by Diane Kelly
He winked at us, backed up, and waved us through.
Things were off to an easy start. I took that as a good omen.
We drove over the bridge that spanned the muddy Rio Grande River and made our way into the city of Matamoros. Matamoros was a tourist town, with an array of shops, restaurants, and nightclubs within easy walking distance, or a drunken stagger, of the border crossing.
Christina directed me down Avenida Obregon to the jewelry mart she’d mentioned and we parked at the curb outside the shop. While the salesgirl helped Christina with the necklaces, I looked over the display of silver earrings, selecting a pretty teardrop-style pair. If we made it safely back to Dallas, they’d make a nice souvenir of this mission. If we didn’t, they’d look good in my mug shot.
An hour later, we pulled up in front of Tekila’s Canta Bar, a karaoke bar popular with American college kids in search of cheap beer and a good time.
Before the truck had come to a complete stop, Nick Pratt appeared at my window. He was dressed in a fitted black T-shirt stretched tight over his pecs, old-fashioned pointy-toed cowboy boots, and blue jeans that hugged his body in all the right places. “You’re late.”
I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “Give me a break. It’s only three minutes.”
The beads of sweat on Nick’s forehead told me the extra three minutes had been an eternity to him. Before he could respond, I said, “Sorry. I’ll make it up to you. The chili cheese fries are on me.”
After brief introductions between Nick and Christina, Nick told me to pull the truck down the alleyway. He stepped away from the truck to follow it on foot.
Christina glanced over her shoulder at Nick. “That guy’s a walking orgasm.”
“I know, right?”
I stopped at the end of the alley and Nick reappeared at my window. He gestured behind me to the bed of the pickup. “Open the toolbox. I’ll hide in there.”
I unlocked the box and Nick climbed up. We fished several empty Skoal cans out of the box, tossing them into the alley. I hated to be a litterbug, but a little bit of trash was the least of our worries right now.
As we cleaned out the box, I noticed the skin on Nick’s fingers was red and raw.
He caught me eyeing his hands. “I had an allergic reaction to your sunscreen. My hands burned for three days. What the hell was in that stuff?”
I played innocent. “I have no idea.” Thank goodness I’d run back to my hotel afterward and taken a long, thorough shower to remove all the LovLub, scrubbing my skin nearly down to the bone.
Nick stepped into the toolbox, first sitting then lying back, doing his best to fit inside. After much repositioning and two firm shoves from me and Christina, he finally managed to scrunch himself inside, though his knees were sure to end up bruised.
I closed the lid and locked the box.
“Hurry up and get across the border,” Nick’s muffled voice came from inside the metal box. “I ain’t Houdini.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
No Country for Young Women
Christina and I hopped into the pickup and made our way back to the border crossing. Unfortunately, the line into the U.S. was much longer than the line had been coming into Mexico. We inched slowly forward, the hot sun beating down on the truck. Neither Christina nor I spoke, too nervous for idle chatter. I silently prayed that Nick wouldn’t suffocate or die of heatstroke in the toolbox.
As planned, we removed our blouses as we drew closer to the border patrol agents manning the gate, hoping two sets of breasts barely covered by bikinis might prove to be a distraction, even if one of the sets, mine, was only a pair of 32As.
Just as we reached the arm that blocked the entrance to the United States, the middle-aged guard stepped out of his glass booth and held up a hand. “It’ll be just a moment, ladies. Shift change.”
Shit.
We sat there for a couple of minutes in silence. Well, relative silence. I could virtually hear the adrenaline rocketing through my veins, my nerves buzzing.
The new agent stepped into place. The agent was tall, husky, and above all, female.
Christina emitted a soft and elongated “Fuuuck.”
The female agent wasn’t likely to find our breasts to be a distraction. In fact, she might want to give the two of us a hard time, Christina for receiving more than her fair share of beauty and curves, and me for befriending someone like Christina.
The agent stepped toward the truck, her expression as tight as the French braids keeping her hair out of her face. “Got your papers?”
