at the computer and straightened her nameplate. Before anything, she wanted to review her most important case.