by Cathie Linz
The police department was just a block away so she heard the sirens even as Ryan walked back into the bank a few minutes later, his expression one of disgust. “I lost him.”
JIMBO WAS BENT OVER, gasping for breath after running faster than he’d ever run in his life. He had a bad charley horse in his leg and another in his neck, which he’d nearly broken trying to remove the damn panty hose from his head. The thing had almost strangled him and it was certainly responsible for him nearly getting caught
He wasn’t sure how the bank had known ahead of time that he was coming and had locked the doors against him. He’d been very careful not to say a word, not even when the cute girl at the grocery store had given him a strange look when he’d bought the pair of queen-size panty hose. He had slipped up and said they were for himself, but then had quickly covered his tracks by saying they were for his wife. Not that he was married. Not yet. He hoped to be someday. When he had a nest egg stashed away.
The money Brutus was paying him was supposed to supply a big part of that nest egg. Now it didn’t look like he’d get the rest of his payoff. And he’d heard that the Zopo brothers didn’t suffer fools lightly. Jimbo had been called a fool and much worse ever since he’d been in the second grade and the other kids had made fun of him for being slow.
His sister had always stood up for him. He hoped she’d stand up for him now. Because he had no intention of going back to that bank ever again in his entire life. If Brutus wanted the job done, he could do it himself!
6
COURTNEY HOPED no one could tell that her knees were knocking. When Ryan had rushed out the door after the bank robber, he’d taken ten years off her life. But she couldn’t let that show. She had to be cool, be sensible.
“It’s a good thing you were here,” Courtney told Ryan, trying to hide her concern behind a facade of calm as Fell’s full complement of law enforcement officials—all five of them—were now swarming the bank.
Francis joined Courtney and Ryan a moment later, having just finished calming Mrs. Albergast, who was demanding reparations for her cracked piggy bank.
“You run awfully fast for a bank inspector,” Francis noted with an admiring look at Ryan.
“I work out,” he modestly replied.
“I can tell.” Was Francis actually simpering? Courtney blinked in disbelief. Was Francis trying to flirt with Ryan?
All of a sudden, the other woman looked years younger. Now that Courtney thought about it, she was only a few years older than Ryan and herself. It was her attitude that had always made her seem so much older.
And Ryan, drat his hide, was flirting back with her. While not simpering, he was displaying the masculine equivalent. Courtney recognized the signs. Flashes of his lopsided grin. That glint in his hazel eyes, lighting them from within. A very tempting package and one that poor Francis would be helpless to resist
Courtney ought to know. She’d been there herself.
And she was not feeling jealous. No, no she wasn’t She was merely concerned for Francis. After all, women needed to stand together. It was their feminine duty to place warning labels on men so that the next woman in the guy’s life could see what was wrong with them, label them Sold as Is and list the damage—which in Ryan’s case would be an inability to commit to a relationship. He valued his work more than his relationships. Oh, she could write a book about Ryan’s flaws.
The problem was, she could write a multivolume epic on his good points as well.
Her reminiscences were getting her nowhere. “I hate to interrupt,” she said, “but the police have indicated that they want to speak to each of us individually. Francis, you should go first since you have seniority.”
As soon as the other woman was gone, Courtney directed her attention to Ryan. Only now was it truly sinking in how much at risk he’d been by chasing after a bank robber like that She knew Ryan had a gun. But chances were that the robber had been armed as well.
She shuddered to think what might have happened had the masked thief not had trouble with the door. Her only way of venting her feelings, which threatened to overwhelm her, was to sock Ryan’s upper arm.
“Ouch!” He shot her a look of exaggerated outrage that moved her not at all, except to notice how cute he looked.
“That robber would have hurt you far worse,” she said. “Do you have any idea how much danger you put yourself in by chasing him like that?”
“It’s my job,” Ryan stated simply.
“I hate your job,” she stated, just as simply but with more vehemence.
“So you’ve said.”
