by Leigh Duncan
He slowed his patrol car to make a final turn, automatically noting each detail of the scene the way he had learned in the Marines and practiced every day of his four years on the force.
Something about the trim little house that sat practically in the shadow of the Palm Royale Condominiums prompted a second look, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. After the storms the year before last, the Hensons had surprised him, choosing to replace the home’s damaged roof and interior rather than razing the heavily damaged structure. The new white shutters and pale stucco reminded Brett of the Dreamsicles he used to buy as a kid when the ice cream truck rolled down his street on summer afternoons. He’d heard the house had recently changed hands and made a note to greet the new owners.
The radio crackled from the dashboard as if it were trying to remind him of jobs still unfinished.
With a shrug, he turned off Highway A1A toward the ocean. His cell phone pinged as he pulled into a parking space at the base of the towering condos. He glanced at the display and smiled. He’d expected to hear from Luke sooner or later. Looked like it’d be sooner. He punched the button to accept the call. “Hey. You guys all boarded up and ready for the storm?” Luke’s ranch, the Circle P, lay three hours south. Arlene would pass through that area well before she landed in Cocoa Beach.
“Everything’s tied down and buttoned up, but we don’t expect to take a direct hit. The weathermen say she’ll stay out to sea till she passes us. This far inland, all we’ll see is a little wind, a lot of rain. I’m more concerned about you guys. What do you hear from the rest of the gang?”
Brett nodded. Though they didn’t hang out as much as they had in college, at times like these the five men who’d traveled the dusty trails of the Circle P together all checked in with one another. “I spoke with Dan earlier. The hospital is boarded up so tight it squeaks. He’ll stay there for the duration.” He crossed his fingers and hoped no one who’d chosen to ride out the storm would need Dan’s skills as a thoracic surgeon. “Schools throughout the county closed yesterday, so Travis is off.” Their friend taught elementary school. “He took his mom to his brother’s place in Tampa.” On the other coast of Florida, the city was well out of the approaching hurricane’s path.
“And you? Tell me you’re not going to be prowling the streets in hundred-mile-an-hour winds.”
“Nah, man. The evacuation flags are flying. It’s like a ghost town up here. I’m taking my last sweep of the area before I report in at the station where me and the rest of the guys on duty will hunker down till the worst is past.” He paused. “You hear from Colt?” Though he hadn’t attended the University of Florida with the rest of them, the championship bull rider had been one of their gang ever since the group had spent a weekend on the Circle P.
“Yeah. He’s in Tulsa. Getting ready for a big rodeo there this weekend.”
Brett exhaled, glad to hear the last of their crew was out of harm’s way. “Good. Sounds good. You stay safe down there,” he cautioned. Though the weathermen did their best, landfall was notoriously hard to predict. An image of Luke battling the wind and rain to save the Circle P’s cattle surfaced. He rubbed his eyes, and the image faded.
“Don’t you worry none about me. This here ranch house has withstood four generations of hurricanes, and I’m not foolish enough to venture outside till the danger is past. You, on the other hand…”
“…Need to take one last look around before I hunker down at headquarters.” There, solid concrete walls reinforced with re-bar would withstand whatever Arlene threw at them.
“See that you do. And check in again after it’s over.”
“Right back at ya.” Brett ended the call and pocketed his cell phone. Through the windshield he eyed stately queen palms and manicured walkways that separated row upon row of empty parking spaces. Like the little bungalow he’d passed earlier, the high-rise in front of him was buttoned up tight, as secure as it could be. He still hoped no one had left anything they really needed inside the half-million-dollar apartments. The building would be one of the first to face Hurricane Arlene’s wrath. In a direct hit, she’d chew it up quicker than he could eat a piece of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Then, she would spit out the bones, leaving only a skeleton in her wake. He shook his head and popped his seat belt. There was nothing like impending disaster to make a man think too much.
