Divorced, Desperate and Deceived

by Christie Craig

  “Who are Beth Salzmann and Jim whoever?” she snapped.

  He turned the key again, holding his breath and praying that the van hadn’t decided to quit on them. “Witnesses killed while either in police custody or at the police station.”

  Kathy stared at him. The puppy wiggled and started licking her neck.

  The van engine roared to life. Luke sped back onto the road, driving as fast and as hard as he could.

  “Please don’t call them!” Joey begged. “Por favor,” he added, using the bit of Spanish he knew.

  “Uh…he’s fine,” he continued babbling, giving a flinch and praying that Donald wouldn’t roll over and do something stupid like shoot the woman for talking about calling 911. “Really, he’s fine. Aren’t you, Donald?”

  He touched Donald’s shoulder. The man didn’t move. Not even to breathe.

  “Christ!” Joey muttered, watching the man’s back, hoping to see his shoulders rise as he took in air. They didn’t. He rolled Donald over, and Joey’s breath caught. The man’s bug eyes were open, open wide. Joey had only seen eyes look that empty once—on Freddy’s face. He pushed that thought away and touched Donald’s neck, hoping to feel the flutter of a pulse; but as he expected, there was nothing.

  “I call for help, si?” the Mexican woman asked, leaning forward to look down at them.

  “No!”

  Joey saw her move away from the counter and heard a door open and slam shut from the side of the truck. He brushed his hand over Donald’s eyes to close them. “Are you sure? He need doctor, no?” she asked, hurrying toward him, cell phone in hand.

  Joey yanked Donald’s coat over his gun and holster. Then, using every bit of his strength, he heaved the big guy up on his shoulder. Donald’s weight almost carried him over onto his butt. He readjusted, and the weight caused him to lean on his foot and his toe pinched in pain. He bit back a curse.

  “He’s fine. Just…” Joey met the woman’s soft brown eyes and he almost let Donald fall. All words bounced right out of his head. Damn, she was pretty. Not Playboy pretty or glitzy pretty. He couldn’t call her girl-next-door pretty, either, because he’d never lived next to anyone who looked like this. She looked old-Hollywood pretty, like the actresses in those old movies: clean, fresh…drop-dead gorgeous. It occurred to him that he probably shouldn’t be thinking about women with a dead man on his shoulder, but Joey couldn’t help it. He couldn’t ever remember being punched in the gut by a woman’s looks before.

  “He’s…he’s just hitting the bottle a little hard. Too many cervezas.”

  She took a step back, as if the idea of Donald being drunk disturbed her.

  “Can you open the door?” He pointed to the car. “La puerta?”

  She hurried to help. “Front or…atrás?”

  “Back,” he said, and motioned.

  The woman opened the back door and stepped aside. Joey moved forward and dropped Donald in, yanking the man’s coat closed again to cover his gun. Then, pushing Donald’s big feet inside, hurrying before the woman caught on to the fact that Donald wasn’t breathing, he slammed the door.

  The door didn’t shut. Joey tried again. He put some muscle into it this time. Again the door bounced back.

  “Wait!” the woman screamed.

  Joey didn’t want to wait. Couldn’t wait. Not and let her realize that Donald was dead.

  He attempted to slam the door again. This time it bounced back so hard that it hit his shin and he flinched. The woman screamed. She pointed down. He followed her gaze to Donald’s foot, which had slipped back out the door.

  “Oh.” Joey leaned down and pushed the man’s foot inside the car. Now the door shut fine. “Thank you,” he said, moving between the woman and the window.

  “He going to have a hurt foot,” she replied, her brow pinched.

  “Nah, he…he’s too ugly to feel anything.” Joey smiled. “Besides…he deserves it for drinking too much.”

  He deserved it for killing Freddy. Deserved it for being a mean son of a bitch.

  She made a face. “I not like men who drink too much. They get mean.”

  “I’m not much for drinking myself,” Joey said. When his mom hadn’t been high, she’d been drunk. He’d pretty much decided never to become addicted to anything.

  The Mexican woman leaned over to peer in the car. “He not hurt himself when he fall down?”

