Dangerous To Love

by Chevon Gael

  Being transferred from pillar to post every couple of years or so was hard on relationships. Brett himself stopped counting the number of times he'd been transferred. Some wives couldn't handle leaving families behind or friends they'd made. Not to mention the stress of pulling kids out of school, packing, moving, unpacking; being told they had to move to somewhere they might not want to live. Then there was the danger aspect. Some women didn't have the stamina or the nerves of steel it took to kiss a man good-bye at night with the thought they might never see them alive again.

  Brett knew of at least one woman who couldn't handle it. He swore he'd never travel that road again. Still, there was no harm in a few warm nights with a willing partner. If the lady understood there would be no strings. He thought about the woman sitting beside him. As tempting as she was, she was a shining example of the kind of woman Brett knew he had to avoid for both their sakes.

  "I saw your picture on the horse. In your bedroom. When I was on the phone,” she added. “I saw the musical ride once. It was about three years ago in Winnipeg. I came up here to have my ... uh ... holidays. I stayed with Rachel and Carter and they took me."

  Brett said nothing, but was pleased that she finally said something about her past. “I came off the ride after Winnipeg. It's a three year run and my term was just ending. So you probably saw me and didn't even know it. It must be destiny that we met again."

  Tara laughed. Actually laughed for the first time. “Last night had more to do with my trying to open a business on a deadline than anything else. Our lease begins in two weeks. I feel guilty because Rachel is trying to get the shop ready by herself and I'm out on the road buying inventory."

  "I thought you said they were your designs."

  "They are. But I still have to buy the material. And I have a seamstress friend in North Dakota who sews for me when I can't."

  Well, she adequately filled in the Fargo to Saskatchewan piece of the puzzle. But she could have had this story rehearsed for months and recited it many times over.

  "So I wanted to get back to Winnipeg as soon as possible. I want to make sure we have enough stock when we open."

  She crossed her long, shapely legs. The action caused a sudden tightening in his groin. His eyes flickered to her dimpled knees and he wondered if she'd ever had the backs of them kissed. He wondered if she would like it, especially if he was doing the kissing.

  Dangerous territory.

  He directed his eyes and his concentration back to the road. He cleared his throat before continuing the conversation. “Why lingerie?"

  "Because I'm good at it. Making it. Selling it."

  And wearing it, too, he thought. And although he was successful this time in keeping his eyes focused on the highway, his mind wandered to the flash of panties she'd unwittingly exposed last night while she was bent over the back seat of the station wagon.

  He tried to swallow, but his mouth felt strangely dry. Dressed or undressed, she was becoming a major distraction. Quickly, he conjured up the memory of Mel-From-Hell standing over him, barking insults while Brett frantically tried to execute his fifty push-ups. Each movement designed for sheer torture as each time he lowered his weight to the floor, his nose had to touch the top of the big man's boots. It was Mel's routine enforcement for unsuspecting recruits whose bedding and blankets were not precisely seventeen inches off the barracks floor. He tried to conjure up the image of Sergeant Mel's boots, but they had somehow got on to Tara's legs. Mel's cropped, muddy hair became a flash of red curls flying in all directions. The sacred green and yellow of his troop's flag had dissolved into red silk.

  "Oh, and also wearing it."

  Brett nearly drove off the road. “I beg your pardon?"

  "Wearing my lingerie. I, uh, modeled. Once. Years ago before ... I ... quit."

  Brett thought about his notebook and the report he'd have to file with Wolfy. No. No way. Not in a million years. The subject of my investigation is a twenty-eight-year old lingerie model who wears red silk thong panties and not much else. He'd never hear the end of it.

  "I have pictures. In my suitcase. They're for a catalogue I want to produce.” Brett's mind flashed backward. The envelope. Could they have been the contents of the envelope as well? It was certainly large enough.

  A sign advising the next gas stop before Molly Malone's prompted Brett to get his mind out of Tara's undies.

  "When we stop for gas, I think you should go to the ladies’ room and change,” he advised casually.

  "Change? What for?"

