Mountain Danger (Wild Mountain Men Book 4)

by Vanessa Vale

  Mountain Danger

  Wild Mountain Men - Book 4

  Vanessa Vale

  Contents

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Note From Vanessa

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  Also by Vanessa Vale

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  Mountain Danger

  Copyright © 2020 by Vanessa Vale

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author's imagination and used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from both authors, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover design: Bridger Media

  Cover graphic: Deposit Photos: EpicStockMedia; Hot Damn Stock

  1

  EVE

  “You are not wearing a Cutthroat Police shirt to my party,” Poppy told me, one eyebrow raised and a finger waggling up and down in my direction.

  I looked at myself, at what I’d worn to work, the usual jeans and the navy, long-sleeved shirt with the police department logo embroidered on it.

  Clearly she thought I’d wear the unexciting outfit to her party. She knew me too well. But I also knew her, knew I wasn’t going to get away with it—and had planned ahead. I raised my hands to stop her, as if she were the one who was the law enforcement officer instead of me. “I brought other clothes.”

  I grabbed my bag and dropped it on her bed. I’d gone to her house directly from work.

  “These clothes, were they given to you by the department?” she asked. “If it were in a different size, could a guy wear it?”

  I huffed out a laugh as I unzipped the bag. “No. I’ve been working too many long hours with the Mills murder and the other cases I’ve got on my plate to think about what to wear. Or do laundry.”

  “That’s fine and all for nine-to-five—”

  “Try seven to ten,” I corrected.

  “Whatever. Are there sequins on what you’ve brought? Ruffles? Bows? How about a color besides black or navy?”

  I swung my gaze her way, gave her a death glare. “Poppy.” I never wore sequins or ruffles and she knew it.

  She shrugged, making the bright pink angora sweater she wore shift down one shoulder. No one questioned her outfits. “I’m just saying, a guy only wants you putting him in handcuffs if you’re in bed together.”

  I pictured that in my mind, getting a guy in restraints and at my mercy. In bed. The idea was hot, but what melted my butter was the opposite—a guy tying me up and having me at his mercy. To allow me to let go, to forget about everything. I wouldn’t have to be in charge, wouldn’t have to worry if I was doing it right.

  That was never going to happen. No way would I be under a guy’s control like that. No way would I let a guy take my power from me. I’d done it once, and it had been a nightmare. Worse than that.

  Never again. It was safer to be single, to be alone, than to be abused.

  “You are insane,” I told her.

  “You haven’t been with a guy since I met you. No dates. Nothing. How long has it been since you’ve gotten some?” she asked, her perfect arched brow rising.

  Far too long since a man-induced orgasm. Well, ever, because I’d had to do it myself during sex. The guys I’d been with couldn’t get me there.

  “You think a red sweater’s going to help me get laid?”

  “The police shirt isn’t,” she countered.

  To say we were complete opposites was an understatement. It was a wonder we were friends. I’d met Poppy Nickel in a yoga class at the recreation center when I first moved to town. We’d hit it off, strangely enough. She was petite, curvy and perky. I was tall, far from curvy and surly. She was high maintenance. I considered primping pulling my hair back in a ponytail.

  Poppy tried to fix me up with hot guys—without any success—and I kept her out of speeding tickets. Not that she was wild and crazy, but she was definitely more adventurous than me.

  And yet she didn’t have a man of her own either. For now she was single.

  I took the handcuffs from the hook on my belt, dropped them into my bag. “No handcuffs.” I pulled out a sweater and held it up between my fingers. “It’s a turtleneck, but it’s red. Plus I’ve got a pair of blank skinny jeans to go with it. Will that work?”

  She pursed her lips as she considered.

  “You’re having an outdoor party in December,” I reminded her. “It’s maybe ten degrees out. There’s no way I’m exposing tons of skin. I’ll be wearing my coat and hat. Boots. No one’s going to see the sweater.”

  “Fine,” she grumbled as she pulled out her cell to check the time. “But keep your hair down. I’m meeting Kit Lancaster, the party planner, at the barn for a final check. I’ll be about an hour.”

  She gave me a little wave, then left me alone to get ready in her huge master suite.

  Poppy was rich. It was as simple as that. Her father was Eddie Nickel, the famous movie star. While he spent most of the year in LA or at a film site, his home was in Cutthroat. He had a huge ranch a few miles away from Poppy’s place. The town was thrilled he was a resident, bringing the obvious publicity, but also because he’d filmed his last movie here. It had finished up about a month ago, and from what I’d heard, he was remaining in town through the holidays. That last bit I’d learned from a magazine at the checkout counter.

  While it didn’t have horses or cattle like her dad’s property, Poppy’s place had tons of land, including a barn and pond where tonight’s party was to be held. This wasn’t a simple friendly get-together. Poppy had gone all out in her planning with fancy appetizers and drinks, like hot toddies with lots of rum, a live band for dancing on a raised platform, ice skating on a Zamboni-cleared pond. She’d even hired an event planner, Kit Lancaster, who I knew through the Mills investigation.

