by Gemma Bruce
Smitty, quicker to realize a good thing when he saw it, jumped onto the bed, circled twice, and stretched out on the comforter.
Shaking her head, Julie dropped her suitcase on the luggage rack at the end of the bed and walked over to a ridiculously small dressing table with a tiny ornate mirror.
“Nice touch, Wes, very nice. I feel just like the effing little princess.” She batted her eyelashes at the mirror. Only she didn’t look like a little princess. She looked like someone who had quit her job under duress, driven five hours to the back of beyond, and eaten a chocolate donut for dinner. “Please say the bathroom isn’t pink.”
It was. Dainty pink hand towels hung over brass towel bars. A stack of thick pink bath towels were perfectly folded on an open brass armoire. The walls at least were white and she lifted her eyes toward the ceiling and, by inference, heaven, to thank her wacky uncle for showing such restraint.
“On second thought ...” She looked down. “Is there a purgatory for bad taste?”
Behind a shower curtain of pink butterflies, she found a huge, spotless, brand-new Jacuzzi tub. Smiling, she turned on the jets and stripped out of her clothes.
When she emerged from the tub a half hour later, her knees were weak, her skin was tingly warm, and she smelled like peaches from the pink bath salts she found in a wicker basket on the armoire. She wrapped herself in a pink towel and padded across the carpet to open her suitcase. The extra large NYPD sweatshirt she slept in was folded on top. Not nearly up to the mark for her new bedroom, but it was comfy and it wasn’t like anybody was going to see it.
She tossed it on the bed and put a stack of jeans in the bottom drawer of the bureau. Her T-shirts and sweatshirts went into the next. But when she opened the next drawer, she found it was already filled.
Not with pink, thank goodness, but with a wild array of the tiniest pants and bras she had seen outside a Victoria’s Secret Catalogue. All new, tags on. She dumped her underwear on the top of the dresser and lifted out a black lace thong. “They are from Victoria’s Secret. Thanks, Wes.” She dropped the thong back into the drawer and shoved her underwear in after it.
With a sense of trepidation, she opened the remaining drawer. Yep. There they were. Little nylon nighties, mostly pink. But not little-girl pink like the rest of the room. More Mae West on a hormone day. She riffled through them until she found a creamy white nightshirt. It had a plunging vee neck and little cap sleeves, but it wasn’t pink. She dropped her towel and slipped it over her head.
The silk fabric caressed her skin as it slid down her body. Too bad there was no one to enjoy it with her. But the closest she’d come to having a boyfriend in the last year was her ex-partner Donald, the bribe taker. She’d blown the whistle on him and been demoted to a desk job for her valor. She wouldn’t wear silk for him even if he showed up at the door with expensive champagne and wearing nothing but a G-string.
Which left her only one fantasy. Nope, she warned herself. Pot belly, bald shiny head, respectable three-piece suit. Definitely not for you. But the image of Cas—the one she ruthlessly squelched even at her loneliest—popped into her mind anyway. That Cas was tall, lean and hard, with a tight ass and a larger-than-life penis. His face had developed character, but he still had the lopsided smile he had at fifteen. And his dark hair still stuck up above his forehead.
She ran her fingertips along the neckline of the nightshirt to where it stopped between her breasts. Pulled them away. Nah. She was better off thinking about the pot belly. And much better off without Cas.
She lifted the last thing out of her suitcase and weighed it in her hand.
A Glock semi-automatic was a little out of place in the Pollyanna bedroom. She’d worked hard to become a cop only to realize that when you’re five feet six and built, with a turned-up nose and wide, baby-blue eyes, perps had trouble taking you seriously. Even wearing a uniform, her feet planted in the standard shooting stance as she aimed her Glock at them, they were just as likely to say “Hey, Babe,” as to put their hands in the air. Once she’d made detective and gone undercover things got better. A Glock wielded a lot more clout with stiletto heels and a leather mini-skirt behind it. She bet it wielded even more in front of a thong.
She carried it over to the bedside table and opened the drawer. It was already occupied by a box of condoms.
