Dirty

by Debra Webb

  DIRTY

  A Jackie Mercer Novel

  Debra Webb

  Praise for Debra Webb:

  "Breathtaking romantic suspense that grabs the reader from the beginning and doesn’t let up. Riveting." ~Allison Brennan, NYT bestselling author

  "Webb keeps the suspense teasingly taut, dropping clues and red herrings one after another on her way to a chilling conclusion." ~Publishers Weekly

  "Outstanding reading. Take a deep breath and enjoy!" ~Romantic Times

  "Impossible to put down." ~Romance Novel TV

  "Bestselling author Debra Webb intrigues and tantalizes her readers from the first word." ~SingleTitles.com

  "Masterful edge-of-your seat suspense." ~A Romance Review

  "Romantic suspense at its best!" ~Erica Spindler NYT bestselling author

  "Fast-paced, action-packed suspense, the way romantic suspense is supposed to be. Webb crafts a tight plot, a kick-butt heroine, a sexy hero with a past and a mystery as dark as the black water at night." ~Romantic Times

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2011, Webbworks, LLC

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  DIRTY

  A Jackie Mercer Novel

  Debra Webb

  CHAPTER ONE

  Where the hell is that skirt?

  Littered garments made a haphazard trail from the door to the bed. Someone had been in a serious hurry? Oh, yeah. That would have been me.

  Grinning like a fan-girl who’d just gotten her idol’s autograph, I picked through the hastily shed clothes. The skirt HAS to be here somewhere. Short, black, definitely wrinkled. I shivered at the memory of Kevin lowering the zipper and then allowing the slinky material to slither down my legs.

  “Come on,” he growled, surprising me as his strong arms wrapped around my waist and hauled me back to the bed. “You don’t want to leave yet.”

  The breath rushed out of my lungs in one long whoosh as my nipples grazed his chest. Before I could protest he rolled me onto my back and ground his hips into mine, sending more sweet shivers through me and simultaneously resurrecting memories of the recent, totally awesome orgasm he’d prompted. I sighed, wishing we could stay like this just a little while longer.

  “I can’t,” I said with genuine regret as my fingers splayed over hot skin still damp with the sweat of arduous lovemaking. “But it was—”

  “Amazing,” he suggested, breathing the word, his voice a sensuous whisper. He kissed my smiling lips, then the tip of my nose as he braced one arm on either side of my head. With a languid, satisfied sigh, he looked deeply into my eyes and asked, “Lawyer?”

  I laughed at the sudden change of subject, couldn’t help myself. The humor sparkling in his dark brown eyes assured me that he took no offense. “No,” I shot back. He was something. Despite having just shared—as he so aptly put it—amazing sex, my body still humming with pleasure, he wanted to know.

  “Well, damn,” he murmured. “I was certain I’d nailed it this time.”

  “Don’t you have to get to the office?” I teased. “I know I do.” My assistant’s going to kill me! Right after he interrogated me like a hostile witness.

  “Did you have to remind me?” Kevin stole another kiss, then deepened it before drawing back, leaving his taste and the promise of more to linger on my lips. Those skilled fingers forged a delicious path down my ribcage, sending another rush of tingly sensations cascading along every single nerve ending as he moved away.

  I had to get up...had to get going, should never have let him drag me back into bed. To hell with it. Two more minutes wouldn’t kill anyone.

  I refused to let reality intrude just yet. Not today. Today was special. I deserved this moment. So I lay there, swaddled in the sweet scents of lovemaking, and watched him stroll leisurely into the bathroom, at once grateful for and bummed out by the tantalizing view.

  Eventually the sound of water spraying in the shower dredged up a renewed, yet reluctant sense of urgency. I was going to be seriously late if I didn’t get a move on. Though the idea held absolutely no appeal. I still had to drive to my place, shower and dress for work.

  Surrendering to the inevitable, I rolled from the tousled mass of linens, located my pink panties—the sexiest pair I own—and dragged them on. The skimpy bra was somewhat harder to track down. A quick dive and search beneath the tangled sheets and I hit pay dirt.