  “Him? No.” Joey moved to limit her view. “You can’t hurt him. Too big.”

  She chuckled. “You big, too.”

  Joey loved what her laughter did to her eyes. “I know—which is how I know he’ll be okay. We don’t feel pain, we big men.” He took a step, and his big toe ached like a mother.

  She shrugged. “I feel bad. He fall down while here.”

  “Oh, it’s not your fault. Believe me.” The idiot should have worn a seat belt.

  “Maybe I fix coffee, and you take for him when he wake up? Si? It help mood sometime. Maybe he not be so mean when he wake up.”

  Coffee wouldn’t have stopped Donald from being mean, Joey thought. For just a second, he wondered what type of person he was that he didn’t care that Donald was dead. Then he remembered Donald volunteering to kill him.

  The woman’s words about mean drunks suddenly replayed in his head. “Someone you know drank too much?” he asked.

  She flinched, as if the question was too personal. Then she nodded. “I leave him in Mexico. My life better without him.”

  “Good,” Joey said, and looked back at the car. He should probably head out and find somewhere to dump the body. Strangely, getting rid of Donald wasn’t going to bother him near as much as getting rid of Freddy.

  Jesus, he needed to figure out what to do next. Should he call Lorenzo or just drop the body in some Dumpster and get the hell away as fast as he could? Maybe it was time to call it quits on this job. Hell, if he went back to Lorenzo now, he’d probably end up like Donald: dead in somebody’s backseat. More likely the trunk. That’s where they’d put Freddy.

  “I not charge you for the coffee,” the woman said.

  There was a softness to her voice that went straight to Joey’s chest and then lower. Amazingly, it had been a while since anything lower had been awakened by a kind voice and a pretty face. Staring at her, he wondered how the man she’d left in Mexico had been mean to her. Had he hurt her or just yelled at her the way some men did? Studying her closer, he noted a scar at the corner of her eye.

  Joey had known a few women, but most of their relationships hadn’t lasted long. They hadn’t ended because Joey treated them badly, however; it was more because the girls wanted someone who could offer them nice things. Someone who drove a fancy car and took them out to fancy dinners. Until he’d gotten a job with Lorenzo, he hadn’t much money to work with.

  Joey stared at his car and then the woman. She was a little thing, not much over five feet, round and curvy. Curvy in all the right spots. Unlike American women, who ate like birds, afraid they’d gain a pound.

  “Si? You take coffee?” she asked.

  His six-feet-five-inches felt even taller standing next to her, and he met her soft eyes again. Hell, what was his hurry? It wasn’t as if Donald was going to get pissy. The man was dead. And, as Joey had thought earlier, the world was probably a better place for it.

  Realizing the woman was waiting on him to answer, he looked at her. “Si,” he told her. “Coffee would be nice.”

  “You speak a little Spanish,” she said.

  “Just a little,” he replied.

  “That is okay.” She smiled. “I speak only a little English.”

  “You do pretty good,” he said. He smiled, then realized he hadn’t smiled in earnest in a long, long time. “You know…I’d like a cup of that coffee for me, if you don’t mind. And maybe a bite to eat.”

  “Good,” she said.

  She went around the side and entered her truck, moved to the counter and filled a pot with water. Joey leaned against the counter as the smell of fresh
coffee filled the air. He could have moved and sat at the nearby table, but he liked watching her.

  As he shifted his weight to his other foot, trying not to put any pressure on his bad toe, a car pulled up behind him. It was a black and white state trooper vehicle, and it pulled up right beside his car with the dead Donald inside. The trooper got out. Joey’s heart beat double-time.

  Joey waited for the cop to look in the back. Would the trooper blame him for killing Donald? He supposed the woman would corroborate that Donald had just keeled over, but would that get him out of hot water? Hell no, not when the cops learned he worked for Lorenzo. They’d probably assume he was just as bad.

  The officer walked past the car, right past Donald’s dead body, and nodded at Joey. Leaning against the counter, he smiled at the Hispanic woman. “Hi, Lola. How about a glass of tea?”