  The party was going to be out under the stars. In December. Her birthday had been last week, so every year she had a combined birthday and holiday party. Over a hundred people were expected.

  But not Eddie Nickel, as far as I knew. Poppy didn’t talk about her well-known dad all that much. I didn’t need to be a detective to know they didn’t get along. At all. I’d never met him, never heard of her having lunch with him, going to his house for dinner. Nothing. Because of this, I never brought it up. I could have wheedled the info out of her—it was what I did for a living—but I wasn’t eager for her to pry into my past either. I’d moved to Cutthroat for a reason, and I wasn’t sharing it, even with a girlfriend. She might inspect my party outfits, but she didn’t pester me about my past, and for that I was grateful.

  I went into the bathroom, stripped out of my clothes, ditching the bland outfit I’d worn to work, and showered.

  While I’d never had any issues about being a woman on the Cutthroat police force, I didn’
t flaunt my femininity much. I didn’t want to stand out, not only with my colleagues, but especially with suspects. Outside of work I didn’t want to make a huge statement either, going for simple T-shirts and jeans, minimal makeup. It was easy and involved little time in getting ready in the morning, but it also kept me off most men’s radars. That worked for me.

  I wasn’t looking for a guy. I didn’t want a relationship. After one total disaster, I was content being alone. It was easier. Safer. So much less dangerous to my body, my mind and my heart.

  When I finished my shower, I dried off, dug out clean panties and bra from my bag and put them on, then brushed out my damp hair. Through the closed door, I heard a series of odd thuds. I opened the bathroom door to listen and wondered what Poppy was up to.

  “We have to hurry. She’s down at the barn and will be back soon.”

  It was a man’s deep voice. Definitely not Poppy. Using the word we indicated there were at least two of them. I tiptoed out of the bathroom and onto the second-floor landing, the thick carpet muting any sound I might make. Poppy’s house was a new build with large, open rooms in the western style. I was able to see down into the great room from an open balcony and observe a man who’d just climbed through a window.

  It wasn’t dark out yet, so none of the lights were on. They must have seen Poppy leave and thought the place empty. I’d put my police SUV in her oversize garage so I wouldn’t have to scrape ice or snow from it when I left since snow was expected before dawn.

  A second man had his head and upper body through the window and was pushing the rest of himself through the opening. He was big and not very nimble.

  “She’s going to be sorry now,” the second guy said, then groaned as he dropped to the wood floor.

  Whoever it was didn’t like Poppy. The memory of what Mark Knowles had done to Sam Smythe—kidnapping with the intent to rape—was fresh in my mind.

  I didn’t have my phone with me, but I wasn’t letting these two mess with Poppy. No. These guys weren’t going to fuck with my friend.

  I tiptoed back into Poppy’s bedroom, grabbed my gun and handcuffs from my bag, then slowly made my way down the stairs and into the great room.

  “Hold it,” I said, my voice loud and clear. I had my service weapon raised and pointed at them.

  The first guy spun around as the second pushed up from the floor, picking up a cowboy hat that had been beside him and placing it on his head. They stood side by side, their hands automatically going up. Their eyes widened, and they froze in place. Clearly they hadn’t expected me. Or my gun.

  Now that I could get a good look at them, they surprised me, too. My detective’s eye made out the one on the left as early thirties, six-one, two hundred pounds of lean muscle. Black hair, equally black eyes. No identifying marks or scars that I could see, and he wore a black coat and dark jeans. Black gloves were on his hands, meaning he didn’t want to leave fingerprints. The other I pegged as same age, six-four, two fifty. Pure muscle. Light brown hair, closely shaved beard. Green eyes. Flannel shirt and jeans. Cowboy hat.

  My woman’s eye said, Holy shit. They were drop-dead gorgeous. Magazine models but rugged. I doubted they ever set foot in a gym, probably chopped down trees and wrestled moose for exercise.

  When I realized I was ogling, I cleared my throat. “You, move two steps to your right.” I waved my gun at the dark-haired guy, indicating which way I wanted him to go. He smartly did as I told him.

  “Both of you, turn around.”

  “Whoa, now. I’m all for the right to bear arms, but do you know how to use that thing?”

  He did not just ask me that. I refused to respond, only glared.

  “Don’t piss her off,” the dark-haired one warned his friend.

  “Yeah, don’t piss me off.”

  “You’re not going to shoot us in the back, are you?” the bigger guy asked.

  “Turn around,” I repeated.

  They did and I stepped closer. It was hard to decide who to cuff first. I was fairly skilled at self-defense, but they each had eighty or more pounds on me. I assumed it was better to cuff the larger guy first, so I set a hand at the center of his back, his heat radiating into my palm through his flannel. I felt the play of his muscles as he moved, starting to face me. “There’s been a—”

  I grabbed his right arm at the wrist, bent it at the elbow to bring it behind his back in an arm lock, preventing him from turning around. With his wrist at his spine, I pushed it up toward his head, which would have his shoulder coming out of joint if he didn’t bend over. Instinctively he did just that, and I slapped one handcuff on his wrist but kept the arm pinned behind his back.