“Jesus, Wes. Did you leave a list of possible prospects, too?”
But there was only the box. She placed her Glock next to it and shut the drawer. She shoved a snoring Smitty aside, crawled between pink satin sheets, and turned off the lamp.
Moonlight streamed in through the window. She pulled the comforter up to her chin and settled down to sleep. Certainly not to wonder if Cas was in Ex Falls or how he would look in a G-string.
Julie was dreaming about crystal fountains and golden apples when she suddenly awoke. It was dark and for a moment she couldn’t remember where she was or why. Then she heard the low growl.
She groped for the lamp switch and blinked against the sudden light. Smitty was at the window, paws on the sill, tail lowered and his fur standing erect.
Julie threw off the covers and went to see what was going on. “This better not be some nocturnal animal you want to meet,” she told him as she peered out the window. Below them, the yard was dark. But on the hill where the roof of the gazebo stood out in dark silhouette, the beam from a flashlight wove in and out of sight.
“What the hell?” Julie watched as it turned in the direction of the gazebo. Damn, she had prowlers. But what could they be after in the gazebo?
The treasure? Maybe she wasn’t the only one looking for Wes’s fortune.
She pulled Smitty away from the window, climbed over the bed and reached into the drawer for her Glock. Then stopped. She had no authority here. Her permit might not be legal outside of New York City. But she couldn’t let someone steal her fortune. She had to do something, but short of shooting ...
She glanced around the room, found the princess phone sitting on the dressing table and picked it up. There was a dial tone. She punched in 911 and was only half surprised when someone answered. A woman’s voice, sounding like someone’s favorite grandma.
“I want to report a five sev—a prowler—in my yard,” Julie whispered.
“Oh dear,” said granny.
Julie gritted her teeth. “Could you please send a patrol car to—”
Smitty shot across the room and out the bedroom door. Julie stretched the phone cord, trying to see what was happening outside, but it wouldn’t reach the window. Last time I leave my cell downstairs, she thought.
“Don’t panic, dear. Is your door locked?”
Had she locked the door? She couldn’t remember. Damn. What if they gave up on the gazebo and came to the house? They might try to rob her. She looked down at the gaping neckline of her nightshirt. She could see all the way to her toes. Rob or worse. She’d have to shoot them.
“What’s your address?”
“I’m at the Excelsior House on Hillcrest Drive.”
“Oh,” said the operator. “Are you sure? No one lives there.”
“Of course I’m sure. Could you hurry?”
“Yes. I’m calling the sheriff now.”
Julie could hear Smitty scrambling over the wood floor downstairs as he ran from windows to door, looking for a way out.
“Tell him to hurry,” said Julie and hung up the phone just as the granny said, “Stay on the ...”
Sheriff be dammed. Hank Jessop was slower than a snail even after a thermos of coffee. She had property to protect. She unholstered her Glock and raced down the stairs.
“Stay,” she commanded Smitty as soon as she reached the front door. Smitty sat down. She eased the door open and he bolted outside. She made a grab for him, but missed, and she found herself alone on the front porch, barefoot and freezing. Hell. If she went back upstairs to dress, they’d probably get away. She felt around for the work boots she’d seen earlier. They’d have to do.
&
nbsp; Praying that nothing was living inside, she shoved her feet into the boots and clomped after Smitty, shoe laces flying, the enormous boots flopping on her feet as she crunched across the frost-covered grass.
Smitty was standing in attack mode halfway up the hill. His tail was wagging like a furry windshield wiper. When he was good, Smitty was the best. Unfortunately he had a short attention span and an innate love of people, which made him a great pet, but not prime police dog material.
Julie slipped into the shadow of a newly built shed a few feet away. “Ease off,” she called and slapped her palm to her thigh. Smitty broke his stance and trotted toward her.
“Good boy.” She wrapped her fingers around his collar and pulled him into the shadows with her. She peered around the corner of the shed. The gazebo was a hundred feet away, a mere outline in the dark. She didn’t see any sign of movement.
