Brett

by Leigh Duncan

  Though she sensed no threat in the disbelieving smiles the men traded, Stephanie hedged. “My friend ran to get drinking water and ice. He’ll be back soon.”

  Dick gestured to the boarded-up windows. “The two of us can make quick work of these shutters if you want. We got all the right tools out in my truck ’cause we just finished taking down our own. Be nice to get some air blowin’ through the house, wouldn’t it?”

  Stephanie was all for ocean breezes, but she recognized a business deal in the works. “How much?”

  Dick scuffed his toe through the grass and her collection of screwdriver darts. “Well, we wouldn’t charge much, seeing as we’re neighbors and all.” He stopped to think about it. “Fifty sounds about right. That okay with you?”

  Fifty dollars to remove a houseful of shutters sounded more than fair. “Okay,” she agreed.

  At Dick’s nod, Bobby produced a battery-operated tool and went to work removing the next panel.

  “That’s fifty…each,” Dick said.

  Still fair, thought Stephanie. A day at a nice spa cost at least that much. Behind her, the second shutter slid down.

  Bobby moved on.

  “Plus expenses.”

  “Expenses?” She spun away from the house to face the man who was fast losing his neighborly appeal. “What expenses?”

  “All right. Five hundred an’ we’ll eat the extra costs if there are any.”

  She could move into a first-class hotel for that price.

  “Stop!” she called.

  Dick cupped a hand to one ear as though he had suddenly gone deaf. She motioned to Bobby who paid no attention and kept right on working. Another shutter slid from a window.

  Stephanie stomped the ground, frustration mounting when her foot sank soundlessly into the spongy grass. She shouted loud enough to make herself heard above the noisy drill.

  “I said stop! I am not paying you a dime. Get off my property, and do it now.” Even as she issued the order, she wondered what she would do if the two men refused.

  What would they do? She didn’t think she wanted to know the answer and, thanks to the green-and-white cruiser that pulled to the curb behind good ol’ boy Dick’s truck, she wouldn’t have to find out. Her very own cavalry had arrived wearing the uniform of the Cocoa Beach police. Despite the hat pulled low and eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, she recognized Brett Lincoln’s tall frame and muscular chest.

  Her breath caught. Adonis had never looked so good.

  Brett keyed his mike.

  “Dispatch, this is Lincoln requesting a 10-28 on a Ford pickup bearing Tennessee license plate XAP 195.”

  After a pause, Doris responded. “Tennessee license plate XAP 195 registered to a 2001 Ford Ranger. Red. Owned by R. J. Johnson. No wants, no warrants.”

  Which only meant R. J. Johnson had not been arrested in the Sunshine State. Brett sniffed the air. Beneath the salty tang of the ocean, he smelled trouble.

  “Doris, I’ll be at the Henson place for a bit.”

  “Roger that.”

  No banter. No playful flirting. He missed it but Doris, like the rest of the police force, was feeling the strain of thirty-six stormy hours.

  He had managed one brief, uncomfortable nap on a folding cot. With no pillow or blanket, the only way he had slept at all was by imagining Stephanie Bryant ensconced in the storm shelter and wrapped in the cocoon of his sleeping bag. Now she was back. How she had gotten through the roadblock and onto the beach he did not know, but he had heard Dispatch verify her street address…before the roads were safe or the power lines up on their poles. He had been fighting the urge to swing past ever since.

  From the look of things, he had given in just in time.

  Brett’s blood chilled when the brunette stomped her foot and argued with two men he did not recognize. Emerging from the cruiser, he caught her eye and gave his head a slight shake.

  She was a smart one, that Stephanie Bryant. She did not betray his presence while a drill whined loud enough to cover his nearly silent approach. He didn’t speak until his hand rested on his nightstick and he stood directly behind the apparent leader. Only then did he let his voice carry.

  “Good afternoon.”

  The whine died instantly as Brett’s thoughts flashed to tomorrow’s prospective headlines—Cocoa Beach Officer Killed By Electric Screwdriver. “Not today,” he breathed.

