by Olson, Mal
“It’s about the file on the guy we fished out of the river,” Brandy said.
Blade’s hand pressed the muscles at the back of his neck, and he massaged the start of a tension headache. “I’ll make you a deal. I need to unwind. How about taking a walk with Rambo and me, and we’ll talk later.”
Rambo scampered next to Brandy and nuzzled her wrist.
She smiled at the dog. “Okay.”
They followed Rambo and hiked toward the bank of the river along an overgrown path that meandered through meadowland cluttered with wildflowers.
Blade found a stick and pitched it. His four–legged bundle of energy promptly raced after it and returned, the prize clamped in his mouth.
“Good boy.” He patted Rambo and scratched his ears before holding out the stick, then withdrawing it. With the next offering, Rambo latched on. Tug of war lasted several minutes until Blade commanded, “ Aus, ” and sent the stick sailing in the air again.
Seconds later, Rambo returned, bringing his treasure to Brandy.
What the heck? It figured; even his dog was mesmerized by her.
“Tonight’s frozen pizza night,” he heard himself say, “and I don’t like leftovers. So you’d be doing me a favor if you stayed for supper.”
****
Brandy’s first thought was no way. Alone, inside, with the man for whom the song Crazy Kisses had been written? But holy cripes, if she couldn’t be in the same room with him without thinking about jumping him, she didn’t deserve to be a deputy trainee. “I wasn’t looking for an invite to supper.”
“I know.” He smiled. “You came to discuss business.”
“Exactly. Like I said, it’s about the John Doe… I wanted to run—”
“Shhh…” He settled his index finger on her upper lip, on one of the many spots his tongue had seared the night before, and then gave her a soulful look.
Oh, man, for a minute, it seemed he might be thinking about having her for supper.
“I’ve had a long day. Let’s go grab that pizza before we talk shop. Okay?”
She swallowed and nodded, giving in to procrastination. Maybe because she knew when she hit him with the details of her theory, sparks were going to fly. And not the hormonal variety that usually arced between them.
As they headed back toward the house, Rambo tagged along at her heels. His devotion made her feel almost as though she belonged. Her thoughts flashed back to her childhood. She’d had a dog… once… before her mom went to prison. Just as quickly, the door to her memories slammed shut and left her heart beating an irregular rhythm.
“Brandy? Something wrong?”
She shook her head, and they stepped through the doorway. Pleasantly cooler air embraced them. Rambo scampered off and returned with his brush.
“You’re rather presumptuous, aren’t you, fellow?” she asked.
Mr. Presumptuous whimpered, his tail flipping from side to side.
“Hey, don’t be a pest,” Blade scolded, then said to her, “Watch out. He’ll take advantage once he knows he’s got you wrapped around his paw.”
“I don’t mind.” She took the brush, and Rambo hunkered on his belly beside her.
While she concentrated on grooming him, the tension lifted from between her shoulders. She stopped to flex her back muscles. Rambo nudged her hand.
“Hey, pooch, I’m no pushover. I just happen to enjoy this as much as you do.”
When she glanced at Blade, who had already preheated the oven and stuck the pizza in, she wondered if he would take advantage of her if he knew he had her wrapped around his finger?
Blade made eye contact. “A word of warning. Next he’ll try to rope you into tug of war. Once you give in to that, you’re stuck. He’ll be in love with you forever.”
“I wouldn’t mind.” Although love and forever were two words foreign to Brandy’s vocabulary.
A few more minutes of brushing, and the kitchen timer dinged.
“Come and get it while it’s hot,” Blade called.
Double entendre, much?
When she looked up, Blade stood next to her, his hair falling over his forehead. He held out his hand, which was a good thing, because that comment had rendered her too weak–kneed to stand on her own.
He pulled her up, clasping her fingers seconds longer than necessary.
A wave of heat shimmied from her neck down her chest and parked low in her belly. Cripes. She dropped his hand like the live wire it was and marched to the kitchen sink to wash her hands.
With an oven mitt, Blade transferred the pizza to a hot pad on the table and cut it into wedges. Snatching a piece, he stuffed a huge bite into his mouth before he dropped onto a chair. Brandy sat opposite him while he slid the pizza pan toward her. And then, out of the blue, he asked, “So, I was wondering, how’d you manage on your own at such a young age?”
Her hand froze mid–reach as though searching for the perfect slice of pizza. She’d thought she’d escaped that question last night, but she wasn’t surprised he’d logged that little detail. For a second, she thought about the day she’d gotten word her mother had been killed in prison. The day she’d decided to take off.
She searched, painstakingly, for the perfect slice and found a piece loaded with pepperoni. Admired it. Took a giant bite.
“Brandy? Talking can help. Someone told me that recently.”
She chewed fifty times. But neither Blade nor his question were going away any time soon. If she ignored him, he would probably sit there until doomsday.
“When my mom went to prison, the court gave my grandparents custody. My paternal grandparents. It wasn’t the best situation. We didn’t agree on anything.” She looked up. “Mom died. I decided to take off.”
“They didn’t track you down?”
