In the Arms of the Law

by Peggy Moreland

  “You’re late.”

  Laughing weakly, she dropped her hand from the gun. “Have you ever heard of knocking?”

  He lifted a brow. “I can leave, if you want.”

  Dropping the newspaper, she wound her arms around his neck and smiled coyly up at him as she rubbed her body against his. “No way, buster. I’ve been thinking about this all night.”

  “Thinking about what?” he asked as he slipped a hand between her legs. “This?” He cupped her mound and lifted, drawing her to her toes.

  “Oh, yes,” she moaned as he dug his fingers into her center.

  “Damn, you’re already wet.” Keeping his hand cupped on her mound, he urged her backward.

  She closed her eyes and focused her mind on the increasing pressure of his fingers.

  The back of her knees hit the edge of the sofa and she fell back, letting her legs sprawl wide. He planted a knee into the V, then ripped open her shirt and filled his hands with her breasts.

  She dropped her head back on a moan.

  “Tell me what you want,” he whispered as he kneaded the soft flesh.

  She dragged a bra strap down her shoulder, baring a breast. “Suck me.”

  She groaned as he opened his mouth over her breast, then clamped her legs against his knee and arched hard against it as he drew her nipple in.

  “Touch me,” she begged as she stripped off her holster and opened her slacks.

  He pushed her hand aside and slid his hand inside her panties.

  “Yes,” she whispered as he pushed a knuckle along her folds. “Oh, yes!” she cried, wincing as he drove a finger inside.

  He slowly pulled it out, then spread the moisture around her opening. “You like it rough, don’t you, baby?”

  She fought her slacks down her hips and spread her legs wider, offering herself to him.

  He stabbed his finger inside. “Nobody can please you the way I can, can they?”

  Nearly crazy with need, she dropped her head back against the sofa, willing to agree to almost anything if he’d make her climax. “Nobody.”

  “Not even that Indian?”

  “No. Not even him.”

  He pulled his hand out and ripped down his zipper, freed his sex.

  Taking it in his hand, he waved it back and forth, teasing her with it. “Want this, baby?”

  She stared, her eyes glazed with passion, her body on fire. “Yes,” she whispered and reached for it.

  He drew back. “If you want it, you have to ask really nice.”

  “Please,” she sobbed.

  “Where do you want it?” He stroked it along her folds. “Here?”

  She filled her hands with her breasts and squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes, there. Please. There.”

  He pressed his erection against her opening. “Here?”

  She arched high, straining. “Yes!” she sobbed. “Oh, please. Give it to me. Now!”

  He drove deep and she opened her mouth to cry out her pleasure, but he clamped a hand over her lips, smothering the sound.

  “Shh,” he soothed. “You don’t want your neighbors to hear, do you?”

  Her eyes wild and fixed on his, she shook her head.

  Smiling, he dragged his hand from her mouth and closed it over her breast. “I didn’t think you did.” He caught her nipple between finger and thumb, and she closed her eyes again, moaning low in her throat as he pinched them together.

  Nobody understood her the way he did, she thought as pain and pleasure lanced her womb.

  Nobody.

  Andi unlocked the back door of her house and pushed it open, eager to change her clothes and get back outside and to work. If she hustled, she figured she had enough time to scrape the paint off at least half the rear of her house before the sun set. Maybe all of it, if the light held out long enough. She’d originally planned to tackle the job on Saturday, but the chief had thrown a wrench into her plans with his insistence that she and Gabe go to the charity ball.

  But she wasn’t going to think about that now, she told herself, feeling the irritation rising. If she did, it would put her in a bad mood.

  Mentally listing the tools she’d need, she quickly stripped out of her clothes and tugged on a pair of old shorts and a T-shirt. As she retraced her steps to the kitchen, she wrapped a bandana around her head to keep paint chips from matting in her hair, then stopped to check the messages on her answering machine.

  “Hi, this is Melissa from Dr. Andrews’s office calling to remind you of your dental appointment tomorrow morning at nine. If you’re unable to make the appointment, please call our office and reschedule.”

