A Family Come True

by Kris Fletcher

  “No. Darce. It’s not— God, I’m such an idiot. I’m making a mess of this, but I really don’t want to have an audience the first time I say—”

  “I love you.”

  She couldn’t keep it in any longer. And if she’d said it a bit too loud, trying to be heard over his flood of words, and if the sound had carried to the others, well...

  “I love you,” she said again, louder this time. “And I don’t care who hears it. Even if you think I’m a total idiot, because God knows I’ve been so stupid about Xander and Cady and everything, even if you say you don’t want to ever come back to Stratford, I love you.”

  “God, Darce,” he whispered, then at last he was crossing the lawn, gathering her close, framing her face with his hands while he kissed her and pushed her damned hair away from her mouth and kissed her again, slower and fuller and as if he never wanted to stop.

  “Are they cheering?” she whispered when she came up for air.

  “Yeah.” He nuzzled her nose. “Guess I was dreaming when I thought we could do this in private.”

  “Well, they’ve been there for everything else. Why not this?”

  “You have a point.” He ran his hands down her arms, laced his fingers through hers.

  “You were right. About Carter. I didn’t want to do it, and yeah, I was frickin’ terrified, but you were right. We don’t know how we’re going to do it yet, but we want to make this work again.”

  “I’m so glad. But—” she bit down on her lip and bumped his nose lightly with her own “—I shouldn’t have pushed you. That was the kind of thing you should have done for yourself, not because I made you. I’m so sorry I didn’t hear what you were trying to say.”

  “Yeah, well, the thing is, I was so busy talking I never bothered listening to myself. Turns out that once I shut up, I wasn’t nearly as pissed anymore as I thought I was.”

  “I don’t know if I followed that.”

  “Not a problem. I’m planning on having a whole lifetime to explain it.”

  She needed to kiss him again. No matter that they were still being watched, she was pretty sure that if she didn’t kiss him in the next, oh, twenty seconds, she couldn’t be held responsible for what might happen when she finally tasted him again. But there were things she had to say first.

  “Xander is moving into the apartment.”

  His eyes clouded. “Ah, Darce. I—”

  “No. Listen. It makes perfect sense, and if I had thought of it myself, I would have been walking around beaming over how clever I am. But—”

  “But you’d already had a hell of a week and you’d already been pushed into more than you’d had time to process. I know.”

  “Those are all true. But let’s not forget that I was stubborn and rigid and so busy making up stories about what I thought a family should be that I almost forgot the most important part.” She let herself kiss his jaw then, a soft brush of her lips against his bristles that only reminded her how much she wanted him. “But I think that’s another topic that we’re going to have to spend a lifetime figuring out.”

  “Did I tell you I love you, too?”

  “I think it was implied.” She tipped back, smiling up at him. “You’d better say it again, though, just so I’m clear.

  “I love you, Darce. So much more than I ever would have believed.” His gaze scooted past her again. “But it’s going to be complicated.”

  “Complicated. But worth it.”

  “Listen to me, okay? I want the whole nine yards, Darce. I want to build a life with you, have a home and maybe get another dog and make some brothers and sisters for Cady. I want that with everything that’s in me.” He breathed in, slow and ragged. “But I want to do it right.”

  “I’ve heard that line before.” She nuzzled his chin. “This time, I’m going to be smart enough to listen.”

  “I want to be sure I know what I’m doing. Not about you.” He laced his fingers through hers. “You’re the one thing that’s certain. But I have things I need to work out. With both of my families. The one in Comeback Cove.” He kissed her, soft and swift. “And the one in Stratford. You. Me. Cady. And, God love him, even Xander.”

  “Meet the Teacher nights are going to be interesting.”

  “Everything’s gonna be interesting. I need to be here, and I know you need to be there.”

  “But what do you need from me?”

  “Weekends?”

  She lifted her face to his, laughing. “Weekends?”

  “Long ones. Once we’re all on more solid footing I hope I can convince you and Xander to move up here—”

  “Speaking for Xander, I think he’s half anticipating that already. Speaking for myself, I thought you’d never ask.”

  “I’m slow sometimes, okay? In the meantime, I convinced Moxie to let me do a four-day workweek.”

  “Oh, I bet that was difficult.”

  “Being family has its advantages.”

  “Having a family has advantages, too,” she said, remembering how grateful she had felt to Xander just a few hours earlier. “Like grandmothers who might want to babysit when Cady and I come up here to see you. Or a father who might eventually be able to do daddy-daughter weekends, so you and I could have some time alone. If we want to give Cady a brother or sister, we should probably spend some time working on our sibling-making technique.”

  “Do you have any idea how much I wish I could make them all disappear right this minute?”

  “Pretty sure,” she said cheerfully. “But since we can’t, how about we put them out of their misery and give them the good news?”

  “I’m ready if you are.”

  “More than ready.”

  She slipped her arm around his waist as, together, they moved forward. Just before the loving horde descended, he gave her a squeeze.

  “You think it’s crazy that we never started telling each other the truth until we started lying to everyone else?” he asked.