“Heel,” she whispered to Smitty and stepped around the edge of the shed. Smitty kept right beside her as she clung to the shadows and slowly made her way up the hill. She stopped behind a juniper bush and strained her ears to listen for the sound of a patrol car coming up the drive. All she could hear were her teeth chattering.
She leaned forward to get a better look and instead got a whiff of something unpleasant. A handyman, an electrician—and a yardman, she thought.
A figure moved away from the gazebo. Julie stepped out into the open, her Glock steadied in both hands. “Halt,” she shouted in her gruffest voice. The flashlight turned in her direction, froze on her, then the light snapped off and the interloper began running for the trees.
“Halt.” Julie fired over his head. Smitty raced after him. When her ears stopped ringing, Julie followed, but the slippery ground and the unwieldy work boots slowed her down and by the time she got to the edge of the woods, they had both disappeared. She pressed her back against a pine tree, listened, then slipped into the trees. In an instant, the moonlight was snuffed out, but she could hear them thrashing through the underbrush. Then a high-pitched motor chugged to life and a vehicle roared away.
Smitty came trotting back and brushed up against her legs. Legs that were numb from the cold. “G-good work, S-S-Smitty. We almost had him.”
Cas Reynolds drove too fast for safety, too slow to calm his racing pulse. When his phone rang, and Edith said “prowlers,” Cas turned over in bed and thought, Great. I get to chase chicken thieves through the countryside in the middle of the night. Then Edith said, “Excelsior House.” Cas reached for his pants. “A woman called.” And Cas promptly lost his mind.
He’d done little rational thinking on the mad ride to The Hill. It couldn’t be. She would never come back to Ex Falls. She hadn’t even come back for Wes’s funeral last week. Probably didn’t even know he was dead.
It must be a prank. But Wes was the only prankster in town and unless he had called from the dead ...
The old police cruiser swerved back and forth across Hillcrest Drive as Cas dodged potholes. He knew them by heart, he’d driven this road so many times. But tonight he passed the family home without a glance and screeched into the Excelsior driveway.
That’s when he heard the shot. He stomped on the accelerator; the car careered around the pond, up the drive and came to a stop beside a light-colored Volkswagen.
Cas grabbed his town issued .38 police special from the seat beside him. Now he wished he’d taken time to load it. Not that he planned to shoot anybody. He yanked at the door handle, ready to hit the dirt. Instead he hit a solid wall and bounced back. Panicked, he’d forgotten the handle didn’t work.
“Shi-i-t,” he yelled and banged on the spot above the handle. The door swung open. He jumped out and ducked down between the VW and the police car. No more shots. A good sign, he hoped.
He peered through the VW window. Tried the door. Locked. Would thieves lock the getaway car? Wait a minute. He wasn’t thinking clearly. It must belong to the person—woman—who called Edith.
But then who fired the ... Oh, God. With a shiver of fatality, Cas knew his father must have overdone the martinis again and was taking pot shots at the gazebo from the Reynolds’ back door.
He stuck the .38 in his jacket pocket, climbed the porch steps, and knocked on the door. Heard nothing. Knocked again. Ran around to the side door. Knocked. No answer.
It had probably scared the daylights out of—whoever was here. Because it couldn’t be who he thought—wanted—it to be. But someone was definitely staying in the house.
She had probably heard shots, thought she was under attack, and called the police. Then she locked herself inside and was afraid to open the door. He should have called out that he was the sheriff, but he didn’t have much experience yelling, “Police. Open up.”
So Cas stood in the dark feeling like a fool. Not for the first time since returning to Ex Falls.
Now he would have to explain about his father and warn her not to go out to the gazebo at night, and she would think he was a nutcase instead of the law. And he’d have to confiscate another rifle from Reynolds. And listen to another lecture on the crimes of the Excelsiors.
“Only for you, Wes, would I do this,” he muttered under his breath. He turned back to the door, knocked louder. “Hello?” he called. He stepped into the yard and looked up to the second floor where light shone through a bedroom window. Julie’s old bedroom. His pulse jolted into overdrive. Not possible.