“No.” She’d done her best to cover her tracks. But later, when she was scared and hungry, and lonely, she’d wished they would find her. Finally, when she was picked up by social services and placed in a boarding school, she realized they knew where she was and didn’t want her.
It didn’t matter.
“You never saw them after that?”
She pushed up from the table and traipsed to the refrigerator. God, she didn’t want to talk about this. “You got anything to drink besides beer?” And they were supposed to be discussing the Secada case.
“There’s a pitcher of lemonade on the top shelf. And would you mind grabbing me a beer?”
She brought their drinks to the table, planning to segue the conversation to the identity of the body they’d found, among other things related to the homicide case. She took a swig of lemonade and cleared her throat. He’d get one more answer, and then it would be her turn to direct the conversation. “They were embarrassed by the trial. Didn’t share my passion to prove my mother’s innocence.”
And here was her opening. I think Skip Coogan not only framed my mother, I think he killed Marilyn Abbott.
“They missed watching an amazing girl turn into an equally amazing, strong woman.”
He caught her off guard on that one. She raised a brow in question.
“Yes, amazing.”
She stuffed another bite of food into her mouth.
“So, you survived. And graduated from high school? And put yourself through the police academy? How’d you manage all that?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I do.” An honest answer from a man who hadn’t uttered a single judgmental word.
“Why? I’m sure someone like Blade Beringer who grew up on the right side of respectability would be shocked at some of the things I did before I was old enough to know better.”
“Probably not.”
“I’m not perfect, Blade, but I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished on my own… as you must be of yourself and the things you’ve accomplished.”
Blade studied the toppings on his pizza. “You think I’m perfect? No one’s perfect, Brandy.” He looked up. “I may have had my mom around long enough to
teach me the difference between right and wrong, but even so, I almost got sent up for grand larceny when I was a teenager.”
“You’re kidding.” She stared at him in disbelief.
“My mom was a kind–hearted angel. She deserved a lot better in life than she got.”
“She’s got a son she can be proud of.”
His fingers twitched before he raised the brew toward his mouth. “She died a couple of years ago.”
“I’m sorry.” She inched her hand toward his, but thought better about touching him. “What about your dad?”
The expression on his face turned stone cold. Time stood still so long she thought he’d never answer.
“I don’t remember the man with whom I share DNA.”
She waited for him to elaborate.
He jerked his chair back and latched onto the Coors bottle. “Wasn’t there something about the John Doe case you wanted to discuss?”
“What about your dad, Blade? My dad died when I was a baby. I’d give anything to—”
“Was your old man a monster? Did he brainwash sixteen–year–old girls into willingly letting him—” He stood and turned away from her. “I’m the product of an angel and a demon.”
Oh my God, was he saying his father had raped his mother?
Still clutching the empty beer bottle, he trudged toward the sink and slammed it into the recycle bin. At that moment, Brandy realized she had no idea who the real Blade Beringer was.
Certainly not the man she’d stumbled upon at the cabin, the playful scoundrel with the sweet–as–honey, wicked–as–sin smile. Her FTO was an expert at smoke screening. The persona Lieutenant Beringer presented to the world was a far cry from the man inside, the man who was made of clashing genes.
Ironic, though, that he doubted himself. It was obvious to her that Lieutenant Beringer exuded integrity. He was one of the good guys no matter what side of the tracks his genes came from. She already knew that much about him.
“You are your own man, Blade, not the man who fathered you.” And because of the kind of man he was, he’d be fair when she presented him with the facts about Secada.
“My mom packed me up and escaped from the commune before I turned two. We were more or less on the run from… him… until I was seventeen.” Eyes filled with agony, Blade lowered his lids. When he opened them, he said, “Skip Coogan’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a real father.” The agony turned to admiration.
So much for golden opportunities. She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t tell him her theory about Skip.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
What had he been thinking? Blade hadn’t intended to tell Brandy about the bastard who had fathered him, but words seemed to spill out of his mouth when he was around her. Every doubt Blade had about himself ate at his soul. He came from bad seed. A hollow feeling twisted in his chest. Would that side of his personality surface at some point?
You are your own man, Blade, not the man who fathered you.
The eyes staring into his were wide with compassion and devoid of contempt. Why’d Brandy have to be so easy to spill his guts to? And hell, the connection he felt with her was his cue to back off. Because wanting to get into her pants was one thing. Wanting to get into her heart was something else entirely. He could never, would never, give his heart to anyone.
Enough about impossibilities. Focus on what’s happening right here and now, Beringer. So he pushed away the longing for tender emotions and forced himself to concentrate on something he could deal with. Something earthy. Raw, unemotional desire.
Unchecked need whittled at his control. They’d danced around unspoken desire long enough. “Just so you know, I’m not interested in long–term commitments. That doesn’t mean I’m not interested.”
“Likewise, I’m sure.” Her eyes sparked with fire as she bit her lip. “In my book there’s no such thing as long–term commitment.”
And Jesus, Lieutenant Beringer was not supposed to be telling her that he was interested. He was supposed to be distancing himself from her on a personal level.
