Soft Target

by Mia Kay

  Smoke. Squealing alarm.

  The back door banged open and a herd galloped through.

  “Turn that fucking racket off,” she yelled.

  Blessed silence reigned. For about a minute. Everyone began to choke on laughter. At her. It wasn’t funny.

  All of this is a lie. Maggie felt the words bubbling under her trembling bones.

  “We were trying to guess your middle name,” Tiffany explained. “So far Anakin’s the best guess.”

  “It’s Androcles,” he said.

  Maggie snapped her gaze to his, unable to stop her smile. “You’re joking.”

  “I am,” he conceded. “Nothing that unique. It’s Anthony.” He led her from the kitchen and into his hallway. “We’ll be back in a minute.”

  He shut his bedroom door. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  “All I knew was you hate bananas,” Maggie muttered. “What kind of wife doesn’t know her husband’s middle name?”

  “The bananas were important,” he teased.

  “This is serious, Graham. They believe us. Even Faith is starting to play along.”

  He sat in a chair and pulled her to stand between his knees. “Did you guess Anakin?”

  “Of course not! You’re a tax lawyer, not a Sith Lord.”

  “I have files full of people who would swear I’m the hulking monster of their nightmares.”

  Well, crap. Now she was going to have to change her ringtone. “You aren’t a monster. I’m sorry if I hurt—”

  He shook his head. “I’m more concerned you didn’t read our marriage license before you signed it, and that I’ll have to eat plain potatoes since you ruined the gravy.”

  “You really are my favorite,” she whispered as she kissed his cheek.

  He turned toward her, and his fingers tightened on her waist as his lips touched hers. “Good to know.”

  Relaxing into his arms, she traced his lips with the tip of her tongue. Their softness complemented his freshly shaven jaw. She danced her fingers down the cords in his neck and across his wide, strong shoulders. Deepening the kiss, she tasted him the way he did her and savored his rich, salty-sweet flavor. It reminded her of truffles, biscotti and coffee, whiskey.

  As his hair tickled and tempted her fingers, his groan rumbled through her and his warm hands pulled her closer. One slid to her hip, and the other traveled up her ribs toward her breast. Her insides coiled in anticipation.

  “Hey, sis!” Nate called as he rapped on the window. “When’s lunch?”

  She jumped away, staring at Graham in the chair. His hair still had furrows in it from her fingers.

  She put a trembling hand over her warm, swollen lips and listened to her brother’s cackling laughter. It was bad enough her friends believed the lie, but now she was beginning to believe it, too. Tears coated her throat as she scurried for the door. She had to get out of here before she embarrassed herself. Again.

  * * *

  The car rocked on its squeaky suspension as Shelby slammed the door. She’d spent the morning at Sunday brunch with Kate, listening to the small-town tramp gossip about Maggie Mathis and town history, looking for an angle. The woman was livid over the events from the fund-raiser. Gray and his wife had stood up for each other. They’d formed a successful team.

  Shelby knew most of it already. She’d been there, watching as they left the party. He’d forgotten they were in public. Gone from protecting his princess to dry-humping, leaving both of them vulnerable.

  Of course she was upset he’d been hurt in the accident. The brakes weren’t supposed to fail when he was in the car. It should have happened earlier, when she was alone. Instead he’d saved her, and now Maggie slept next to him and calmed his nightmares. And they had everyone at their home—like a family.

  It led Shelby to one horrible conclusion. Gray wasn’t returning to Chicago. Regardless of why he’d originally come here, he’d given it up to play husband. But for how long?

  How long before the newness of this impulsive decision wore off? She’d seen it before with cops who fell for witnesses, or marshals who screwed informants or protectees during a case. They returned to their daily lives, boredom set in, and the spouses became a burden. Gray would do the same thing. He’d wake up in the middle of nowhere with a socialite wife and no career prospects outside the family business.

  He’d be clawing to come back to Chicago and his old life, but it would be too late unless she helped him. Now.

  Two hours later, she wiped sloshed coffee and pie crumbs from the diner’s countertop and put her plan in action.

  “Carl, I’ve talked to Gray.”

  “Why?”

  “We talk all the time. We’ve even met a few times at the Holiday Inn in Boise.” She moved closer and dropped her voice. “He’s going to leave Maggie.”

  Hope and sadness warred across the young man’s face.

  “He’s waiting until she pays him. He’s saving enough for us to get a good start somewhere new.”

  “She’d never pay him!”

  “Oh dear. He said he was getting money. Surely he wouldn’t...”

  “He’s going to take her money and leave her?”

  Anger flared in the young man’s eyes, and Shelby stopped. Working undercover had taught her the art of believability. Push just enough and then let the target fill in the blanks.

  She willed tears into her eyes. “I thought you’d be happy. He’ll be gone, and you can be here to pick up the pieces.”

  Falling silent, she went to work and waited. He’d do this. She knew it. She was never wrong.

  “Are you sure you want to leave with him?” he asked.

  “That’s awfully sweet,” she said, ducking to hide her satisfied smile, “but I can take care of myself. You take care of Maggie.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Maggie stumbled into the kitchen toward the coffeepot. Gray was already busy, scrambling eggs with one hand and holding his coffee cup in the other. “Good morning.”