  He motioned said screwdriver to the ground.

  “Miss Bryant. Gentlemen. How is everyone?” He asked the question without letting his eyes drift from the leader who spun to face him as soon as the man realized they had company. Brett had jotted down height and weight estimates before he left the car. Now he noted the three-day beards, rumpled clothes and sturdy athletic shoes. Thug Number One wore his sandy blond hair in a fashionable cut that hung over his blue eyes. Number Two had a shaved head. Brown eyes. No visible tattoos. The men looked like any two of a thousand returning homeowners. “Shutters giving you trouble?”

  “A bit.” Stephanie gestured. “I was trying to remove the storm shutters when these two men, Dick and Bobby, showed up. They offered to help, but wanted to charge for the job. We couldn’t agree on a price and I asked them to leave. They would not.”

  In Brett’s mind the report was succinct and straightforward, but Thug Number Two—aka Bobby—showed his displeasure by shooting a stream of tobacco juice across the lawn.

  “Now that’s not quite right, ma’am.” Number One, the one who called himself Dick, sent his partner a warning glance. “We’re doing this as a favor. Neighbor to neighbor.” He swung a wounded look toward Brett. “We just asked her to cover our expenses an’ we agreed on a price. But when she seen how easy our expertise and specialized tools made the job, she tried to back out.” His voice rose. “Ain’t that right, Bobby?”

  The man in question nodded. “’Bout sums it up.” He spit again.

  It was an old scam, one where Brett knew the rules. The cons would lowball the price for a simple job, then increase it for one reason or another until the mark “flinched” or indicated they had reached their limit.

  “I have storm shutters at my place,” he said thoughtfully. “I’ll be too busy the next few days to take them down.” He gave Dick a just-between-us-guys look. “How much would you charge for the job?”

  “Fifty dollars,” said Dick.

  “Five—five hundred,” Stephanie sputtered.

  Brett pretended to hear only one answer. He reached for his back pocket. “Seems fair. So, if I pull a fifty-dollar bill out of my wallet right now and hand it to you, you and your friend here would finish taking down all these shutters?”

  “We-ell.” Dick drew himself as tall as he could. “We were just trying to be neighborly, but she has impugned our reputation. Plus, we have to cover expenses. Gas ain’t cheap. And it takes special equipment to do the job right.”

  “Impugned.” Brett nodded in apparent sympathy. “Batteries. Drill bits. Maybe a generator?” he suggested.

  “Yeah,” Dick agreed.

  Brett had heard enough. He tightened his grip on the top of his nightstick and squared his shoulders. “So what is it? A favor for a neighbor? Or a job for hire?” One required proof of residency, the other a business license. Either would spell trouble for Dick and Bobby, and everyone within sight knew it.

  Dick’s shoulders slumped. “Tell you what,” he offered. “We’ll leave. We won’t charge the missus for the work we’ve already done. And we’ll just go.”

  Brett nodded. “Also a reasonable offer. One we should take you up on. I’ll notify Dispatch to expect your truck at the roadblock in say—” he pretended to look at his watch “—fifteen minutes. You make it and keep on going, we’ll have no further dealings together. You don’t make it, or decide to come back, and I’ll have to ask some tough questions about your license and permits. Maybe look into your other activities in the state. Do we have an understanding?”

  Dick blew out a deep breath. “Yeah. Pack it up, Bo
bby. We’re outta here.”

  Brett stopped the bald man on his way to the pickup.

  “I’ll take those screws, if you don’t mind.”

  “Man can’t make a decent living,” Bobby muttered. He spat—carefully—downwind before dumping the bolts and screws into Brett’s hand.

  Brett dogged their heels until the two men were on their way and the rest of the force was notified. As he watched them turn the corner, he reached beneath his cap to mop his forehead. His hand came away wetter than expected. He swigged water from a bottle on the front seat of his patrol car. Usually he was immune to the heat, and the altercation with the con men was a part of his daily routine. So what had him so uptight he was sweating?