“Hello?” he called out. “Julie?” Still no answer. “See, not possible.” Then a worse thought struck him. She had gone outside and—
Cas groaned. “Please say you didn’t shoot her!” He turned in a circle, scanning the night, praying he wouldn’t find her body lying on the frozen ground. You couldn’t kill somebody aiming at a gazebo, could you? Of course not. He’d been watching too much television. People in Ex Falls didn’t shoot each other, just deer, gazebos, and their own feet, cleaning their guns while half crocked.
In the distance, an engine fired to life; a single headlight flickered out of the wooded foothills. Cas reached for his police special. Maybe there really were thieves.
He began running up the hill toward the woods. If he could shoot out a tire, he’d catch the damn thieves red-handed, and everybody would lighten up on the chicken jokes. But of course he couldn’t shoot out their tire, even if his pistol was loaded. He couldn’t hit the side of a barn.
Julie had been a crack shot, but she’d never made fun of him. Just said, “Don’t worry, Cas, bankers don’t need to carry guns. There’s Brinks.”
He shook his head clear of Julie thoughts. It probably wasn’t thieves anyway, just a bunch of local boys out having some fun. And when he found out who it was, he’d cart their sorry asses off to jail to cool their heels for the night, just for inconveniencing him. And making his pulse race like a goddamn horny teenager.
And he’d find them. Because for once he had a clue to follow. A truck with only one headlight.
Feeling much better, he stopped by the shed and peered at the gazebo. All right and tight there. He cautiously made his way to the crest of the hill and looked into the woods; caught sight of movement in the trees. He pressed back into a juniper bush and waited.
The night was suddenly still. He peered into the woods again. He would swear someone was standing just inside the ring of trees, out of the moonlight. He rolled tight shoulders and cracked his neck. What the hell was he doing in Ex Falls, chasing burglars through the woods?
He snorted. His just desserts. He’d chased Julie through these woods more times than he could remember. And caught her. He smiled, forgetting where he was for a moment. He’d been pretty damn good at Cops and Robbers in those days. He’d been even better at Pirates.
A rustle in the trees. Wind? No wind tonight. Another rustle. Not a nocturnal animal, but a glimmer of white. All right, time to act, or he might still be standing here when the sun rose, and someone was bound to see him and by tomorrow night, it would be all over town that he had spent the night hiding behind a bush with an
empty gun while the thieves got away.
Cas said a quick prayer that he was out of range and stepped away from the bush. He braced his feet in the standard two-handed shooting stance he learned from NYPD Blue, and aimed into the darkness. He sucked in his breath.
A figure stepped out to the edge of the trees. There was just enough light for Cas to see the really big handgun that was aimed at him.
The freeze he’d been about to yell froze on his lips.
“Freeze,” said a deep voice from the darkness.
Hey, that was his line. He froze anyway, then yelped, “Police.”
“Yeah. So drop the weapon and put your hands in the air. Slowly.”
Cas dropped his gun.”No. I mean. Me. I’m the police.”
“You’re the sheriff?” A sound like strangling. “Why didn’t you say so.”
“I did. I was going to, but you—who are you?”
“I’m the one who called you.” The figure stepped into the moonlight. Not a thief, but an angel. Not an angel, but a vision that was the answer to every man’s wet dream. A waterfall of long dark hair fell past slim shoulders and over a shimmering white shift that clung to every curve of a curvaceous body. His eyes followed the curves down to a pair of long, dynamite legs, lovely knees, tapering to ... a pair of huge, untied work boots. He recognized the boots, they were his, but not the apparition that was wearing them.
He must be dreaming. That was it. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d dreamed of Julie coming back to him. Her hair long and soft like this, hair a man could wrap his body in. A body that he could wrap his soul in. Mesmerized, Cas took a step toward her. She stepped back into the cover of the trees, disappearing into the darkness like a wraith. He took another step toward her and was stopped by a warning growl. His testicles climbed up to his rib cage. Stay calm. It’s just a dream. Strange. He’d imagined Julie as many things—but never as a werewolf.
He barely registered the beast as it leapt through the air, flying toward him as if it had wings. Time to wake up, he told himself. Now.