  “Sure, Trooper Foster,” she said, and smiled. But Joey couldn’t help noticing that her smile seemed forced.

  “With lemon, right?” she asked, as if working hard to pronounce the words.

  “You remembered,” he said. “That’s nice of you. Real nice.”

  Joey saw the way the cop’s eyes traveled down Lola’s body and how she looked away as if embarrassed or offended. Sure, Joey had noticed her body, too, but he hoped he’d done it in a less crass way.

  Looking nervous, she filled a glass and then passed the officer his tea. He reached over and put his hand on her upper arm, left it there. “Thanks, babe.” He brushed his thumb under her shirt sleeve. Her lips turned up at the corners, but the smile never moved to her eyes.

  “I think my coffee is done,” Joey remarked, hoping Lola would take it as an excuse to move away from the asshole. She did, and he could swear he saw her shoulders relax as the man’s hand fell away. Then, without dropping a dollar on the counter, the officer walked off. It took everything Joey had not to watch him leave, to make sure he didn’t spot Donald.

  “Hey,” the trooper called.

  Joey felt his gut tighten. He turned around, expecting to see the trooper looking into the car, expecting him to have his gun drawn. Instead, he stood by his cruiser.

  “You haven’t seen a florist truck passing by here, have you? A white truck with big pink letters?”

  So the cops were looking for Hunter and the redhead, too.

  “No,” Lola said. “But I watch birds, not the road.”

  “Can’t say I’ve seen it,” Joey added.

  The trooper nodded, got into his car and left.

  Lola looked at Joey. “I really, really don’t like that man.”

  Joey looked at her sweet face, which was twisted with something that looked like fear. “Then that settles it,” he replied. “I don’t care for him, either.”

  “How are you going to do it?” Kathy asked, kneeling to fix the leash around the puppy as she watched Luke button his shirt. He’d pulled off to the side of the highway. Up the road at a makeshift car lot were about a dozen or so parked cars with FOR SALE signs in the windows.

  She felt him studying her and glanced up. His gaze was on the scooped neckline of her tank top. She rose and adjusted it to cover the tops of her breasts. “You act as if you’ve never seen a pair,” she snapped.

  He raised his guilty gaze and grinned. “It’s been a while.” When she frowned, he brushed a hand over his mouth as if to hide his grin, then asked, “How am I going to do what?”

  “How are you going to steal a car?” She gave the leash a little tug when the puppy tried to go out in the street. “What am I supposed to do?” She thought again about the ramifications of their actions. “Honestly, I don’t want this to come back and bite me in the butt.”

  He stared at her. “You need to calm down. Act normal. We’re just a married couple wanting to try out a new car.”

  “Gosh, less than an hour ago you told Cary we’re dating, and now we’re married.”

  He grinned. “I’ll slow down on the honeymoon.”

  “Like that will happen,” she said, but instantly remembered sitting in his lap at his house. Feeling her cheeks grow warm, she knelt again and focused on checking to make sure the puppy’s collar wasn’t too tight.

  “Seriously, Kathy, you need to chill.”

  When she stood, she felt her stomach knot—if not from nerves, then from hunger. It was almost four in the afternoon and, other than coffee and a piece of toast, she hadn’t eaten all day. “I can’t chill. I’m about to become a car thief.”

  “You’re not. I’m the one doing this.”

  He slipped on the navy suit jacket he’d stolen from Goodwill. Her gaze moved up and down his frame. In spite of being a little wrinkled, the coat actually went well over the blue oxford shirt. And the combo looked good paired with his jeans. Casual bad boy.

  “I’m an accomplice.” An accomplice who already has a record.

  He ran a hand though his dark hair, as if to make sure it looked okay. Not that it needed it. His hair, even mussed, looked good. Not that she intended to keep noticing such things.

  “I told you, as soon as I get in touch with Calvin, all this will go away.”

  “And you’ll go away too, right?”

  His gaze met hers, and they stood there for a second just staring at each other. Then, “Probably.” He patted his pockets and pulled out a tie.