We nodded and handed her our passports and identification.
She stood at the window and glanced around the inside of the cab, then stepped back and looked into the bed behind us. “You two buy anything in Mexico?”
I put a hand to my ear. “These earrings.” My throat was tight with fear and my voice came out high and squeaky. Thank goodness the agent didn’t know what my normal voice sounded like. For all she knew I always sounded like Kristin Chenoweth.
The agent cocked her head and took a look at my earrings. “Nice.” Her focus shifted to Christina then. “How about you? Buy anything in Mexico?”
Christina put a hand to the silver pendant on her chest. “This necklace.”
The guard eyed the necklace, her gaze slipping to the cleavage on either side. Hmm. Maybe the boobie trap would work after all.
The woman reached behind me and drummed her fingers on the toolbox. “Anything in here?”
My stomach tightened as I shook my head. “Nope.” Nothing but a man wanted for a laundry list of federal criminal charges.
Relief flooded through me when she handed our paperwork back to us. But just as the officer was about to raise the arm to let us back into the U.S., movement in my side mirror caught my eye.
A German shepherd on a harness was coming up the line of cars behind us, his handler following behind, holding his leash. The dog sniffed along the side of each car, checking the doors, nosing around in the wheel wells.
No doubt the dog was trained to scent drugs, but he’d likely been trained to scent hidden bodies, too. Nick had already broken a sweat when we rendezvoused with him in the alley and hid him in the toolbox. Given the hot sun bearing down on the metal case, he’d smell completely ripe by now.
Come on, come on, I thought, willing the woman to raise the arm and let us through before the dog reached us.
No such luck.
The canine handler walked up beside my truck. Wagging his tail, the dog stopped. He sniffed at the wheel wells of my back tire. Sniff-sniff. Satisfied, he moved forward a few feet. The officer gave the dog a hand signal and the beast jumped up, putting his two front paws on the rim of the bed just behind the toolbox.
Oh dear God.
The dog snuffled the box briefly, then turned his head toward my open window, his nose twitching in the air. Sniff-sniff. The dog slid back to the ground and smelled around my door for a moment before plunking his hindquarters down on the cement and looking expectantly up at his handler.
The man ruffled the dog’s ears. “Good boy.”
I nearly lost bladder control.
This was it. I wasn’t sure if the dog had smelled our guns or Nick hiding in the toolbox, but either way we were totally, absolutely, without a doubt, fuuucked.
The agent grabbed hold of the handle and pulled my door open. “Step out of the vehicle.”
The jig was up.
My career was over.
My life as I knew it was at an end.
I’d spend the next decade in jail, frittering away my best reproductive years. By the time I was released, the alarm would have sounded on my biological clock. Brett would have married Trish, fathered a gaggle of busty, butterscotch-haired girls, and be living happily ever after.
I stepped out of the truck on legs that had turned to noodles. Christina climbed out on her side and I saw her surreptitiously glance at the arm blocking my truck, no doubt wondering if she could duck under the thing
and make a run for it.
The dog hopped into the truck’s cab, sniffing loudly along the driver’s door—sniff-sniff—then the floor mat—sniff-sniff—then under the seat where we’d stashed the guns.
Sniff-sniff.
Sniff-sniff.
Sniff.
When he stuck his head under the seat, I knew it was all over. Instinctively I closed my eyes, unable to watch my world come to an end.
Crinkle-crinkle.
What the hell? I opened my eyes to see the dog pulling his head out from under the seat, a plastic bag of beef jerky in his mouth. The cowboy who’d sold me the truck must have left it there.
The dog’s handler and the female agent laughed.
“Sorry, ladies,” the handler said. “This darn dog can never get enough to eat.”
I forced a laugh, Christina a high-pitched giggle. We climbed back into the pickup, the border patrol agent raised the arm, and we drove through, the truck lurching as my shaking foot slipped off the gas pedal.
As we continued on into America—land of the free! Home of the brave!—my laugh devolved into a crazed cackle while Christina’s giggle became hysterical.
