He shoved the piece of paper into his back pocket. “I’ll see what I can do. Meantime, I’ll drive you to work. Stay at your office today.”
“But what about my car?”
“Leave it here for now. You can call me when you need a ride home.” He had no intention of taking her home, but he didn’t tell her that. She’d just throw a fit, and that was something he didn’t need. His day was growing more complicated by the minute, and he’d probably never get any real work done. Feenie Malone had a way of screwing up his productivity.
She stuck her chin out. “I don’t like this plan.”
“Yeah? Well, tough toenails, babe. It’s the best I can do right now, so you’ll have to live with it.”
Feenie sailed into the newsroom, trying not to let fear overshadow her excitement. Everybody in town was waking up to her front-page story this morning, and as much as she wanted to pretend she didn’t care about such things, she couldn’t help but feel a little proud. Her name. Her byline. If she accumulated enough of them, maybe other people would start seeing her as a real reporter, not just some bubblehead with D-cups.
She stopped by McAllister’s desk on the way to her cubicle.
“Thanks for last night,” she said.
He looked up from his computer. “Hey, nice story. You really got the goods, didn’t you?”
“Yep. Think Grimes liked it?”
“No doubt. You scooped everybody with that hazing angle. The radio guys were quoting your story this morning.”
“Really?” She beamed at him. “Well, thank you for sending it my way.”
“Malone!”
Feenie jerked her head up and saw Grimes standing in the doorway to his office. He didn’t look happy. “Get in here!”
What now? She glanced at Darla, but she was distracted on a phone call. Feenie dropped her purse off at her desk and straightened her shoulders before walking in.
“Yes?” She perched on the edge of a chair and crossed her legs. Her editor’s desk was drowning under files and newspapers.
“I just got off the phone with the father of one of your high school kids.” He rounded his desk and stopped in front of her. “He’s threatening to sue us if we don’t print a full retraction. The dad says your article was complete fiction.”
Feenie’s spine stiffened. “Everything I wrote was corroborated by the cops. Why should we print a retraction?”
“According to this guy, because we’ve ruined his kid’s life. He and several others were suspended this morning and kicked off the football team. The dad says it’s our fault his son lost his shot at a football scholarship.”
“That’s crazy,” Feenie said. “It was the players who set their school on fire. It’s not my fault they’re morons. Why should we retract?”
“We shouldn’t,” Grimes said. “We didn’t use the students’ names because they’re minors, and everything you put in the story is documented in the police report, right?”
“Right,” she answered, feeling immensely relieved that she’d been thorough about her fact checking last night.
“Then we have nothing to worry about. The dad’s just looking for someone to blame because his kid screwed up. Don’t worry about it.”
Feenie let out the breath she’d been holding. “Okay…so why are you so upset?”
He frowned. “It’s this cop shooting. It stinks to high heaven. You didn’t hear anything funny about Doring while you were covering the police beat, did you? Any chatter among the uniforms or anything?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t get much in the way of gossip.”
Grimes sighed. “That’s what I was afraid of. The official line is that some guy Doring put away must have come back for revenge, but McAllister isn’t buying it. He thinks Doring was accepting bribes.”
“Was he?”
Grimes shrugged. “Possibly. But we can’t run that without a mountain of evidence, unless we want to burn every bridge we have with the police department. Hell, everybody over there’s wearing black armbands and collecting money for the guy’s widow. If we run a dirty-cop story, they’re gonna go nuts.”
Her heart sank. She’d never thought Grimes would bow to this kind of pressure. “So we’re backing off?”
“I didn’t say that.” His gaze sharpened. “I’ve never backed off a news story in my life. I just said we need a mountain of evidence. So if you hear anything helpful—and I mean anything—pass it on to McAllister. And get busy on your fire story, too. We need a follow-up for tomorrow. Community reaction, plans to rebuild, the full rundown. Can you handle it?”
“Absolutely.”
“And make it good, Malone. We’ve got you on the front page again.”
Juarez saw her that afternoon at the intersection of Main Street and San Angelo. She was driving someone else’s car—a green Tercel—and wearing sunglasses, but there was no mistaking the mop of blond curls. Cursing, he made an illegal left turn and fell in behind her.
He stayed fairly close, but she didn’t seem to notice him. She was too busy yacking away on her cell phone. At the next stoplight, she put the phone away and craned her neck to look in her rearview mirror. He thought she’d spotted the tail, but then she started fiddling with something else. What was she doing? He squinted and leaned forward.
Fucking unbelievable. The woman was being shadowed by a hit man, and she was driving around town in broad daylight putting on lipstick.
She pulled into the lot of a fire station and parked. Without so much as a glance over her shoulder, she jumped out of the car and walked across the parking lot to the front entrance.
Juarez sat there, fuming. Whenever he started to think she had a brain, she pulled something like this. He clenched his hands on the steering wheel and counted to ten. It didn’t help. This woman was making him crazy, and he needed to get a grip. If she was hell bent on making a target of herself, there was nothing he could do about it. When she turned up dead, it wouldn’t be his fault. He didn’t want, or need, to protect her.