Courtney knew this wasn’t the time or place for this conversation. So she let her eyes do the talking. She hoped they didn’t also convey her fears for his safety, her blind relief that he was unharmed.
Ryan was getting to her. His searching gaze was stripping away her defenses and digging into her soul. So she did what any sane woman would do. She attacked. “What were you doing with Francis?”
And like any obtuse man, he jumped to the wrong conclusion. “Are you jealous?”
“Absolutely not. But I thought your job was to keep your eyes on me, not on Francis’s shirtfront.”
“Meow.”
“Was that your impression of Felix the Cat?” Courtney inquired with mocking sweetness. “If so, it needs more work.”
“You’re jealous. I can tell.” Ryan’s voice was rich with satisfaction as he added, “You always get this little tick at the corner of your eye when you get jealous.”
She immediately put her hand to her face. “I do not!”
He removed her hand and replaced it with his own, his fingertips barely brushing the sensitive corner of her eye. “There it goes. Tick, tick, tick. Very impressive.”
If he thought that was impressive, he should feel what her heart was doing. Thumthumthumthum—one rapid beat bumping into the next as sexual awareness shot through her system. All this because he was touching her. Every cell vibrated with excitement and recognition, while shouting for more.
It didn’t help that Ryan curved his fingers so that he cupped her face. His hand was so large that his thumb brushed the opposite corner of her mouth. She felt cradled, engulfed by the magic only he could produce.
His eyes were starbursts of gold and green, alive with need and disarming passion. And then she saw his slow lopsided smile, the one that said he knew he was getting to her.
The effect was the equivalent of a bucket of cold water being dumped over her head, so quickly did she snap out of it and step away from him. She shook her head so vehemently her tight bun almost came undone. “Oh, no, you don’t.”
“I know I don’t” His husky voice slid down her spine like a lover’s touch. “But I want to. With you.”
She glared at him. “Keep your hands to yourself from now on, buster.”
“I just love it when you try to sweet-talk me.”
She refused to be swayed by his charm. “Keep this up and you’re going to be in very hot water.”
His grin turned naughty. “Keeping things up has never been a problem where you’re concerned.”
Frantic, she looked around them to make sure they weren’t being overheard. Thankfully no one was close enough to eavesdrop. Which gave her the courage to say, “For a bank inspector, you’ve got a wicked mouth on you.”
“So you’ve told me before,” he murmured seductively. “Usually right after I put my mouth on your…”
She clapped her hand over the item under discussion—his naughty mouth—silencing his words but not his effect on her. She affixed him with her best “you’re overdrawn and you’re not getting another damn cent” bank teller’s look. “Behave yourself,” she ordered sternly.
She could tell he wasn’t taking her seriously by the way he swirled his tongue across the heart of her palm. She should have threatened to yank his tongue out, then he’d stop toying with her, but she was distracted by the molten heat he was evoking deep within her body.
“Am I inte
rrupting something?” Francis inquired from beside them.
Courtney jumped as if she’d just been hit by lightening and yanked her hand away from Ryan’s tempting mouth.
He shared a look with her that was part conspirator, part wicked lover. “Courtney was just restraining me from speculating about the robbery.” His words were directed toward Francis but his attention was completely concentrated on Courtney.
“The sheriff would like to speak to you next, Ryan,” Francis said.
Tiny Picton, county sheriff, was no stranger to Ryan. He joined the sheriff in the conference room the lawman had commandeered.
Tiny was a misnomer if ever there was one—the man was six foot six and had to tip the scales in the neighborhood of 380. Even his voice was big. “Well now, boy, why is it that as soon as you show up in my jurisdiction, we start having trouble with bank robberies? This have something to do with your case?”
“You want to keep your voice down, Tiny?” Ryan requested dryly. He’d checked in with the sheriff as soon as he’d hit town. Not only as a professional courtesy, but also to pump him for information about Anton. Tiny didn’t know much about Anton, who’d only come to Fell a few times to visit Courtney. The print shop Anton had managed had been in a Portland suburb so Ryan hadn’t held out much hope that Tiny would have any useful information, but you never knew.