The instant the driver’s side door sprang open, the cruiser filled with a roar of surf that seemed far too loud beneath an increasingly clouded sky. Sand crunched under his shoes as he stepped onto brick pavers and took a deep breath. The air felt heavy and hot. A storm was coming all right, and she was going to be a beaut.
He tried not to stare as the first spatters of rain sizzled into steam when they hit hot asphalt. Rain squalls, or feeder bands, served as warm-up acts for the main event. They would intensify as the hurricane approached. While he was pretty certain Cocoa Beach was battened down, rising winds could turn every loose trash can lid into a spinning saw blade. He needed to make sure that didn’t happen.
A freshening breeze pelted his arms and face with sand and drew his attention to the ocean and an approaching squall line. If the first of them was coming ashore, Hurricane Arlene had not made the projected turn. Instead, she had picked up her pace. He would have to do the same.
Brett felt his tires grab as he roared out of the Palm Royale parking lot onto the empty highway. In the next instant, he slammed on the brakes, anti-lock technology bringing the heavy sedan to a rocking, ticking stop. He stared through his windshield in disbelief. In the short time he’d been at the condos, a mountain of flattened cardboard boxes had somehow formed along the roadside. Brett’s mouth opened and closed in mute protest.
The mountain was not supposed to be there. It hadn’t been there when he’d arrived. And as sure as a rising tide, it wouldn’t be there when he left.
Stephanie’s heart leaped when the doorbell chimed. She practically bolted to answer it, until the hurried slap of her sandals against the tile floor sent little echoes bouncing off the walls. Deliberately, she slowed. Pausing for a quick look in the foyer’s recently hung mirror, she exchanged her relieved grin for a slightly exasperated expression. She wasn’t the one who was five hours late, and she intended to demand a free installation. She wouldn’t get it if she went all gushy over the repairman’s arrival.
With her features properly schooled, she pulled the door wide, chiding, “It’s about time.”
The folly of opening a west-facing door into Florida’s late afternoon sun hit her square in her unprepared eyes. Feeling as if a dozen flashbulbs had exploded inches from her face, she raised one hand as a shield. No good. A man’s tall outline was all she could see against the background of black speckles and white, popping balloons. She quickly averted her eyes, finding relief in the soothing brown shades of variegated pebbles in the Chattahoochee deck. She stared at a pair of shiny, black shoes.
Workmen wore boots, not shoes. Especially not shoes that looked as if they’d been treated to a military spit-shine.
Her eyes headed upward, this time taking in the impossibly long, knife-edge crease of navy uniform slacks. Her vision stuttered at a tightly cinched waist where the hoped-for tool belt looked more like a holstered gun. The large hand resting there sent her pulse racing. Hadn’t both hands been at the man’s sides when she opened the door? She sped over a broad chest and even broader shoulders to a face overshadowed by the dark brim of a hat and a pair of mirrored sunglasses. Her heart thudded an extra beat.
“Cocoa Beach Police, ma’am. Are you having trouble?”
The deep, rapid-fire rumble yanked her gaze back into the blinding sun so fast the dreaded “ma’am” almost failed to register.
She squinted, trying to see his face but all she got for her trouble was another blast of light.
“Police?” Blinking, she shook her head. “I didn’t call the police.” Through watery eyes she saw his outline relax a bit, though the man standing on her front porch remained
all shadows and glint.
“Sorry, ma’am. When you said ‘about time,’ I thought you might have car problems or something. Everything is under control, then? You’re on your way?”
Stephanie forced her lips into a determined smile and stuffed a growing irritation firmly behind it. Everything was all right, though it wouldn’t be if he “ma’am’d” her one more time.
“Yes, Officer, uh—I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Lincoln, ma’am. Officer Lincoln.”
Three ma’ams in a row—it was enough to make any self-respecting twenty-six-year-old cry. She was twenty-six and self-respecting, but she wasn’t going to cry, even if the eerie quiet of her new neighborhood had shredded her last nerve and left her as jumpy as two double lattes. Instead, she blinked rapidly to clear the pesky, sun-induced tears and, pulling herself erect, squared her shoulders.