  She shuddered at the reminder of her annual dental exam, then deleted the message and waited for the next one to play. But no voice came through the speaker. Only the hum of recorded silence, then a click. Frowning, she hit the back button and checked the caller ID. Unknown. Her frown deepening, she punched the delete button. That was the third hang-up she’d received that week. One a month was rare.

  When she’d moved into her house, she’d requested an unlisted telephone number, a precaution that most officers on the force took to protect their privacy, as well as their safety. There were a select few with whom she had entrusted her number. The dispatcher at the station, her dentist, her doctor, a couple of friends, a few distant relatives. So why so many hang-ups? she asked herself.

  “Probably an overzealous telemarketer,” she told herself and headed out the door.

  Once in the backyard, she dragged the ladder from the patio, propped it against the side of the house and plugged in the electric sander. Armed with a paint scraper to use on the tight spots the sander couldn’t reach and a pair of safety goggles, she climbed the ladder and set to work. Paint chips flew around her face and speckled her arms and legs. She slowly made her way down the ladder, moving the sander over the wood. When she reached the bottom, she repositioned the ladder, then set to work again.

  Not that she considered this work.

  To her, the improvements she made on her home, whether they were made weeding her flower beds or re-finishing the old wood flooring inside, were nothing but true pleasure. She’d purchased the house two years prior and had spent every spare moment since remodeling and redecorating it, both inside and out. The bonus she’d discovered was that it was the perfect way to relieve the stress associated with her job.

  She was level with her bedroom window when she noticed the scratches along the lower edge of the screen. She quickly switched off the sander and shifted on the ladder in order to examine them more closely. Judging by the depth of the cuts along the aluminum frame, it appeared someone had attempted to pry off the screen. Whoever it was had failed in his mission, since the screen was still securely latched.

  Most women would’ve panicked at the thought of a prowler trying to break into their house and would’ve run for the nearest phone to call the police. Not Andi. She was the police. Her only emotion at the moment was anger, and it was a toss-up as to what made her more mad: the damage done to her screen or the fact that someone had attempted to break into her house.

  With her mouth set in an angry line, she climbed down from the ladder and set aside the sander. Sinking to a knee, she examined the ground beneath the window. The mulch spread around the shrubs and flowers in the bed that lined the back wall was over three inches thick and well packed, which negated any chance of finding a clear footprint.

  Frustrated, she stood, bracing her hands on her hips as she looked around, trying to figure out how the prowler might have gained entry. The privacy fence that enclosed her backyard on three sides was covered in flowering vines she’d planted during the two years she’d owned the home, which made scaling the fence difficult, if not impossible.

  Beyond the fence were her neighbors—the Huckabees at the rear, whom she knew only in passing; Mr. and Mrs. Brown on the right, a dear, elderly couple with whom she enjoyed visiting when she was out working in her yard or on her house; and Richard Givens on the left, a fiftysom
ething divorcé, who considered himself God’s gift to women.

  She shuddered in revulsion at the thought of Richard, with his bleached-blond hair, fake-bake tan and thick gold rope chain he wore around his neck, a throw-back from the disco era, no doubt. He’d made more passes at her than a professional quarterback and continued to do so even after she’d repeatedly told him she wasn’t interested. But the man had an ego the size of Dallas and a hide as thick as a rhinoceros, which obviously made him impervious to her refusals.

  Frowning, she peered at the iron gate that opened from the side yard that ran between her house and Richard’s, the only other means of gaining entry to her backyard. She kept the gate locked at all times, unless she was outside. But she supposed a person could climb over it, if they wanted to badly enough. Richard was certainly physically capable of scaling the gate, but she couldn’t imagine why he would want to get inside her house.

  She heard the familiar squeal of tires on the driveway next door and groaned, knowing it was Richard arriving home. A red Corvette braked to a stop in front of his garage. Yesterday he’d been driving a BMW coupe. An unending supply of cars to choose from was one of the many perks he enjoyed as the owner of a used-car lot.