  “You forgot what I told you.” She rested her head against his shoulder, snuggling even closer into him. “The best lies are always based in truth.”

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from HER COP PROTECTOR by Sharon Hartley.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  WHEN JUNE ENTERED the air-conditioned chill of the North Beach Pet Shop, dozens of colorful birds came to life with raucous squawks. Well, no wonder. She glanced up at the bell rigged to clang whenever the front door opened. An early warning system.

  To her left, a tall man in his forties behind the counter nodded at her. Colorful tattoos curled around both of his biceps. Piercings in both ears and his left nostril. “Let me know if I can help you,” he said.

  “Just looking,” June said, in her best attempt at portraying a bored browser. She’d gotten good at that.

  He returned to reading a magazine. Was this guy the owner or an employee? That would make a huge difference in his reaction in the next few minutes.

  She sniffed the air to detect any foul odors. Mostly old cedar chips from the bottom of cages. Not too bad. At least this shop kept the smuggled birds in fairly decent conditions.

  June snuck a glance to the rear wall, where the birds continued their noisy protest in floor-to-ceiling cages. A majority of monks. Some yellow-headed amazons and a few macaws. Exactly wh
at the informant had reported. Birds flapped obviously clipped wings in futile attempts at liftoff. A few made it off perches and slammed into the wire barrier blocking their escape with a disappointed shriek.

  June bit her bottom lip and looked away. After the initial rush of sympathy, familiar anger mushroomed inside her chest, making her heart rate ramp up. No good, June. Remain calm if you want to help. Inhaling deeply, she lifted a container of dog shampoo from the display next to her and pretended to study the ingredients.

  Remember, these birds are the survivors, she reminded herself, allowing the breathing technique time to work. Triple or quadruple this number didn’t survive the journey.

  She strolled toward the right side of the store, where an assortment of puppies romped or dozed in five-by-five wire cages stacked one on top of the other. A honey-colored cocker spaniel eyed her hopefully as she approached. When he reared up on his hind legs, she reached through the wire and stroked his soft head. This immediately gained the attention of a feisty Jack Russell terrier who pounced over to nudge the spaniel out of the way.

  Too bad she couldn’t save these furry sweeties. Their lives were equally sad, but disgustingly legal, products of puppy mills all over the country. She tested the air again. Definitely less pleasant on this side of the shop, but lingering disinfectant made the smell tolerable.

  She glanced back at the clerk. He kept his head down and remained focused on his reading, so she continued toward her target: the birds. She needed evidence. Even from a distance of six feet she could see that their legs were banded, supposed proof of being bred in captivity. But she knew better. The barbarians now created counterfeit bands to thwart the Fish and Wildlife Commission’s attempts to curb smuggling.

  As if counterfeit bands could make this group of wild birds appear tame.

  Of course, FWC didn’t approve of her unorthodox methods. Even less of her trips to South America with the Tropical Bird Society to stop poachers at the source. Bird smuggling was hardly a high priority to the US government. They were much more worried about drugs. FWC didn’t have enough manpower or budget to stop thousands of birds from being murdered each year.

  She reached inside her jeans pocket, fingers tightening around her phone. She needed one good peek at a counterfeit band for confirmation. She’d take photos, enlarge them and she’d have her proof.

  The door clanged behind her, signaling the entry of another customer. Her heart tripped into a faster pace again, but maybe this arrival would provide a distraction from her own activities.

  The clerk murmured a greeting, and the newcomer, a male, grunted a reply as June leaned closer and peered at the leg of a magnificent scarlet macaw who glared back at her with haughty disdain. The bird stepped away with a short cackle.

  “Hold still, my beauty,” June whispered, focusing on the leg band, looking for the telltale signs of the fake markers, a bruised leg and missing scales—yes, there. Definitely bogus. She nodded to herself. But she already knew that.

  With another sideways look at the clerk, she raised her phone, positioning her body to hide her actions. The second customer—a man—stepped next to her. She ignored him and raised the camera. You’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, buddy. Sorry.

  The customer said something during her first click, but he whispered his words and she couldn’t stop gathering evidence to ask him to repeat himself. She kept clicking, gathering images of as many captives as possible.

  “Hey” came a rough shout from behind her. “What the hell you think you’re doing?”

  June ignored the clerk. Beside her the new guy spoke again—the inflection sounding like a question—but his words were lost in the resumed squawking of agitated birds roused by the hostility of the clerk hurrying toward her.

  “Damn it, lady. Stop taking photographs.”

  June didn’t stop until a rough hand closed around her upper left arm and squeezed hard.

  “Hey,” she said, trying to pull away. “That hurts.”

  “It’s gonna hurt a lot more if you don’t hand over that camera.”

  She glared at him—but went still when she met his dark eyes. Fear flared in her belly as the man tightened his grip. This was precisely what Agent Gillis had warned her about. She shouldn’t have come alone when Jared got sick and canceled.

  She slid the phone into her pocket. “Let go of me or I’ll file an assault charge.”