“Pleased to meet you, Officer Lincoln. I’m Stephanie, Stephanie Bryant.” She tossed enough ice into her tone so Officer Lincoln would understand they were done with the “ma’am” business. When he tipped his hat, she knew she’d made her point. She spilled a little warmth back into her voice.
“I’m not sure why you’d suspect car trouble, but yes, everything is fine. It will be even finer when the installation guys show up. That’s who I was waiting for. I don’t suppose you have any pull with the telephone company, do you?”
“No, ma—uh. No, Miss Bryant. But they won’t be here today.”
That was close, but she’d give him one more chance. Muscular police officers who smelled like piney woods deserved that, even when they seemed determined to argue. Holding her smile firmly in place, she explained, “I know it’s almost five, but they promised. I’m sure they’ve just been delayed.”
“Delayed till next week, maybe.”
Officer Lincoln reached for his sunglasses. When his posture shifted just enough so the blinding sun disappeared behind his back, Stephanie wondered if the move was a deliberate attempt to make her heart stop. Peering up at a profile so chiseled it might have been carved by Michelangelo, she was pretty sure her breathing had. The man had an almost perfectly proportioned face with a straight nose and barely rounded chin that jutted forward exactly the right amount. Above a strong jawline with the late afternoon stubble of someone who shaved twice a day, tanned skin hugged impressive cheekbones. She followed them to his hairline. Despite its close cropping, the thick, dark hair wanted to curl where the heat and humidity dampened it. She felt an answering, unexpected warmth stir in her chest as, beneath wide slashes of black eyebrows, a pair of black-blue eyes studied her intently.
“Miss Bryant, why are you here?” he asked. “Haven’t you been listening to the weather reports?”
Abruptly, the urge to trail her fingers along his cheek’s sandpaper stubble disappeared. Stephanie remembered to breathe. She also remembered to cross her arms and take a step back while pondering the seriously flawed nature of the male species. This one might look like a Greek god, but he wasn’t listening to her any better than Adonis had listened to Aphrodite. She tried again.
“I just moved in, Officer. I don’t have television or cable service because I’m waiting for the installers to show up. And they’re late.”
“I understand that. But they won’t be here. You shouldn’t be here.”
Officer Lincoln glanced over his shoulder at the street. “Are those your packing boxes at the curb?”
“Why? Are you on box patrol?”
She had meant the question as a joke, but Officer Lincoln continued to stare down from his impressive height without even the trace of a smile.
“They can’t stay there. You’ll have to move them inside.”
Stephanie ground her teeth. She had tried to be polite. She had tried to be understanding. She had even tried humor, and look where that had gotten her. It was time to put her foot down.
“Officer Lincoln, I read the brochures. Tomorrow is recycling day. I don’t understand the problem.”
The man drew a folded handkerchief from his back pocket and took his time polishing the lenses of spotless sunglasses.
“Emergency Management has issued an evacuation order for all the barrier islands,” he said. His voice dropped impossibly lower. “That includes Cocoa Beach. You need to get out of here. In fact, you have less than two hours to cross the causeway before it closes, so I’d suggest you get moving.”
Stephanie bit her lip to keep from telling Officer Lincoln exactly where he was wrong. This morning the weatherman had said the storm would turn. She had it on good authority that hurricanes never came ashore in Cocoa Beach. Besides, even if Officer Lincoln was correct, the evacuation order was for the barrier islands, and she wasn’t on a—
Her heart thudded all the way to her feet as she remembered the maps the real estate agent had provided. Several long fingers of land hugged the Florida coast the way fringe dangled from her pink pashmina. Cocoa Beach sat on one of them.
“Barrier island?” she mouthed.
Images of hurricane-ravaged coastal towns flooded her thoughts. She reached for something to brace herself with, her hands finding and clutching the doorframe. Officer Lincoln’s lips kept moving, but a sound of rushing water and roaring wind filled her head. She couldn’t hear a word he said.
“No,” she whispered. This couldn’t be happening.