  Hoping to escape before he saw her, she grabbed her sander and started up the ladder.

  “Hi, Andrea! Working on the house again?”

  Stifling another groan, she stopped and forced a polite smile. “Yeah. I’m trying to get the rear wall scraped before it gets too dark to see.”

  He wagged a stern finger. “All work and no play makes Andrea a dull girl.” Grinning, he motioned for her to join him. “Come on over and I’ll mix us up a batch of martinis.”

  “Sorry, but I’ll have to take a rain check.” She hefted the sander for him to see. “Duty calls.”

  “Ah, come on,” he wheedled. “Surely you’ve got time for one of my famous dry martinis.”

  She set her jaw to keep from screaming her frustration. “No, Richard, I really don’t.”

  His smile slipped a bit at her refusal, then he shrugged and turned away. “Your loss.”

  Staring, she choked a laugh. My loss? Shaking her head, she started up the ladder again. The guy was crazy. Certifiably insane. She stopped, her smile fading as she remembered the attempted break-in. No, she told herself, and resumed her climbing. Richard was a nuisance, but he wasn’t a criminal.

  Or at least she didn’t think he was.

  Shaking off the thought, she flipped on the sander. At the same moment, her cell phone rang. Muttering a curse, she shut off the machine and tugged the phone from the clip at her waist. “Matthews,” she snapped into the receiver.

  “We’ve got a stabbing out on Maynor Road. Pete’s Place.”

  She frowned, surprised to hear Gabe’s voice and not that of the dispatcher on duty. “Why are you calling me and not Joe?”

  “Because I’m at the station and Joe has his hands full.”

  She glanced at her wristwatch, gauging the time. “I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.”

  “It’ll be faster if I swing by and pick you up.”

  “No, I—” Before she could tell him she preferred to drive herself, there was a click and then the dial tone.

  Furious that he’d hung up on her, she shoved the phone back onto its clip at her waist and stomped her way down the ladder.

  She showered and changed clothes in record time and was locking her front door when Gabe pulled up in front of her house.

  With her mouth set in a hard line, she climbed into the passenger seat and slammed the door. “I don’t need a chauffeur,” she informed him tersely, “and if you hadn’t hung up on me, I could’ve told you that on the phone.”

  He spared her a glance. “Are you this bitchy with everybody or do you reserve all your anger for me?”

  Jutting her chin, she faced the windshield. “You rub me the wrong way.”

  He put the truck in gear. “That’s odd. I don’t recall laying a hand on you.”

  Before she could think of a smart comeback, he stomped the accelerator and the truck shot forward, thrusting Andi back against the seat. She wanted to demand that he slow down, but remembered the last time that she’d commented on his driving he’d considered it a dare, and decided not to push her luck.

  “What’s the situation at Pete’s Place?” she asked, hoping if she distracted him, he’d slow down on his own.

  “Stabbing. Jarrod, the new rookie, responded to the call.”

  “Something’s always happening at Pete’s Place. Ten to one it’s over a woman.”

  “As much as I’d like to accept your bet, it would be like taking candy from a baby.”

  She gave him a droll look. “I take it you don’t think it started over a woman.”

  He took a turn on two wheels, then shook his head. “No. Fights over women usually take place nearer to closing time, when folks start to pair off.”

  She lifted a brow. “Is that the voice of experience speaking?”

  “No. Common sense.”

  “Okay, if not a woman, then what do you think started it?”

  He made a sharp turn into the parking lot of Pete’s and braked to a rock-spitting stop behind the patrol car already at the scene. “Most of the men who hang out at Pete’s are construction workers. My guess is that it’s a disagreement they brought with them from the job.”

  She reached for the door handle. “Well, let’s see which one of us is right.”