  “Wait a minute!” the other guy said. “There’s been a mistake.”

  I raised my weapon in my free hand and pointed it at Mr. Black Hair, but kept a tight hold on the bigger guy. “Don’t move.”

  Mr. Black Hair froze but smiled, revealing a damned dimple. I blinked, mesmerized by his gorgeousness.

  “All right. I won’t move. Careful with the gun,” he said.

  Once again I bristled.

  “There’s no need for handcuffs,” Bigger Guy said, his voice calm as he tried to slowly turn once more. I raised his wrist higher, making him groan at the discomfort.

  “On the ground,” I told him, my voice just shy of shouting.

  At first he wouldn’t go, but a little torque on his arm and Bigger Guy dropped to one knee, then the other, his body hitting the hardwood floor like a tree falling in the forest. I sat on his back, straddled him as I grabbed his other wrist and got him cuffed. I spun about on Bigger Guy’s back so I faced his feet, aimed the gun at Mr. Black Hair. No way was I taking my eyes off him.

  “Don’t even think about blinking,” I warned.

  He lifted his hands a touch higher, slowly shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

  The front door opened, and Poppy came in, tugging off her winter hat. She made it three steps before she saw us. Her eyes went wide, and her mouth dropped open. “Holy shit.”

  No one moved for a few seconds; then Poppy burst out laughing. “Oh, this is awesome.”

  “Pops, tell your gorgeous friend to put her gun away,” Mr. Black Hair said.

  Poppy held up her hand and kept on laughing. Tears slid down her cheeks. “Oh no. I’ve got to get my camera.”

  “Pops!” Mr. Black Hair shouted.

  “Fine. Eve, meet my brother, Shane. The guy you’re sitting on is Finch.”

  I glanced up at Mr. Black Hair—Shane. He winked at me. Winked!

  “You’re her brother? Why the hell did you come through the window?” I asked. I felt the cold air pouring in now that my adrenaline was fading. I knew Poppy had a brother, but I’d never met him before. Poppy wasn’t one for family photos about her house, and I had never known what he looked like. Until now.

  “What was it going to be this time?” Poppy asked. “Ping-Pong balls in my bathroom? Plastic wrap the toilet seats? Ice cubes filling the fridge? Shampoo in the washing machine?”

  “Nothing bad,” Shane said. “Only two hundred balloons in your bedroom.”

  I saw the small helium tank on the floor by the window, most likely the first thump I’d heard when I was in the bathroom. Shane had to have been the second.

  I climbed off Finch, put my hands on my hips. “You’re here to prank? Can’t you do that by using the door?”

  Shane shrugged, then grinned. “We couldn’t risk setting off the alarm.”

  That made complete sense. Sneak in through your sister’s window.

  “It’s a birthday thing,” he added, as if that explained it all. “Mine’s in June, and this year Poppy put hundreds of caterpillars in my truck. I couldn’t find them all before they turned, and I had butterflies in there for a week.”

  “That was a good one,” Poppy said. “I wondered when you were going to attack. Totally backfired though. Suckers.”

  “Um, I’m the one handcuffed and on the floor,” Finch prompted.

&nbs
p; “Oh, um… the keys are in my bag upstairs,” I said, flustered, looking down at the big, brawny cowboy sprawled on the floor. His hat had been knocked off.

  “I’ll get them,” Poppy offered, still laughing as she went up the steps.

  “Yeah, there’s no place for you to keep them in that outfit,” Shane murmured, his gaze raking over every inch of me.

  I looked down at myself, realized what I was wearing. What I wasn’t wearing. Clothes. I had on a red bra and panty set and that was it.

  I squeaked in utter embarrassment.

  I’d gone into police mode and forgotten everything, including the fact that I was practically naked. Before I could panic or even grab a blanket off the back of the sofa, Poppy hurried down the stairs and tossed me the keys.

  Her cell rang and she raced off to get it, quickly getting into a conversation about fairy lights and generators, so I assumed it was Kit.

  I knelt beside Finch and opened the cuffs, keeping them once he was free. “Sorry about that.”

  He pushed himself up so he was seated on the floor and we were eye to eye. Grabbing his hat, he set it on his head. He smiled, his green eyes raking over my face, then lower. “I’m not sorry. I had a pretty woman straddling me.” He leaned in close, lowered his voice. “I liked it when you were on top.”

  I blushed to the roots of my hair at what he meant.

  “I… um… need to find some clothes.”

  Finch shook his head. “You don’t have to for our sakes.”

  “That’s right. The view’s pretty damned fine,” Shane said, going to the window and shutting it. “I’m guessing you’re Eve Miranski, the detective. We’ve heard about you. I figured we’d meet someday, but not like this.”