Except that he did. He wanted to protect her in the worst way. And for the worst reason.
She reminded him of Paloma.
It wasn’t her looks; it was her attitude. That stubborn, go-to-hell attitude that had been his sister’s trademark. It had gotten her through the academy. It had helped her make a name for herself as a balls-out cop, despite being a woman. It had helped her rise quickly through the ranks of the SAPD and land a job on their elite vice squad.
It had probably gotten her killed.
Paloma had been determined, confident, even cocky. And it had probably cost her her life.
If Feenie wasn’t careful, it would cost her hers, too.
Juarez stared out the window and worked on not grinding his teeth. How long was he going to sit out here waiting for her? He had real work to do, but instead he was stuck in a sweltering truck staking out a fucking prom queen who was too clueless to take care of herself.
Why was he getting so worked up over this? He took a deep breath. Maybe he was just pissed off because an asset to his investigation was being threatened.
Yeah, right. He was pissed off because he liked her. She was careless and irritating as hell and probably untrustworthy, but he liked her anyway. What he needed to do was sleep with her and get it out of his system. Sex was the best cure he knew for emotional attachment. No matter how much he liked a woman, the feelings faded soon after he slept with her. She’d become clingy and possessive, and then he’d cut her loose. Always. Without exception. No matter how hot she was, he’d leave without looking back. Feenie would be no different. He needed to nail her.
His phone rang, and the caller ID told him it was his contact at the DMV.
“Juarez.”
“Hey, Marco,” a female voice crooned. “I ran that tag you asked about.”
“Come up with anything?” He wasn’t expecting much. An incomplete license number was a long shot at best.
“You’re in luck,” she said. “You said ‘UT
3,’ right?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, a license with ‘UT’ in it is most likely a vanity plate. Longhorn fans pay big money every year to drive around with those letters on their cars.”
“Okay,” he said, liking where this was going. “Do you have a name for me?”
“I’m not a miracle worker, honey buns. But like I said, you’re in luck. It just so happens that there are only a dozen or so vanity plates with the characters ‘UT3’ in them in that order. I’ll email you the list.”
Feenie breezed out the door of the fire station and made her way back across the parking lot, barely noticing her surroundings as she went.
“Thanks,” Juarez said, putting his truck in gear. “I owe you one.”
“Humph. That’s what you said last time. I’ve started you a tab.”
As he hung up, Feenie slid behind the wheel. Juarez followed her back to the office where he’d dropped her off just hours before. Looking slightly more alert now, she passed the newspaper building and swerved into a lot next to a nearby bank. She parked and got out. She locked the car and glanced around briefly before ducking into the alley between the bank and the Gazette building.
Juarez made a U-turn, parked, and caught up to her in a few brisk strides. She never even heard him. When he was inches away from her, he grabbed her from behind and shoved her against a Dumpster. She let out a high-pitched squeal, but he silenced it by clamping a hand over her mouth. She squirmed and tried—unsuccessfully—to bite his fingers.
“Shit!”
She’d jabbed him in the thigh with the goddamn heel of her sandal. He used his other leg to sweep her feet out from under her and then twisted his body to catch her weight as they both tumbled to the pavement.
She sprawled on top of him, her eyes wide with fear that instantly turned to anger.
“Juarez!” she yelped, pounding his chest. “What the hell?”
She tried to wriggle away from him, but he tightened his grip on her hips. She wriggled again, and he felt a warm surge of lust.
“I thought I told you to stay put,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Let me go! God, you scared me to death!”
He loosened his grip, and she scrambled to her feet. He got up, too, and scowled down at her. The smell of sun-baked garbage surrounded them.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, brushing dirt off her jeans.
He crossed his arms. “Just proving what I told you earlier, that you’re about to get yourself killed.”
“That hurt, you idiot!” She twisted her arm to examine a scrape on her wrist.
“Yeah? Well, a bullet hurts more. I don’t know where you got the idea you could protect yourself, but you can’t. I’ve been tailing your ass for nearly an hour now, and I had you trapped in an alley before you even noticed me.”
Her chest heaved up and down as she balled her hands at her sides. “If you’ve been following me, then you know I took a friend’s car. To be less conspicuous.”
“That worked great.”
She frowned, and he braced for a stream of insults. Instead, she burst into tears.
Chapter
9
S hit. He hated tears. Growing up, they’d always been Paloma’s trump card.
“Hey.” He put his hand on her shoulder, and she turned away. He eased her around and saw that she looked…embarrassed?
“Don’t you know I’m a nervous wreck? I know my life’s in danger! I don’t need you reminding me all the time!”
Yes, she did, but he didn’t think it was a great moment to mention it. Instead, he pulled her against him and let her cry all over his T-shirt. Her breasts pressed against his rib cage, and the fruity scent of her shampoo drowned out the garbage smell.
Finally, she quieted.
“Babe, I’m trying to help you, but you’re making it very hard.” In more ways than one. He stepped back.
She sniffled. “You have a real funny way of helping.”