  Feeling like the luckiest woman alive in skimpy, however overpriced, silk and lace, I lifted one frilly pink strap into place and sighed. Life just didn’t get any better than this. Before I could stop myself, I burst into a totally tacky victory dance, pumped my fist in the air and had to bite my lip to hold back a redneck yeehaw! Jackie Mercer, forty-five...and still able to rock her lover’s world! Yes!

  I caught myself. Grabbed back some semblance of decorum and prayed my new lover hadn’t witnessed the telltale episode. Eyes wide with encroaching humiliation, I eased closer to the bathroom door and listened to ensure he was still in the shower. His low, sexy humming assured me he was. Thank God. He definitely didn’t need to see that. Desperation was not a pretty sight.

  Okay, get a grip, Jackie. Hands on hips, I performed a quick assessment of the situation. We’d done the deed. There was no taking it back. But it wasn’t like we’d jumped in the sack at hello. Preliminary groundwork had included two weeks of flirting and three official dates. I shrugged and concluded this was adequate. Acceptable by most current social standards.

  Years of hard time done on a church pew instantly shamed me. Fine. I threw up my hands and glanced heavenward. I should have held out for a couple more dates. But, Jesus Christ, I’m only human! It had been a really, really long time since I’d had sex. Three whole months. Ninety days. I knew criminals who got off with less time served than that.

  And all the right signs were there. One, he wasn’t seeing anyone else. Two, he got me, liked me just the way I am—a real biggie in my book. I smiled. He made me laugh, that was three. Four, the kissing was really, really good. I melted a little just thinking about the way he kissed. And finally, five, the one true test every woman used as a measure of whether she was ready for that step: I felt comfortable baring my body to him.

  My big old smile drooped into a ground-dragging frown...but I so sucked at picking the right guy. My aunt on my mother’s side once told me that maybe my picker was broken. Maybe she was right.

  Still...sex with Kevin was so good! That if-I-died-right-now-I’d-be-happy good. Why the hell had I waited for two whole weeks? I didn’t need anyone else’s permission. That’s right. I folded my arms over my breasts and nodded resolutely. My self-confidence stock rallied. I was a grown woman who worked hard to make ends meet in this unpredictable economy. I deserved great sex the same as the next chick.

  As if to defy my emancipating proclamation, musical notes erupted from my cell phone, heralding reality and undermining my newly gained triumph over doubt, regret, guilt and all that other crap women too often felt after sex without the solidifying marriage document and accompanying shiny gold band.

  Muttering a self-deprecating curse I weaved through the clutter until I found my recklessly abandoned—I can’t believe I did that—Birkin bag. The uninvited nuisance erupted into those taunting chimes twice more before I fished it out of my diamond embellished, crocodile hide encased icon of feminine power. I had to get this damned—I mean beloved—bag organized one day.

  Yeah, right. Organization was not one of my stronger poi
nts. Another blast of my ringtone had me pressing the necessary button to accept the call before I identified the caller. Mainly because my reflection in the mirror snagged my scattered attention. Actually, I didn’t look bad for a woman a few months closer to fifty than forty. That hot guy in the shower sure as hell hadn’t complained. Determination squared my shoulders. By God I was turning a new leaf. No more excuses. That worn out rationalization of can’t-trust-my-judgment-in-men was no longer going to hold me back.

  “Mercer,” I answered as I tugged the other bra strap onto my shoulder. No more excuses. No more doubts. Today was the first day of the rest of my life. Not exactly original but whatever. Satisfied with my conclusion, I let go all those foolish inhibitions in one long contented breath.

  “Oh...my...gawd,” a male voice bleated in my ear, drawing my attention back to the caller. “I’m too late. You slept with him, didn’t you?”

  Irritation pierced the softer emotions I had every right to savor. Regret followed hot on its heels. “What do you want, Hobbs?” Leave it to my assistant to know just how to spoil the moment. I surveyed the cluttered carpet. Where was that frigging skirt? I was late. And confused, dammit—despite my new leaf. Worse, Hobbs would never let this go without a full concession of all the dirty details.

  “Remember, Jackie, I warned you that there was something I didn’t like about that guy?”