  The answer stood waiting next to the house. At the station last night, and on patrol this morning, he had half convinced himself that Stephanie Bryant was nobody he cared about. A “me, me” girl with a so-so figure and a snippy attitude. Definitely not his style. But one look at her, and he wanted to snug her into his arms and keep her safe. He took another pull from the water bottle, trying to rinse away the bitter taste of adrenaline.

  “Are you all right?” he called.

  She looked better than all right. She wore workout clothes—by some famous designer, no doubt. Thin jersey stretched tightly across her ample chest. The pants clung in all the right places, right down to the spot where they ended on her shapely calves. The sun had slicked her skin and dampened her hair, turning it into a mass of dark ringlets he wanted to run his fingers through. He crossed the lawn again so they wouldn’t have to shout at each other.

  “I’m fine,” she answered with a nod in the direction the truck had gone. “They seemed harmless enough. I was handling it.”

  She had grit, he’d give her that. Not every woman would tackle the heavy shutters on her own, or recognize a con when she saw one. But unless people stomped and waved to resolve arguments where she came from, she was wrong about the “handling it” part. What would have happened if he hadn’t come along when he had? The back of his neck grew hot again. His voice gruffer than intended, he asked, “Didn’t they warn you at the checkpoint about hiring con artists?”

  “I didn’t hire them,” she protested. “They were doing me a favor.” She pushed a tangle of curls from her face and her expression fell. “Or, at least, that’s how it started. So why didn’t you arrest them?”

  “Got here a little too early. No money had changed hands. Ergo, no crime had been committed.” He didn’t like the glum look she wore any better than he liked having to defend his actions. Shrugging one shoulder, he tried again. “Running them out of town saves jail space for those who truly deserve it. Looters. Drunk drivers. Ax murderers.”

  His answer tugged a smile from her lips, and the tension riding on his shoulders slipped a notch. In a minute or two, he’d get a call—someone would have run their car into a ditch or spotted a downed wire—and have to respond. Until then, he couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do than talk to Stephanie.

  “How were things in Orlando?” he asked.

  They stood on her lawn and discussed hurricanes and traffic until Brett felt his temperature drop to nearly normal. He had just started to hope his T-shirt might air dry before he climbed back into his cruiser when Stephanie switched subjects, choosing one that made him sweat for a whole new reason.

  “Thanks for the sleeping bag. It was a good thing to have.” She retrieved it from her car, which let him appreciate the way her hips moved beneath the clingy jersey. “I’ll drop your sweatshirt off at the station once the power comes back. I want to wash it. I hope you don’t mind that I wore it. I didn’t have anything else—”

  Brett’s thoughts flew to an image of Stephanie in his sweatshirt…and nothing else. The air around him grew warm. Forget the bottle of water. Where was a hose when you needed one?

  “—appropriate,” she finished.

  He didn’t have a hose, but the grass looked cool. He scuffed one foot through it, startling some kind of pink insect which flew off to the side.

  “Oh! There it is!” Stephanie cried. She dropped to her hands and knees, running her fingers through the grass where the critter had landed.

  “You like bugs?” he asked. They were a fact of life in Florida, but his last girlfriend had been scared to death by anything that possessed more legs than she did. As a result, Brett had been forced into pest control duty more often than he liked. A girl who didn’t mind a few bugs would certainly be different. “You need some help?”

  “No, that’s okay. I lost…something.” She stretched for the unidentified something, her top riding above a trim waistline. “And now I’ve found it.”

  Brett stared at a very nice inch of smooth, supple skin. He swallowed what felt like sand and felt the heat climb another degree. “Great.” He managed not to sound too relieved. Getting down on all fours in the grass with her was not an option.

  He offered her a hand up, intending to ask what she’d lost, but once the space in front of him filled with living, breathing Stephanie Bryant, his train of thought switched tracks. He had nearly forgotten how small she was. Her head and all those glorious curls didn’t even reach the top of his shoulder. She peered up at him through incredibly blue eyes which, unless he was seriously misjudging the signals, were inviting him to take her into his arms. Uncertainty filled his head with static. It was such an unfamiliar feeling that he paused, wanting to be sure. When she did not wave a red flag, he leaned in slightly, forcing himself to go slow, giving her a chance to back away, praying she wouldn’t.