  "We have to make another stop after I get some gas. I need to spend a few minutes with an informant on a case. If you don't want to stay in the car, you can stretch your legs. Maybe use the phone and call Rachel, have a beer, whatever. Regardless, it's a public restaurant,” he finished, hoping he'd given her enough clues as to why she should change her attire.

  Tara's puzzled expression told him he hadn't succeeded. She pulled down the visor on her side and examined herself in the tiny mirror. “What's wrong with the way I ... oh, dear.” She looked down at her blouse. “I ... um ... see what you mean. Ah, thank you for pointing them, er these out ... dammit all. I was in such a hurry this morning that I forgot. How long have you noticed?"

  Brett licked his dry lips and tried to swallow passed his embarrassment. “I'm only obliged to maintain the right, Tara."

  "The right to what? Look down my top?” She was more than a little annoyed. Especially now that she had crossed her arms over her blouse. Brett knew he was in danger of losing her fragile confidence.

  He couldn't say what he wanted to which was, “I maintain the right to punch some guy's lights out if he drools all over you." But he thought better of it. “Tara, I don't want to have to step between you and anyone who makes an unwanted pass at you. I'm an off-duty cop and I'm at risk. Some people look for an excuse to sue the force. I don't want any trouble, that's all."

  "Constable Sinclair..."

  Brett cringed. It was the way she called him constable with that hint of contempt edging on anger that he knew he was already in trouble.

  "I can take care of myself. Believe me, if you only knew!"

  Oh, yes! He could imagine. Runaway Tara with her stolen license plates, not a cent to her name and a kid stashed God only knew where. But, he kept silent and let her finish her tirade. Besides, he liked the way she tossed her hair when she was angry.

  "And, furthermore, I've shown a lot more skin in public being a lingerie model. You just wait until we stop. I'll get the pictures out of my suitcase and show you a thing or two."

  He didn't want to wait. He wanted to stop the car right then and there and shout “yippee.” He wanted to take her into the back seat like some hormone-enraged teenager and kiss her senseless before begging her to model privately for him. On the other hand, the thought of anyone else seeing a scantily-clad Tara bugged the shit right out of him.

  "That's not necessary, Tara. Just put a bra on, or something. Okay?"

  Tara turned away from him and crowded as close to the door as her seat belt would allow. Oh, great! Now she's pissed at me. Just when he was beginning to make progress.

  They continued in silence until Brett pulled into the gas station. How long was she going to pout? When he stopped, she stepped out and opened the back door of his Grand Am. He busied himself with filling the gas tank while Tara retrieved something a little more modest to wear.

  "I'm going to change,” she announced and went to the side of the building.

  Brett had just replaced the gas nozzle when he noticed something wonderful. Tara had left her suitcase open. He quickly rounded the vehicle and opened the back door. The brown envelope was sitting right on top. Perfect, no quick rifling of personal garments to cause suspicion. He grabbed the envelope.

  The first thing he saw were about a dozen 8-by-10 black and white and color photos of Tara wearing ... well, practically nothing! The skimpy low-cut bras barely covered her nipples. Both her lovely, round breasts were crowded t
ogether to create an impressive cleavage. The bottoms were even worse! A scrap of triangle lace sat teasingly in position. All that held it in place were two thin strands of material no wider than a coat thread. One good sneeze and she'd be a federal offense.

  Brett exhaled a long-held breath as he examined the pictures. The color photos all but did him in. He could actually make out the shadow of auburn curls between her thighs. Nice that the collars and cuffs matched. He'd spent enough winters out west to know that she wasn't going to sell a lot of these things. These were strictly indoor sporting attire.

  He slid the pictures back in the envelope and dropped it back on top of her clothes. A rattle in the bottom brought his attention back to why he opened the envelope in the first place. Idiot, he ranted at himself. He snatched up the envelope again.

  "What are you doing?” The female voice behind him demanded, almost threatened. He turned around and smiled indulgently. “You shouldn't leave your suitcase unattended. You left it wide open while you went to change and I went to pay for the gas. Somebody could have walked off with it."