She looked up at him, her nose and eyes all pink from crying. He felt a tug of guilt, then dismissed it. Maybe he’d finally gotten through to her.
“Listen,” he said. “You’ve got to protect yourself, but you don’t know how. Quit being so stubborn, and admit you need my help.”
She drew away and swiped at her cheeks. After straightening her blouse, she tucked her hair behind her ears.
“Fine, you win.” She sounded composed again. “What do you want me to do?”
He stared at her a moment, knowing he’d be stupid to answer that question honestly. “Go wrap things up for the day,” he told her. “I’ll pick you up at the back entrance in twenty minutes.”
When Feenie exited the newspaper building fifty minutes later, she saw a black Silverado parked in the alley. A hot guy leaned against it, doing a masterful imitation of a pissed-off boyfriend.
“You’re late,” Juarez said, taking her elbow and steering her around to the passenger side.
“I’ve got a job, you know. I can’t just vanish into thin air.”
“I don’t like waiting.”
He opened the door and pushed her in before she could think of a witty retort.
“So, where to?” she asked when the engine started.
He backed out of the alley onto Main Street. He glanced at all the mirrors and made a series of turns down random streets until he seemed certain they weren’t being followed. Feenie took mental notes on the technique and resolved to try it next time she had to drive anywhere.
“Hello?” she said. “I want to know where we’re going.”
He spared her a brief glance. He looked irritated, and she didn’t know if it was because she’d been late meeting him or if there was something more. His temper seemed constantly set to simmer.
She stared through the windshield and crossed her arms. “Fine. If you’re not going to talk to me—”
“Firing range,” he said.
“You mean, like, target shooting?”
He looked at her. “You want to protect yourself, you need to know how to use a weapon.”
“I do. I’m trained in riflery.”
“You’re trained.”
“Yes.”
“And where did you get this training?”
“My dad taught me the basics, and then, before my senior year of college, I worked as a riflery instructor at a summer camp. I had to learn to shoot in prone, sitting, kneeling, and standing positions.” She ticked off the four positions on her fingers.
He smirked. “And this was what? Ten years ago?”
“Eight! And besides, I practice. Sometimes when I visit my dad, we shoot skeet together.”
“That’s great for bird hunting, but when was the last time you fired a handgun?”
It had been at least a decade, but damned if she’d tell him that. “It’s probably been a while.”
“Then you need to brush up. You can use mine for starters until I can get you something more your speed.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He smiled. “Trust me. My gun’s much too big for you.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. Was he teasing her now, or was she just imagining it? She looked out the window. “Yeah, I just bet.”
But he wasn’t kidding. His gun was all wrong for her. By the fourth clip, Feenie’s arms felt as if they were going to fall off. She lowered the Glock and plucked out the earplugs he’d given her.
“How much longer do you want to do this?” she asked.
“Tired already?”
“It’s just that it’s getting late, and I skipped lunch.”
“One more,” he said, handing her another clip. She loaded it the way he’d shown her and pointed her arms toward the target again.
“Try it with your left hand,” he said.
“But I’m right-handed.”
“All the more reason to practice with your left.” He eased up behind her and settled his hands on her hips, then nudged her feet apart with the toe of
his boot. “Wider stance.”
She followed his directions, but he continued to stand right behind her, so close she could feel his body heat. The muscles in her neck tensed. It was impossible to concentrate with him standing there.
“Don’t lock your knees.”
“Do you mind?” she snapped. “You’re crowding me.”
He backed away and leaned against the divider separating them from the neighboring shooter.
“Thank you.” She adjusted her stance and lifted the gun. Her arm started quivering. She fired but didn’t even hit the target, much less the silhouette.
“Whoa, there,” he said. “Why don’t we call it a day? We can come back tomorrow.”
Feenie shrugged and carefully passed him the gun. “Whatever you say.”
He took the Glock, put on the safety, and tucked it into his holster. She suddenly understood why he wore a leather jacket everywhere, despite the warm South Texas climate.
“Don’t you have to have a permit to carry a concealed weapon?” she asked.
“I’ve got one. You will, too.”
She scoffed. “I don’t think I’ll need it. I don’t own a purse big enough to conceal a thing like that.”
“It’s kind of clunky, I know. But old habits die hard. These things are pretty standard for law enforcement.”
Feenie watched him, debating whether this was a good opening to ask him why he’d left his police job. She’d been curious about that drug bust ever since her chat with McAllister.
“So, I was wondering—”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll get you something more your size. Good news is, your aim’s not bad. You need to get in shape, though.” He shrugged into his jacket and pocketed the earplugs they’d been using.
“What’s wrong with my shape?”
“You have no upper-body strength. You need to get some. You won’t be able to hit crap if your arms turn to Jell-O every time you pick up a gun.”
Jell-O arms. How nice. Sure, she’d put on a few pounds since her divorce, but she didn’t look that bad.
Or did she?
“Hey, relax,” he said, finally noticing he’d offended her. “We’ll work on it. You’ve got a pretty good start—probably from the swimming.”
One Last Breath Page 12