  The air between them crackled. A voice whispered in his ear.

  “Lincoln, this is Dispatch. Those two yahoos are headed out on Highway 520. Merritt Island, Cocoa and points west have been alerted. They won’t find work in the county. Good job, Brett.”

  Doris had a way of dousing a situation with cold water just when things were heating up nicely.

  He tried to listen as she updated him on events through-out the town, but his attention kept wandering to Stephanie. The brunette had moved away and now stood with her cell phone pressed against one ear, her back to him. She kept talking after his call finished. Wondering who was on the other end of the line, he gathered tools that littered the ground beneath one of the windows, and waited until he heard her say, “I’ll see you there in an hour.”

  Flipping the phone closed, Stephanie whirled to face him. “Sorry about that.” She shrugged. “Work. I have to go into the office. Hey, did you find any glue in that toolbox? I broke a nail.”

  Brett shook his poor, confused head. If he needed proof she wasn’t right for him, she had just given it. A girl had to be pretty self-centered to worry about a broken fingernail in the aftermath of a hurricane, didn’t she? Hadn’t he decided he was done with women like that?

  “Time for both of us to get back to work,” he announced. There would be no repeat of the almost-kiss. Not now. Not ever.

  “All those ax murderers to chase?”

  “Something like that. See you around.” He was immune to the way her eyes sparkled. He was. So why did he have to force his feet toward the patrol car?

  “Right. I’ve gotta run, too,” she called.

  She was in her car and pulling out of the driveway before he realized what was bothering him. Over one shoulder, he eyed the panels covering most of her windows. Heat and humidity would turn the inside of her house into a sweatbox. She’d need to strip down to her underwear in order to find any comfort at all.

  The image of Stephanie Bryant, hot and sweaty and alone, was not one he wanted to carry with him until the power came back on.

  Stifling a groan, he went back to the house and began removing her shutters.

  Chapter Five

  The guard trudged soundlessly through the hall on rubber-soled shoes. He passed one darkened office after another while Stephanie trailed behind, wishing the heels of her Jimmy Choo knockoffs wouldn’t clatter so loudly against the marble floor. She could have worn sneaker
s and saved her aching arches for another day. It wasn’t as if anyone would see her shoes during the telecom with the corporate office.

  The suit was another matter. Thanks to the latest in electronic gizmos, the bigwigs would get an eyeful of everything above her waist. From the megabucks they had invested in her, she knew they expected their newest director to be cool, calm and dressed to the nines, hurricanes and power outages notwithstanding. Thus, the quick change out of her sweats and into a suit in the ladies’ room off the lobby. Shoes were just part of the package.

  “Here you go, Ms. Bryant.” The guard unlocked a door at the end of the hall.

  Stephanie darted a quick look at his name tag. “Thank you, Paul.”

  The deference that came with her new title would take some getting used to. Not unlike her new office suite. A broad grin threatened to break across her face when she glanced past the empty receptionist’s desk to the door of her very own spacious corner office.

  “I’ll be at the front desk if you need me. Will you be all right, Ms. Bryant?”

  With backup generators powering the computers and air conditioners, she would be more than all right. “I’ll be fine. Thanks for opening up for me, Paul.”

  She would get her own set of keys when she was formally introduced as the new director of human resources. Keys or not, she had work to do, and that work included research on the way the hurricane had impacted the company’s biggest asset—its employees. Corporate had requested a 7:00 p.m. briefing, and she was determined to have all the answers to their questions by then.

  Stephanie gave her escort a long look. Rain, wind, hail or hurricane, Space Tech’s security force remained on guard, and the man had probably been on duty for days. It wouldn’t hurt to gather a first-hand report from one of the company’s own.

  “Did you and your family come through the storm all right, Paul?” she asked.

  He hesitated, his weight shifting from foot to foot. “Not exactly,” he finally answered.