Banging came from the toolbox behind us. “Get me out of here!” Nick hollered.
I pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store, circling around back and parking behind the Dumpster where we wouldn’t be seen. I jumped out of the truck and climbed into the bed, fumbling with my keys. Finally, I managed to unlock the toolbox.
Nick shoved the lid upward and sat up. The poor guy was drenched in sweat and gasping for breath. I stood in the bed and held a hand out to him. He took it and I helped pull him from the tight space.
On his feet now, Nick threw his head back and his hands in the air. “Oh, the sweet smell of freedom!” He took a deep breath of air and grimaced. “What the…?” He noticed the Dumpster, realized that freedom smelled less sweet and more like festering garbage, and leaped over the side of the bed onto the pavement. I took the easy way down, climbing over the tailgate.
Nick knelt on the ground, kissing the asphalt. Then he jumped up and grabbed my face in both hands, planting a big, warm kiss on my lips. Despite the fact that the kiss was gritty and tasted like dirt, I enjoyed it far more than I should have given that I shouldn’t have enjoyed it one bit. After all, I was in a committed, monogamous relationship with that great guy back in Dallas. Good old … what’s-his-name.
Christina watched the interaction between me and Nick with a raised brow.
“Chili cheese fries?” I suggested, more to distract everyone than out of hunger.
Nick dropped his hands from my face. “You bet.”
The three of us went into the convenience store, where I treated the others to frozen fruity drinks and large baskets of gooey fries.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Goldilocks He Ain’t
An hour up the road, the thrill of having rescued Nick from his forced exile had worn off and the stench of his sweat had stunk up the truck. I pulled into a truck stop with a banner that read HOT SHOWERS—$5.
I handed Nick a twenty-dollar bill, climbed out of the truck, and pointed at the door of the truck stop. “Shower. Now.”
He glanced down at the bill in his hand. “There’s enough here for you two to join me.” He flashed that crooked, chipped-tooth smile.
Christina gave him playful shove. “Get out of here.”
He slid out of the truck and went inside.
Christina watched Nick as he walked in, her eyes locked on his ass. “I don’t know about you, but if he’d limited that offer to just me I’d have taken him up on it.”
Hell, I didn’t know about me, either. I adored Brett. But I had to admit, something about Nick appealed to me, too. We seemed to be kindred spirits.
Christina turned to me. “Think you’ll get to partner up with him once everything’s all cleared up?”
“A girl can dream, can’t she?” Then again, working with Nick would probably be a bad idea. I wasn’t not sure I’d be able to keep my mind on my work. Or on good old what’s-his-name.
Nick emerged from the store twenty minutes later. He’d put his boots and jeans back on, but he’d used the extra fifteen bucks to buy a fresh T-shirt with the slogan SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A COWBOY. Also a bottle of Lone Star beer. He tossed his old, sweat-soaked tee into the trash can outside the door and headed to the truck, twisting the cap off the bottle as he made his way.
* * *
On the ride back to Dallas, Nick told us how he’d covered his tracks back in Mexico. He’d left his car in the parking garage at his condo, sneaking out in the dead of night and grabbing a bus to Matamoros. He knew his place was bugged, so he’d put his television on a timer to sound as if he were home. He’d also taped the water running, the microwave bell dinging, and the toilet flushing, the normal sounds of a bachelor pad. He’d left his computer playing the sounds on a loop.
“They’ll figure it out eventually, so we’ll have to work fast. But it should buy us a few days.” Nick took a long, final swig of his beer and slid the empty bottle into a cup holder.
“What’s the plan once you get to Dallas?” Christina asked.
“About that.” Nick glanced my way. “I’ll have to shack up with you until we bust Mendoza.”
I could’ve sworn I heard my vagina scream, Yikes! But my mouth said, “Sure. No problem.”
Big problem.
I hadn’t been happy about Brett doing volunteer work alongside Trish. Brett would be even less happy about Nick living in my town house, watching the ten o’clock news with me, sharing my Fruity Pebbles in the morning. Again, I’d be forced to ask Brett to put his feelings aside, to make sacrifices for me, for my job.