  An empty feeling stirred in Kathy’s chest. Considering what had happened these past few hours, the idea of him being out of her life should make her happy. All her attraction to him should have evaporated when she found out he was a cop. Why didn’t it?

  He stared at the tie for a second, as if debating wearing it or as if he didn’t know how to put it on. Kathy moved forward, dropped the dog’s leash in his hand and took the paisley tie and slid it around his neck. Measuring one side a few inches longer than the other, she looped one end around the other then tucked it inside the loop. It was only when she had the perfect knot and had given his chest the old one-two pat that she realized what she’d done. She also realized how close she now stood to him, how good it felt to be close. Lord have mercy on her, she’d missed having her body in close proximity to a man. And not just any man.

  Her next intake of breath carried Luke’s scent: fresh cut grass with that hint of mint. It took everything she had not to bury her nose in his shoulder and lean on him. It had been a hard day. If she ever needed to lean on someone, it was now.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Old habits.”

  He had his hands on her waist, just the way Tom used to do when she did his tie every morning. She’d pack his lunch, tie his tie, kiss him and send him off to work. And for what? So he could fall in love with a dumpy woman almost twice her age. Could someone please explain that? Kathy’s chest grew heavy as she looked at the way Luke studied her. He wanted her. Desired her. That desire had fed her self-confidence for years, and before all of today’s craziness she’d been about to give in.

  Her stomach pinched with fear—fear that had nothing to do with men shooting at her or stealing a car. This was deeper, more personal. What if her ex was right that she just didn’t have what it took to please a man? That she sucked in bed. And not the good kind of suck.

  She took a step back. Luke continued to look at her. “It’s back,” he said.

  “What’s back?”

  He shook his head. “That look you always get when I get close. Back at my place, I thought…”

  “Thought what?” she asked, not certain why she wanted to know. But she did.

  “We should go.” He handed her the leash. The brief touch of his hand sent a jolt of emotion racing up her arm.

  “What did you think?” she asked again.

  He paused, took a breath and then said, “That you finally realized how good we’d be together. That I just might be the kind of guy you’d like hanging around.”

  “Oh.” Okay, she’d had to ask, hadn’t she? Now how did she respond? Clueless, she took charge of the dog and started walking. The puppy didn’t move.

  “And we
would have been good,” Luke added in a frustrated voice.

  She gave the leash a tug, planning to ignore the remark. “Come on, Goodwill.” The dog started shaking his head and whining.

  “Why don’t you carry it?” Luke asked, and looked back at the road as if watching for cars.

  Kathy picked up the dog, gave it a scratch behind the ears and started walking.

  “You named it Goodwill?” Luke moved in beside her.

  “I figure Tommy will want to rename it, but for now Goodwill will do.”

  “He’ll love it,” Luke said. “Boys need a dog.”

  Her mind shot back to how long Tommy had been asking for a canine companion. “He’s had lots of pets. Gerbils and the turtle. I haven’t deprived him.”

  “I didn’t say you have. It’s just gerbils and turtles can’t chase balls,” Luke pointed out, and as his gaze met hers, it was as if he could read her insecurities. “Look, I didn’t mean that you…Hell, you’re the best mom I know. Tommy’s lucky.”

  “I’m lucky,” Kathy replied.

  After she took a couple of steps, she glanced back at the White Elephant parked on the side of the road. “I hope you’re right about me getting my van back.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  He kept saying that, but it hadn’t stopped him from worrying. She recalled seeing his brow pinch whenever he fell quiet, and she’d wager it wasn’t from having positive thoughts. The gun he tucked in the back of his jeans pretty much made that a safe bet, too.

  Chapter Twelve

  For the first few minutes they walked in silence. Then he asked, “Your husband…he wore a tie?”

  “Yeah.” She answered without looking at him, and she could almost feel his hands on her waist.

  “What did he do for a living?”

  She swallowed, recalling he’d asked about Tom one day when he was over changing out her bathroom faucet. She hadn’t wanted to talk about her past to him then, and she still didn’t. “Can we change the subject?”

  They made it couple of more feet. “He was a cop, wasn’t he?”

  She looked over at Luke. “No. Why would you think that?”