“I’m not sure if this bungled robbery has something to do with my case or not,” Ryan added. “But my gut tells me it does.” He then went on to give a description of the height and weight of the white male suspect as well as his attire, including the panty hose pulled over his head.
“I’m assuming he’s taken that off by now,” Tiny noted. “And I’m assuming the suit currently walking in the bank entrance is FBI.”
Ryan was no huge fan of the FBI, few members of the Marshals Service were. There was a definite rivalry between the two federal law agencies.
After introducing himself, Agent Charles Zamika asked Tiny, “What do we have here?”
“A bungled robbery attempt.”
“Any witnesses?”
“Sure thing. A U.S. Marshal.” Tiny nodded toward Ryan.
The agent frowned at them both. “You think this was done by a wanted felon on the run?”
“I doubt it,” Ryan replied. “It had amateur written all over it.”
“Then what are you doing here? The Marshals Service isn’t an investigative agency.” Zamika made it sound like an insult.
Ryan had run into his type before. They considered a marshal’s work to be a lowly combination of bailiff and process server while the FBI tracked down the real criminals. In the considered opinion of the FBI no credit was given for fugitive arrests, only for initial arrests.
It wasn’t all that long ago that the two agencies had been involved in turf wars regarding who was responsible for capturing high-profile federal fugitives. Ryan wasn’t about to get embroiled in the same thing on a smaller level here in Fell. He wasn’t about to tell Agent Zamika any more than he had to. Releasing information on a need-to-know basis was too deeply ingrained in him to change now.
The agent, sensing that Ryan was holding back, became hostile. “Attempted robbery is a serious offense. If one of your Witness Security people has perpetrated a crime, they have to be hauled in, the same as the rest of the population.”
“This has nothing to do with the Witness Security Program.”
“Like you’d tell me if it did.”
“You know the rules as well as I do.” Ryan continued to keep his voice even, but it was requiring more and more effort. “If a protected witness commits a crime, they have to face the same punishment as anyone else.”
“Most of the people in that program are criminals who copped a plea to get out of doing time.”
Ryan gritted his teeth. “Like I said, I’m not involved in that program. I’m pursuing a subpoenaed witness.”
“It’s pretty sad when you guys can’t even keep track of a witness before the trial.” Zamika gave him superior look.
Ryan gritted his teeth even harder and reminded himself that throttling an FBI agent would be frowned upon by his boss. Although, come to think of it, Wes had never been a big fan of the suits with their fancy law degrees or CPA’s.
“So you think that this robbery attempt was someone’s way of trying to make a grab for the witness’s niece? I’ll check it out,” Zamika said.
“Keep her name out of it,” Ryan ordered curtly. “I don’t want the wrong people finding out where she is.”
“If your theory is correct, it sounds like they already have.”
“Maybe I’m just being paranoid.”
“And maybe you’re right.” Zamika said the words reluctantly. “I’ve got an evidence team dusting for prints and checking the bank entrance for clues. So far nothing. The guy must have been wearing gloves. We’ve still got the bank’s security video. Maybe we’ll get something from that. I’ll keep you posted,” Zamika added with a dismissive nod in Ryan’s direction. To Tiny he said, “Send in this niece and I’ll question her.”
“Go easy on her, she’s still shaken up,” Ryan growled.
“We stopped using bamboo shoots under the fingernails a few years back, or hadn’t you heard?” the agent mocked him.
Tiny looked from one to the other with a big grin. Ryan knew what he was thinking. As far as he was concerned federal officials were all a pain in the butt.
“Courtney doesn’t know anything,” Ryan maintained.
“I’ll be the judge of that. Send her in and then you can wait outside,” Zamika disdainfully instructed Tiny, who did not take kindly to being ordered around.