Nick shifted in his seat, his warm thigh pressed to mine.
Or maybe I could just forget to mention it.
* * *
By the time we’d dropped Christina at her apartment and driven to my town house, it was two in the morning. Both Nick and I were exhausted. We headed straight upstairs. Anne and Henry followed us. Poor cats. They were starved for attention.
I tossed a pillow and blanket onto the futon in my spare bedroom and gestured to the door of my guest bath. “Towels are under the sink. There’s an extra toothbrush there, too.”
Nick grabbed my arm as I was leaving the room, pulling me to a stop. He stepped in front of me, putting a strong hand on each of my shoulders and looking me in the eye. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again as if unsure what to say. Though his mouth couldn’t form words, his eyes spoke for him.
“Is ‘thanks’ the word you’re looking for?” I supplied.
Nick laughed softly. “It’s a start.” He dropped his hands from my shoulders. “What you’ve done took guts.”
“Eh.” I waved a hand dismissively. “I don’t scare easily.”
He flashed that chipped-tooth smile, but then his face became serious. He stared at me a moment, something dark and dangerous flickering in his eyes. “You’re one hell of a woman, Tara Holloway.”
I turned to go, glancing back at him over my shoulder. “Don’t you ever forget it.”
* * *
I woke Sunday morning with a warm body pressed against my back and a heavy arm draped over me. My mind still foggy from sleep, I did what I always did. I snuggled back into the heat. And, as always, the response was a stiffy poking me in the hip.
But there was something a little different about this stiffy …
“Hey!” I leaped from the bed, upsetting Anne, who’d been asleep on my pillow. I turned to see the cat dart under the bed and Nick lying on his side in the middle of it.
He wore no shirt, exposing those mmm shoulders and a broad expanse of muscular chest covered in dark hair. The sheets were bunched around his waist, so I couldn’t verify whether he was wearing underwear or had gone commando.
He chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Don’t take it personal. I always wake up with morning wood.”
&nb
sp; I emitted a huff of indignation. Still, a small part of me was disappointed by his statement. That small part wanted to think the stiffy had been personal, had been meant for, or at least because of, me.
“What are you doing in my bed?”
“Your brown cat kept staring at me. It was creepy.” Henry did have a well-perfected death glare. “Besides, you ever slept on that futon? It’s got more lumps than my mother’s mashed potatoes.”
“Enough with the potatoes already!”
His thick brows drew together. “What do you have against potatoes?”
If he only knew.
“You’re not Goldilocks,” I spat. “You can’t just go climbing into beds that aren’t yours. This is…” Making me hot and bothered. “Sexual harassment.”
Nick shook his head. “You’re wrong about that, darlin’. It’s only sexual harassment if we work together. I don’t currently work for the IRS. Besides, for my advances to constitute harassment, they have to be unwelcome.” He shot me that chipped-tooth smile.
Cocky son of a bitch. “I was half asleep,” I argued in my defense. “I thought you were my boyfriend.”
“He’s a lucky guy.” Nick’s self-assured grin softened into a sad smile and he dropped his eyes. “Sorry, Tara. It was wrong of me to take advantage of the situation. It’s just that for years now I haven’t been able to get close to anyone. I never knew who I could trust. I just needed some human contact.”
Damn. One minute the guy had me ready to lynch him, the next he had me feeling sorry for him. I waved my hand. “Forget about it.”
The mischievous twinkle returned to his eyes and the cocky grin returned to his lips. “You fell for that ‘human contact’ bullshit? Really? Maybe you aren’t as smart as I thought you were.”
“Jerk!” I grabbed a pillow from the bed and whopped him upside the head. Still, I realized that despite Nick’s attempt to recant his statements there was likely some truth behind them. Surely he’d felt isolated living alone in Mexico with no family or friends.
Before Nick could respond, a knock came from my front door downstairs. It had to be Brett. Alicia never got up before noon on weekends and my parents always gave me advance notice of their visits.