Brett stared in disbelief as the compact powder keg in front of him started to smoke. Within seconds there would be an explosion that might take hours to clean up. He didn’t have hours. Hurricane Arlene would be on top of them by then. Her one-hundred-and-fifty-mile-an-hour winds could push seven-foot waves clear across Cocoa Beach, and he did not want to get caught in the storm surge.
As protests spiraled upward and a pair of the bluest eyes he’d ever seen widened impossibly, Brett rapidly reviewed his options. Given enough time, he could talk her down. He had the negotiating skills. Problem was, neither of them had the time.
An unexpected shake might jar her to her senses, but that was almost guaranteed to land him in the middle of litigation. Having seen lawyers in action, he’d rather face hurricanes.
That left option number three, another plan sure to land him in trouble. Was she worth it? One quick appraising glance—and more experience than he liked to admit—told Brett all he needed to know.
Hair did not bounce and shimmer the way her glossy, black curls did unless their owner spent considerable time and money in expensive beauty salons. If his last girlfriend was any indication, a complexion so flawless and cheeks such a rosy pink required serious expenditures at the cosmetic counter. Brett took note of the woman’s narrow shoulders above lush round breasts. Her tiny waist flared into hips with barely enough meat on them for a man to grasp. He recognized the snug fit of layered Lands’ End T-shirts when he saw them, and those strategically frayed capris fit too well to be from Wal-Mart. Expensive clothes to wear on moving day.
He continued his downward assessment, traveling a short distance of thigh to the place where muscular calves tapered into elegant ankles. The woman had good bone structure, he’d give her that, but he knew maintaining such a perfectly proportioned figure meant hours on treadmills and Nautilus machines. The baby-doll-pink toenails in their unscuffed sandals made him grimace.
No doubt about it, she was one of the “me, me” girls. The kind that got his back up, the kind he’d sworn off after his last long-term relationship had self-destructed.
Her lips moved rapidly in a heart-shaped face so perfect it kicked his temperature up a notch. The woman was physically attractive, no sense denying it. But could he ignore her looks long enough to reach a simple conclusion? He could, and he would. If his words were wasted on her, he’d save his breath.
Grasping Miss Stephanie Bryant by the shoulders, he tumbled her forward while slipping his free hand around to his back. In one fluid move, he loosed a pair of handcuffs from his belt and snapped silver around a slim, white wrist.
The petite figure b
efore him immediately stilled and Brett looked down. He had sworn her eyes couldn’t get any wider. He was wrong about that.
Chapter Two
A metallic snap and the pinch of cold steel around one wrist stopped Stephanie in mid-protest. She flattened her lips in a thin line, every muscle in her body suddenly on alert. Despite the sharp tug she gave her hand, the policeman did not relax his viselike grip.
“H-hey!”
She stared at her hand in its uncomfortable new bracelet while she felt the blood drain from her face. After that, her mind drew a blank. Not that it mattered since her mouth had trouble forming the simplest words. Her eyes darted around, but all she could see was a uniform shirt—the solid expanse blocked her vision in every direction. She shook her head to clear it.
“Officer Lincoln, you’ve made your point.” Even rising corporate executives knew when they’d been bested. “I’ll leave.”
“I have your word on that?” he asked.
She had always known she was small, but her wrist looked positively fragile in his grip. For half a second, she wondered what it would be like to snuggle up to his chest and let the big man take care of her. The open jaws of the second cuff put a quick end to that fantasy and made her decision to go along with his plan an easy one. Mustering her most sincere look, Stephanie tipped her head back to meet a pair of searching blue eyes.
“I promise,” she said. Officer Lincoln had to be mistaken about the storm, and tomorrow’s clear skies and tropical breezes would prove her right. Tomorrow, safely ensconced in her corner office she would pick up the phone, her executive phone, and have a chat with the police commissioner or the chief of police or whatever the person in charge called himself in small-town Florida. She might even file a complaint against the cop who’d refused to let her spend the night in her own home. But first, she had to get through today.