  Tara regarded him coolly. “There's no one around for miles,” she noticed. Then, seeing the envelope in his hand she demanded, “What were you doing going through my suitcase?"

  Brett casually dropped the envelope back into her suitcase and calmly explained. “I was just going to close it. No use inviting temptation. I did see a couple of kids on bikes go by while you were gone,” he added and inclined his head over her shoulder.

  Tara turned around and followed the direction he indicated. Sure enough a dirt road crossed the highway a few hundred yards away.

  She turned back and Brett stepped aside so she could close the suitcase. She murmured a hasty thank you and got in the passenger side of the car. Brett got in beside her and started the car. He spent the next ten minutes tearing himself apart. He was becoming his own worst obstacle. He knew if this was a real undercover ops situation, he might have blown his cover then and there. His partner, too, since pairs were a standard undercover precaution. Maybe have gotten himself killed. He'd have to be more careful from now on.

  He tried to lighten her mood. “I was hoping you'd show me your pictures. Maybe autograph one for me. You know, ‘to my favorite Mountie’ or something like that."

  She allowed him a tiny smile. “You're the only Mountie I know."

  "So naturally, I am your favorite,” he teased, feeling at ease once again.

  "You're not too conceited."

  "Hey, I only got into this Mountie business because of the uniform. Gotta beat the women off with a stick, you know."

  "I didn't see any sticks in your house. Just a lot of stuffed animals. Tell me about the bear who attacked me. What's his story?"

  Brett offered her his widest smile. “Ah, Mel-From-Hell! Thought you'd never ask. Melvan Peltier, my drill instructor at depot in Regina. That's where all the little recruits go to be adjusted."

  "Adjusted?"

  "Sure. Normal human beings walk in the front door and after a few adjustments they walk out as rough, tough, hairy-assed Mounties. And the miserable human being responsible for this magical transformation was Mel. He was tough as nails and took a near-religious joy in trying to kill us. But thanks to his fanatical rigidity and devotion to duty, we're the best."

  * * * *

  Tara found herself laughing again. It felt good to laugh. She'd hadn't had much to smile about until recently. Her divorce from Roman had given her freedom, but not much else. Even that seemed conditional and fleeting. Although staying in Chicago meant being under Roman's constant surveillance, it also meant being near Patrick, or as near as Roman would allow. She was constantly aware of his men following her. Their clandestine meetings were few and far between, stolen moments at best.

  Then, when Patrick disappeared nearly two years ago, it had taken all her resources and Carter's, too, to locate him. But, by then it was too late. Patrick seemed lost to her forever. Then last month when Carter contacted her that he had a solid lead, they had little time to make plans. She had to vanish. She took his advice and left everything behind, told no one. She knew Roman's men followed her from her apartment to her shop every day and home again. Someone watched her apartment, all night, every night.

  So far, she'd followed Carter's instructions to the letter. Left her few possessions in her apartment. She cleaned out her bank account and safety deposit box where she kept her locket, a copy of her baby's birth certificate and her passport. Then she slid her last month's rent in cash under her landlord's door. She went to the store every day, packed a few boxes and shipped them parcel-post to her seamstress, Cheryl, in Fargo. The night she left, she went to the store, packed only the samples she could carry and locked up the place. Then she crammed her long hair under a brunette wig and bought a bus ticket. Once in Fargo, she found Cheryl waiting for her with the money Carter and Rachel sent for her escape. Cheryl then shipped everything by bus to the small Saskatchewan town where Carter had purchased the station wagon for her. Everything had gone according to plan. Except for the guy beside her.

  Would he understand if she told him? She didn't think so. He wasn't a parent. How could he know what it was like for a mother to be separated from her child? How would he feel if he knew that she wouldn't hesitate to break the law if it were in her child's best interest? If it could protect her baby, she'd do it. But he was a cop. He wouldn't or couldn't let himself get past the “break the law” part. Besides, she knew from her experience in Chicago that police, lawyers and even judges were bought and sold by people like Roman DeMarco. She couldn't afford to trust Brett. And soon, she wouldn't have to worry about whether or not she could trust him even if she wanted to.