  “I don’t think so, lady. You just give me your phone.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or else you’ll be very sorry. These are my birds, and I don’t want you taking photographs.”

  So he was the owner. Bad luck, but explained his vigilance. June again tried to wrench out of his grasp, but he only squeezed harder. She swallowed, the pain in her arm now making it difficult to concentrate. She pushed away the stirrings of panic. Would this man really hurt her?

  Hell, yes. The jerk’s greed caused the murder of hundreds of smuggled birds.

  “I’ll scream,” she said.

  “And who do you think will care?”

  Before she could answer, a brilliant red bird swooped over her head. She ducked instinctively, as did the shop owner.

  “What the—” the owner shouted, finally, blessedly, releasing his grip.

  The macaw flapped madly, but clipped wings made it impossible for him to go far.

  Rubbing her arm, June turned in time to watch the new customer fling open the last cage and urge its prisoners to flee.

  “What are you doing?” the owner shouted.

  As if in answer, birds streamed out of confinement. Triumphant screeches resonated through the shop as feathered creatures in hues of green, blue, red and yellow attempted flight, but most only hopped awkwardly around shelves and the filthy floor of the shop.

  The front door clanged again, and June focused on the back of the liberator as he rushed outside. A flight-worthy yellow-headed parrot zoomed for the opening. Oh, no. Fearing he’d be crushed by the closing door, she held her breath. But vivid green wings flapped through safely and disappeared into a patch of blue sky, no doubt headed for the closest tree.

  “Shit,” the owner moaned.

  With a sigh, June withdrew her phone again and called the police.

  * * *

  DETECTIVE DEAN HAMMER heaved himself out of his police cruiser into heavy tropical air. Shaking his head, he eyeballed the peeling paint of the mom-and-pop pet shop in the seedy business section of North Miami Beach—a long eight miles from South Beach. He’d been busted not only off his beat, but off his regular gig. His lieutenant’s cute idea of punishment. Yeah, real cute.

  “Hey, Hawk,” his temporary partner—a fresh-faced rookie whose training was also part of his exile—asked across the roof of the vehicle, “when was the last time you responded to a disturbance at a pet shop?”

  “Yeah, well, that would be never, Sanchez.”

  Sanchez grinned. “Do you think the pets inside are rioting?”

  “Funny. If you learn one thing while working with me, Sanchez, you need to be ready for anything on a call.”

  Sanchez nodded and glanced toward the shop’s facade. “Yeah, I know, I know.”

  You just think you know, rookie. Dean patted the Kevlar vest under his shirt and moved toward the entrance. “Things can go south in a heartbeat.”

  “And you must be prepared,” Sanchez mimicked. “I bet you won’t need your Remington M24 here, though.”

  “God, I hope not,” Dean said as he jerked open the door. A sniper gun at a pet shop? A giant cowbell clanged overhead as he entered.

  “Jeez,” Sanchez breathed behind him over a cacophony of shrieking birds. “What the hell happened here?”

  Good question, Dean thought, focusing on dozens of colorful parrots hopping and leaping in aborted flight attempts around the shop. No bodies. No citizens bleeding. No apparent robbery.

  Damn if Sanchez hadn’t nailed it. The birds had staged a riot and broken out.

  A man, presumably an e
mployee, chased the animals with little success. As soon as he got close to a parrot, the bird squawked and deftly hopped away. He’d managed to capture a few, though, since cages in the rear of the shop housed parrots. Dean looked for and spotted a surveillance camera on the back wall.

  “Be careful where you walk,” the man shouted. “Don’t step on any of them.”

  “Uh, right,” Dean said, his attention zeroing in on the only other person in the shop, a tall, knockout blonde in her midtwenties who stood by the cash register yacking on a cell phone.

  “And arrest her,” the bird chaser said. “She’s responsible for this.”

  Arrest her? Dean’s mood lightened. He’d like to interrogate this one, her sophisticated beauty reminding him of the Russian models who frequented Ocean Drive.

  “You the owner?” Dean asked the man.

  After a pause where he seemed to consider his answer, he said, “Yes. David Glover.”

  “Did she release the birds?” Sanchez yelled over the bird noise.

  “I did not,” the woman replied. She lowered her phone and gave the owner a look that would freeze lava.

  “But your partner did,” the owner shouted.

  “I don’t have a partner,” she said.

  “Yeah, right. Like you never saw the guy before.”

  “Never. And you’re the one who should be arrested.”

  “For what?”

  The blonde turned to Dean. “I called the authorities.”

  “You bitch,” Glover said. “Only because I was too busy with—”

  “Hold on, hold on,” Dean interjected, the squawking of both human and bird now giving him a major headache. “Sanchez, help this guy round up the birds while I interview this nice lady.”

  The blonde nodded and dropped her phone into a large purse slung over her shoulder, its strap pressing between very nice breasts.

  Sanchez grinned. “Good thing you warned me to be ready for anything.”

  “You’re a real comedian, Sanchez.” Dean pointed a finger at the owner. “We’ll talk after you get your merchandise under control.”

  The blonde smiled. “Let me know how that turns out,” she said to the owner.