“Anything else I can do for you?” Tiny inquired mockingly. “Get you a turkey sandwich from the diner across the street maybe?”
From the gleam in Tiny’s blue eyes Ryan deduced that the selection of turkey hadn’t been a random one, but rather a personal reflection on Zamika’s personality.
It sailed right over the agent’s head. “I already ate. I don’t require your assistance any further, either,” he added with a dismissive nod toward Ryan. “You can go.”
“I’m staying.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I usually do,” Ryan assured him.
COURTNEY FELT NO FEAR at the prospect of being questioned by an FBI agent. She’d already been given a thorough going-over by the queen of interrogations herself, Francis. “Why did Ryan pose as a customer the first time he came to the bank? How long have the two of you known each other?” A dozen more whys, wheres and whens had crossed Francis’s lips before Tiny came to rescue Courtney.
Tiny, who’d once dated Francis and was the only person to ever call her Franny, gently patted Courtney’s shoulder with unspoken commiseration as he escorted her to the conference room.
“Thank you for rescuing me,” Courtney whispered.
“Any time.”
Once inside the conference room, Courtney registered the fact that Ryan was sprawled in a chair with typical nonchalance before she focused her attention on the other man in the room—a younger and much better dressed man.
“I’m Agent Zamika, Ms. Delaney. I need to ask you a few questions.”
Courtney nodded, appreciating the businesslike yet deferential tone of his voice. Quite the opposite from the way Ryan talked to her. The only time Ryan deferred to her wishes was when they’d been making love.
Darn it, how did that happen? How did her thoughts return to the forbidden subject of sex within two seconds of Ryan entering them?
Evoking her internal thought police, she wiped her mind clean as she kept her gaze centered on the FBI agent. She relaxed as she and the agent immediately formed an easy camaraderie.
“Delaney,” he noted with a pleasant smile. “That’s a good Irish name.”
“My father was Irish, my mom grew up in Czechoslovakia.”
“Really? My folks are Irish and Eastern European, too, only the reverse of yours. My mom’s Irish. Do your
parents live here in Oregon?”
“No,” she replied. “They passed away when I was ten.”
“I’m sorry.” His voice reflected sincere sympathy. “You must miss them a lot.”
“I do,” she said, while thinking to herself, What a nice guy.
WHAT A JERK! Ryan rolled his eyes in disgust. So the guy had parents. So what? Ryan had parents, too. You didn’t hear him going on and on about them.
And he could have. He had great parents. Unlike Courtney, they hadn’t thrown a fit when he’d become a deputy marshall. Oh sure, they’d teased him some about being the peacemaker in the family, keeping his siblings Jason, the control freak, and Anastasia, aka It’s My Turn in the Bathroom, from each other’s throats while growing up. But they’d understood. Courtney hadn’t.
Just as she apparently couldn’t understand that Zamika was a rigidly dysfunctional bureaucrat on the make. Didn’t she see what he was up to? Was she completely blind?
She should be giving the guy the cold shoulder. God knew, she was good at that. Ryan had the frost burns to prove how good.
And why had she taken off her jacket? Her white blouse, while more conservative than what the old Courtney would have worn, still showed off the curves of her breasts more than he liked. Well, he did like it, but he didn’t like the way Zamika was eyeing her.
If anyone was going to be eyeing Courtney’s cleavage it would be him, not some FBI twit who looked as if he’d been born in a suit. It didn’t help matters that Ryan’s attire was meant to convey nerdiness rather than power. Ryan had actually had to learn how to dress like this. It didn’t come naturally!
During his rigorous thirteen-week basic training at Glynco he learned the stuff he needed to protect himself—how to shoot straight, how not to get shot, how to drive fast, how to react in a crisis. Along with the basics of law enforcement training, he’d also been required to take a course in Image Awareness where he’d been taught the talent of manipulating one’s wardrobe to the requirements of the job. Ryan had no idea what type of clothing would be appropriate for dealing with Courtney. Nothing he did seemed to be working.