  She reached for her mug and stopped. Grandma’s cookie jar was on the countertop, to the right of the stove, just where they’d kept it at home. She traced every bump, nick and crack in the homely piece of crockery, remembering every batch of burned cookies she’d made, every tug of war with Nate for the last treat in the jar. “How did this get here?”

  “Faith brought it yesterday,” Graham said as he pulled biscuits from the oven. “Did I get it in the right spot?”

  Maggie looked at the jar, and at the pan he was holding while he looked for someplace to set it. She lifted her treasure and moved it to the far side of the opposite counter, out of the way. It was her home. She could put it wherever she wanted.

  Home.

  “What’s on your schedule today?” he asked.

  Her schedule had changed and shifted so drastically over the last few weeks, she had to stop and think. Monday. Monday.

  Graham turned to her, frowning.

  “It’s Monday,” she said as she broke into a smile. “Thank you.”

  He grinned back at her. “At least you don’t have to be afraid of the florist.”

  “What are you doing today?” she asked as she perched on a stool and watched him cook. It never got old, watching him move around in this space, watching him make it his.

  “I need to meet with Glen, and I’m going to Bill Granger’s, and Fitz called so I’m going to stop there while I’m out. Will you be okay alone at the bar?”

  She nodded even as the pit in her stomach widened. She liked having him in the office, working and making snarky comments on her song choices. She’d even been planning lunch upstairs.

  “I could make dinner,” she suggested.

  “I’d like that. I’ll be there in plenty of time.”


  They drove to town with the windows down. Maggie tilted her face to the sunshine and inhaled the sweet breeze. How many days of her life had been spent in work trucks on the way to town? How many had she been able to relax and enjoy?

  They waved at Max as they pulled around back, and Graham walked her in. After he’d inspected the entire building, he came back to her at the door. “Behave.”

  And then he kissed her. Not a sexy, rip-your-clothes-off kiss. It was more the quick peck a husband gives his wife when he expects to see her soon. As he pulled away, his eyes went wide, but he kept his hand at her waist.

  “I’ll see you tonight,” she said.

  And he left. Just like husbands did every day.

  She had a husband.

  Maggie walked up the stairs, rolling that word around and around until she reached the closet. She carried her boxes to the bed and sifted first through the relics from her first god-awful wedding. The chipped plastic bride and groom had icing petrified around their feet, and the bridal champagne glasses were covered in dust. She pulled the feather off the dried-up ink pen. She could use that for a cat toy. The only other things worth keeping were the photos.

  Opening her travel box, she pulled out the first trip and flipped through her notes. They were yellow with age and the paper clips had rusted to the paper. The information was probably hopelessly outdated. The same for the next one. The later trips were still relevant, though.

  Maggie looked from them to the photos scattered in her room. The breeze floated through the window and wrapped her in a sweet, fresh hug as the sun cast tree shadows on her walls and a gravel truck rattled past.

  She was never taking those trips. Not ever. She didn’t want to.

  * * *

  It was late in the afternoon when the front door opened and the security system beeped hello. She walked out to the landing, and looked down to see Graham gazing up at her, waiting on her invitation. How many more times would she get to see that?

  “Dinner’s almost ready. Come up.”

  “Sorry I’m late. Emily Grainger kept me busy most of the day, and then Fitz kept asking me questions I had to look up. How was your day?”

  From the kitchen, Maggie listened to him drop his briefcase and shed his jacket and admitted that her apartment felt more like a home when he was in it. Just like Faye’s house was more welcoming, even with a room full of suspects.

  He came around the corner. “Badger?”

  Snatching a pot holder, Maggie pulled the chicken from the oven. “My substitute bartender has asked if I could give him regular hours. It would mean having a few nights off.”

  “How do you feel about it?”

  “I think I like it, and I don’t think I need to be here every night with the guys, at least not all night, and maybe not behind the bar. How would you feel, while you’re here, if I was underfoot?”

  “I’d like it.”

  Those three little words warmed her soul. “Okay. Thanks.”

  He got a beer from the refrigerator and leaned against the counter. “There were a lot of cars at the library when I drove past.”

  “Mm-hmm. They had a meeting today about the next book sale.”

  “Did you leave early?”

  “Nope,” she said as she fussed with plates. “Didn’t go. That thing runs on autopilot and they don’t need me.”

  He reached over her head to get a bowl she couldn’t reach, and she soaked in his warmth.

  “Your pumpkin bread was a big hit. Emily asked for seconds,” he said, staying behind her.

  “I’ll make another batch. You won’t have to eat more of it,” she assured him. “I can give it to Charlene.”

  “I’ll eat it until I’m orange,” he teased as he turned her to face him. “Until vines come out my ears and my teeth fall out. A triangle nose might even be an improvement.”

  “I like your nose,” she whispered, as she cupped his jaw and brushed his cheek with her thumb. She loved the feel of him, the sound of him. “And I lo—like your smile.” She gulped. That was too close to throwing herself at his feet and begging him to stay. She winked. “Everyone looks sexier with all their teeth.”