Unfortunately he was very interested in enjoying another hot kiss like last night’s. Who said sizzling interaction between two consenting adults had to fall into the relationship category? Maybe if they simply gave in and spent a night screwing each other’s brains out, they’d get the forbidden attraction out of their systems.
Okay, Beringer, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll give it a rest.
Instead, knowing how she might read his words, he forged ahead and said them anyway. If she misconstrued… let the good times roll. “So, maybe it’s time we got down to business.”
“What?” Her cheeks flushed.
“We should get down to business. Isn’t that why you came here?”
“You presumptuous bastard.”
Blade swore he saw flames shoot from her mouth and steam rise from her ears. Her cheeks glowed a hot–and–bothered shade of pink he was learning to enjoy.
“I was referring to the discussion you claimed you wanted to have,” he said. “Something regarding the guy who got killed in the rapids.”
****
Brandy tried to tamp down her temper.
She looked her FTO in the eye. The man was incorrigible. Why did she let him rile her? And shit. Had she just called her superior officer a “presumptuous bastard?”
For some tall, blond, and handsome reason, she’d almost forgotten why she’d tracked him down at his home after hours. How could she forget, when she was on the brink of finding concrete evidence that would prove Skip had lied under oath? She pulled out the plastic protected note from last night’s attacker and slid the bag across the table.
Blade picked it up, and she went on to present the facts from Joey Secada’s file. Just the facts, no editorializing.
“The floater’s real name is Joey Secada. He was a cop and had been employed in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, the past nine years. Before that, he was on the Milwaukee Police Force. And he happens to be the witness who swore in court that he was with Skip Coogan the night Marilyn Abbott was killed.”
Blade’s expression gave away nothing.
Brandy went on. “My lawyer leaned on Secada earlier this week because there was a discrepancy in his story. Then two days later, he turns up dead in Idaho.”
She wanted desperately to add the information about the phone call from Secada’s brother, but not until she could prove it was legit and not until she knew Blade wouldn’t leak the information to Coogan.
She waited for his comment.
Blade’s attention stayed glued on the note. His jaw tightened as he read aloud, “Give it up, Wilcox, or you’re going to end up dead.”
Graveyard silence fell between them as her FTO mulled over the implication. With shaky, shallow breaths, she waited for him to say something. Anything. Gone were the steamy innuendos. The heat–o–meter totally bottomed out.
When he looked up, the creases furrowing his brow indicated, yes, he knew exactly what she was driving at, that she thought Skip Coogan was a murderer. Maybe he’d known her implication all along and hadn’t let on, smokescreen expert that he was. But he wasn’t hiding his feelings now. His hard expression said he didn’t like her implication one bit.
Staring daggers through her, he rolled his tongue against the inside of his cheek, as though searching for words. He finally came up with, “That doesn’t prove Skip was involved with the murder. According to everything I’ve read about the case, he had no motive. He wouldn’t have killed her. He was in love with the Abbott woman. That couldn’t have sat well with your mom.”
“His gun was the murder weapon.”
“Your mother had access to her husband’s gun.”
“Everyone who worked in the Milwaukee Police Department had potential access to that gun.” She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “And you don’t find it extremely coincidental that Secada was found dead mere miles from Skip Coogan’s current residence two days after my lawyer questioned him abo
ut the Abbott murder case?”
Blade’s voice took on a new edge. “Coogan and Secada were friends. He could have come here for a vacation.” He fisted the table. “You claim your mother was convicted on circumstantial evidence, and now you’re trying to damn Skip Coogan on coincidence.”
Brandy shoved away from the table and unsuccessfully tried to slow her pounding pulse and check her anger. “The least you can do before you close your eyes and bury your head in the sand is wait for the medical examiner’s report.”
“Same goes for you. And I know how to do my job, Deputy.” He punctuated the statement with another rap on the table.
“So do I.” Mimicking his action, she smacked the table so hard her elbow tingled.
Rambo sat up and flattened his ears, then let loose with a whining sound. He crept toward Blade, nuzzling his head against his pants leg.
“It’s okay, boy…” Blade huffed out a breath and patted the dog’s head. “It’s okay. Just blowing off a little steam, that’s all.”
He glanced at Brandy and heaved a sigh.
Silent moments ticked by.
He hunched his shoulders. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be an asshole. Sometimes it just comes natural.”
He totally threw her off guard with the apology.
“Sometimes,” he added, “I’ve got a short fuse.”
And then, cripes, he came up with a variation on the sweet–as–honey smile.
Oh no you don’t, Beringer. Damn, how could the man shift gears at the drop of a Stetson? “At least when you’re being an asshole, I know where I stand.” She grabbed the note and stomped toward door.
“Brandy?”
Already outside on the deck, she stopped and asked herself what she was doing. She paused long enough to call over her shoulder but couldn’t think of anything to say.
A second later, she startled when Blade’s hand clamped her upper arm. Even in cowboy boots, he moved as quietly as a mountain lion.
“Brandy.” His voice took on a softness she found more frustrating than his angry edge. “Someone threatened you. It could have been the Neo Nazis or it could have been any number of characters you’ve run into since you joined the Department. The Sheriff’s not going to take that note lightly. Neither should you. Watch your back, okay?”