  It appeared that the entire bar had emptied into the parking lot to watch the fight. Customers and employees alike formed a human wall that Gabe and Andi had to shoulder their way through before finding their victim. He sat on the ground beside a truck, his back propped against its rear tire, holding a blood-soaked cloth against his left arm. More blood was spattered on his shirt and jeans. Jarrod, the rookie cop, was standing off to the side, shooting the breeze with the ambulance driver.

  Setting her jaw, Andi stalked toward him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  The rookie jerked to attention. “Nothing, sir—I—I mean, ma’am.”

  “Well, that’s obvious,” she snapped, then pointed a stiff finger at the victim. “Do you realize that man might very well be bleeding to death while you’re over here flapping your jaws?”

  “Uh, yes, ma’am. I tried to get him to let the paramedics load him up in the ambulance, but he won’t let anybody near him.”

  Making a mental note to discuss later with the rookie his inability to control a scene, she turned for the victim, but found Gabe had beat her there. Judging by the conversation between the two, it appeared they knew each other.

  “Hey, Dal,” she heard Gabe say. “How bad is it, buddy?”

  “Pretty bad,” Dal said, then gulped and began to unwind the crude bandage he held on his arm. “He cut me deep.”

  Andi winced as Dal exposed the gaping wound.

  “It’s deep all right,” Gabe confirmed. “Looks like he sliced you clear to the bone. We need to get you to a hospital.”

  Dal drew back against the tire and shook his head. “No. Ain’t got the money to ride in no ambulance. My brother Bill’ll be gettin’ off work soon. He’ll take me.”

  “What time does Bill get off?”

  “Works the four-to-eleven shift over at a convenience store in San Antonio.”

  His expression grim, Gabe pushed his hands against his thighs. “I can’t let you sit here and bleed to death, while you wait on your brother.”

  Dal kept his eyes fixed on Gabe, as Gabe stood. “I ain’t goin’ in no ambulance. I told you, I ain’t got the money to pay.”

  “You’re not going in the ambulance,” Gabe informed him. “You’re going with me.”

  Shocked, Andi watched as Gabe helped Dal to his feet. When he began guiding the man to his truck, she quickly fell in behind them.

  “Who did this to you?” she heard Gabe asked Dal.

  “Whitey. A guy on my crew. Had to fire him today. Can’t have a
man on the payroll who thinks he can come and go whenever he pleases.”

  Andi stifled a groan. Gabe didn’t so much as glance her way, but she heard his “I told you so” as clearly as if he’d shouted it at the top of his lungs.

  Three

  Andi didn’t question Gabe’s decision to personally escort Dal to the hospital. And she didn’t question him when he gave his own mailing address to the nurse on duty and told her to send him Dal’s bill. But by the time they were back in his truck and headed for her house, the questions were burning holes in her tongue.

  “Taking a victim to the hospital isn’t part of the job,” she said, seeking a noncombative opening.

  “I know.”

  “So why did you do it?”

  He stopped at a stop sign, waited for a car to cross the intersection, then drove on. “You heard him. He couldn’t afford an ambulance ride.”

  “That’s not your fault, nor your responsibility.”

  “No,” he agreed. “But I wasn’t about to let him sit there and bleed to death while he waited for his brother. I doubt you would’ve, either.”

  “No,” she agreed, “but I sure as heck wouldn’t have offered to pay for his medical care.”

  “He’ll make good the debt.”

  She gave him a doubtful look. “Come on, Gabe. If he couldn’t afford to ride in an ambulance, do you really think he can come up with the money to pay a hospital bill?”

  “Dal might not have the cash on hand, but he’s an honest man and a damn good framer. I’ve been wanting to build a storage shed behind the cabin.” He lifted a shoulder. “He can work off the loan.”

  She stared, unable to associate this kind gesture with the Gabe Thunderhawk she knew. Or, rather, the Gabe Thunderhawk she thought she knew. His rep around the station was that of a tough cop, one who didn’t have to ask a perp twice for his cooperation. Most of them took one look at him and fell to the pavement, offering their wrists for the cuffs.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  She blinked, startled by the unexpected question, then frowned. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no. Why?”