  Her conscience began to nag at her. He was handsome. Sexy. Helpful. Funny. And trusting. That was the part that stung. He'd opened his home to her, a stranger. He'd hauled her off the road in the middle of the night, offered to fix her car, given her a bed to sleep in, a ride to Winnipeg and made great coffee. And, besides which, he had a great looking butt that didn't look hairy at all. Maybe Carter was right after all and things were different here. Maybe all cops weren't bad.

  On the other hand, Carter's admonishments that she tell no one had gotten her this far. Until she had Patrick and her baby back in her life, she couldn't afford to trust anyone. In the meantime, she could window-shop all she wanted to at the six-foot-something of great mouth, tanned muscle and white butt beside her. The problem with window-shopping is that sooner or later a girl might want to try it on and see if it fit. And she was no different than any other woman.

  She found her arm casually snaking across the back of the driver's seat. Her fingers lightly brushed the cotton fabric on his right shoulder. He stiffened suddenly as if he'd been stung by an insect. Tara never quite knew how to react to a man since Roman. His advances had been sugar-coated. His words filled with ulterior motives. She was by no means ignorant of the purpose of the lingerie she made and modeled. It was fashion for a purpose and the purpose of seduction was both popular and profitable. She had learned to use her figure to tastefully advertise her wares for that purpose. But as far as luring a man for her own pleasure, her mind might just as well be filled with muck. She knew the men who begged to take her out wanted the arousing model in the lingerie catalogue. Men like Roman who wanted the body by Fisher, brains by Mattel. Yet she was smart enough to figure out early that maintaining the facade of batting eyelashes and vapid, vacant stares had kept her alive.

  But here was an average guy who hadn't seen her posing on a catwalk in next to nothing and flirting with buyers and photographers. A nice guy she'd take home for her sister to meet and fuss over. A man their mother would have liked. For the first time since her mother died, Tara thanked God Hilda had passed away before she had met and married Roman. It was small comfort to her that Hilda would never know the hell her youngest daughter's life had become; what had been torn from her and the granddaughter she would never know.

  But this nice g
uy, this good cop didn't appear too accepting of even her touch, as if he already knew without her telling him how Roman had ruined her. It was obvious that Brett's reaction meant rejection. She discreetly removed her hand and tried to maintain the conversation.

  "So, what about the T-shirt? I happen to know that WPD stands for Winnipeg Police Department, even if I can't remember who your president is."

  Brett snorted. “I hope you're kidding."

  "I am. I know who your president is.” Then she stuck out her tongue at him.

  Brett looked at her, open-mouthed. “I'm in shock. Tara Morgan made a joke. You know they can throw you out of this country for failing questions like that on your citizenship test."

  "Oh?” She hadn't even thought that far ahead. “Of course,” she agreed. Then added, “I already took care of that visa stuff so I can work here. My paperwork is just a formality now.” It wasn't and, of course, there was no paperwork, but she wanted to sound convincing. It was becoming far too easy to let her guard down around him. “The T-shirt,” she reminded him.

  "Oh, yeah. Well, once a year the Winnipeg city cops and the federal cops, that's us, get together for the police charity games. We have a tug-of-war, you know one side gets to drag the other side through a mud pit. Well, the losing team has to bear the shame of having to wear the other side's T-shirt."

  "I take it you lost last year."

  "Only because our star anchor came down sick. The WPD guys wiped the field with us. First time in the history of the games, too. They'll never let us live that one down."

  "I'd like to have seen that.” She chuckled, imagining clean cut Brett-good-cop covered in mud from head to toe.

  Tara wasn't sure when they turned off the main highway, only that they were no longer heading in the general northerly direction where she knew Winnipeg was. A sense of unease invaded her. “Where are we going?” She tried to sound casual.

  "The informant. The restaurant, remember? The reason I asked you to change. And by the way, thank you. That purple cotton sweater looks much more acceptable."