  “Evil woman,” he scolded as his fingers slipped inside her overalls and under her shirt. His light touch skimmed her waist—forward and back, forward and back—smiling every time she twitched. “What else do you like about me?”

  “Your laugh,” she murmured, “and your brain.” Her bones melted and took her common sense with them. She dragged one of his hands to her breast and sighed as he strummed her nipple. “Your hands.”

  Maggie opened her eyes in time to see his tongue dart across his bottom lip. “Your mouth.” Sliding her hands to his ass, she pulled him closer and widened her stance in wanton invitation.

  He covered her mouth with his in a deep, shattering kiss, and she gave herself over to it. Relishing the shaky fingers fumbling to undress her, loving the feel of his tongue.

  But it wasn’t enough. Pushing him away, she tore open his belt, and clawed at the button on his jeans. He fought her, trying to get back to her body, and she welcomed him as she pushed her hand down his pants, dragging his zipper as she went. Even through his briefs, he was hot.

  “God, honey,” he gasped against her neck as he clawed at his shirt.

  He pulled away long enough to toss it aside and long enough for her to see his wild hair and hungry eyes. He slid his hands down her body, past her waist, to her ass, and smiled the most sinful smile as he stroked her flimsy underwear.

  He used his thumbs to trace patterns on her stomach and flick the ring in her navel. Every touch zinged though her, and she arched into him, pleading for more.

  “Tell me what you want,” Graham groaned against her breast, his breath heating her skin even as the lace kept his tongue away. His thumbs slid lower, between her legs—up, down, up down.

  “Tell me,” he whispered. “Please.”

  Him. She wanted him.

  Maggie slid her fingers into his hair and anchored him to her. Her pounding heart drowned out his hoarse groans and her needy, hungry whimpers. “Graham—”

  It wasn’t her heart. It was the door.

  “Gray? Maggie?” Max bellowed. “The guys are here. Are you okay?”

  “Dammit all to hell,” Graham muttered as he dragged his lips from her skin.

  Panting, she dropped her head to his shoulder. It was a conspiracy. A no-sex conspiracy.

  The doorknob jiggled, and Graham groaned again.

  “We lost track of the time,” he yelled, dragging deep breaths that moved them both. “Be down in a minute.”

  Heavy steps thumped down the stairs.

  “We never should have given him a key,” he whispered. “Are you okay?”

  She shivered as his breath tickled her skin. “I’ve been better.”

  “That’s difficult to believe.”

  “Flirt.” She edged away and looked her fill at her disheveled, horny husband.

  “You’re absolutely beautiful,” he murmured.

  “You too.” She dragged her fingers down his chest, grinning as he shook beneath her.

  He stepped in front of her and helped straighten her clothes. “Go on down. I’ll take a shower and be there in a few minutes.”

  She raced down the stairs and stepped behind the bar. The guys did their best to tease her with smirks and eye-rolls, looking at their watches and craning their necks to look down the hallway. When Graham came downstairs with wet hair and a sheepish grin, laughter ebbed through the room even as Maggie’s knees wobbled. For the sake of their dignity, she banished him to the customer side of her job.

  At ten, she locked the door, eager to finish so they could go upstairs. But then, why wait? She turned, only to find an empty room.

  “I
meant to ask before you distracted me,” Graham called from the janitorial closet. “Did you suggest Emily Grainger hire me?” The rattle of brooms and mops muffled his question.

  He was going to clean? Now? “What? No.”

  “Michael asked me about wills for him and Tiffany. And Hank Simon wants to hire me for a property purchase. What’s going on?”

  “They like you, and they trust you.”

  “But...”

  But he wouldn’t be here to see either of those jobs through.

  Stay. The word was on the tip of her tongue. She’d take him upstairs and—what? Beg him to give up his life and stay here, working in quarries, dealing with problems and sweeping a bar after he’d already worked all day.

  No wonder he’s leaving.

  No, he wasn’t. He was doing her a favor, and then he was going home. She was staying, and she was letting him go.

  She plucked a piece of paper from the floor and saw her name. Opening it revealed the words scrawled across the page. Everything went blurry as she dropped into a chair.

  “What’s wrong?” His question sounded like he was on the other end of a tunnel.

  She offered the note in a shaky hand.

  Maggie

  I saw what you were doing upstairs. I’ve watched you playing house, pretending for everyone. He’s lying to you, and he’s making a liar out of you. I would never do that. You should have picked me. You’ll be sorry you didn’t.

  Maggie stayed in her chair, staring at her bar and rolling every face through her brain, vaguely aware of Graham’s bellow and Max’s gallop through the door. How did someone leave this without anyone noticing? How did he spy on her? Why?

  Glen and Chet swept through the door with crime scene techs in tow. While Graham and Glen went to the office to review security footage, Maggie stayed in her chair under Max’s watchful eye.

  She looked around the room she’d considered her safe place for so long. It wasn’t safe. There was only one place she wanted to be. She walked to the office doorway and waited for Graham’s intense blue stare to focus on her.

  “Take me home, Graham.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted in smile. “You bet.”