  I stopped rummaging, planted a hand on my hip and restrained the impulse to tell Hobbs where he could put his annoying hunches. “Look, we’ve been over this before. You’re not my father or my husband. You’re my employee. That position only extends your jurisdiction of involvement to my professional life. My personal life is off limits, Hobbs. End of subject.” I gave myself a mental pat on the back for sounding firm and commanding.

  When I would have stabbed the button to end the call Hobbs said the words that turned the pride in my unwavering show of authority into a cold, hard knot of disappointment.

  “His real name is Ken Willis. He’s a wanted man, honey. Fraud, embezzlement. He skipped out on bail over in San Antonio ten months ago. I hate having to tell you this, but if it makes you feel any better, this guy is money in the bank,” he added, without the slightest hint of remorse.

  My gaze strayed longingly toward the bathroom door where the sound of the shower told me the man in question was still otherwise occupied. A mixture of disillusionment and dread settled like a bad Mojito in my stomach.

  I should have known. I finally meet a guy who feels like a perfect fit and he’s a freakin’ fugitive. An accused felon. My head moved slowly from side to side in denial, but the energy was wasted. My assistant wasn’t the type to make mistakes. Unlike me, apparently.

  Utterly deflated, I plowed my fingers through my hair in a futile attempt to evict the disenchantment from my head. “You got the paper already?”

  If I’d learned anything about Hans Christian Hobbs it was that he never introduced a possibility he hadn’t researched. If he said this guy was money in the bank, then he’d already done the grunt work.

  And don’t ask about the Hans Christian thing, apparently his parents—who are every bit as made in the U.S.A. as I am—thought it would be cool to name their only son after their favorite author of children’s stories. In my opinion that’s likely why the guy decided he was gay. What the hell else was he going to do with a name like Hans Christian? This is Texas you know, where country western music is king and guys aren’t named after prissy storytellers who’ve been dead for more than a century.

  “Of course I have the paper. I can be there in twenty minutes,” he offered, going for considerate but sounding more hopeful than anything. Hobbs liked the whole rush of taking down the bad guys. Of flexing his woefully meager masculinity muscle. At least in theory. He rarely participated in field work, but then this was personal. “You don’t need to do this alone,” he tossed in for good measure, “especially under the circumstances.”

  Like hell. “I’ve got the situation under control.” Ignoring his protests, I ended the call. A sense of calm settled over me; that confusing whirlwind of emotions subsided. Being the persistent meddler he was, Hobbs instantly called back. I gave him the bitch button then shoved the phone back into my bag. My fingers instinctively curled around the comforting grip of the Smith & Wesson .38 nestled at the very bottom of the chaos there.

  That’s the one thing I can count on without question or hesitation...my work. It never lets me down. And neither does Shorty. That’s the nickname for my .38 since its barrel is a mere three inches but, trust me, it’s not the length that matters, it’s how you use it and I know how to use it.

  I didn’t bother with credentials or clothes. Just eased cautiously into the steamy bathroom then pulled open the shower door, careful to keep my right hand and the weapon shielded behind me.

  The man I knew as Kevin Williams, the same one who’d swept me off my feet and straight into his bed after only three dates, smiled widely. “Decide to join me?” he inquired with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows.

  One look at his gloriously aroused lower anatomy told me he was definitely prepared to back up the proposition. For a single second I considered taking him up on it. I knew first hand how good it would be. But that part of our relationship was over. Oh well...it wasn’t the end of the world. Just the end of the best sex I’d had since the last Texan resided in the White House. What a waste.

  I laughed softly, hating the female weakness that allowed me to still want him on a physical level. “You know,” I said casually, “you’ve been after me to tell you what I do for a living since we first met.”

  He reached up with both hands and pushed the damp hair from his face, the move giving me another mesmerizing view of his spectacular body. Damn he was something. The muscle definition alone was enough to get a girl’s motor running.

  “You said you didn’t want to ruin things,” he reminded, “that your profession usually sends the opposite sex running.” He twisted the faucet lever to the off position and grabbed the towel he’d slung over the door.

  The humid air suddenly felt too thick, the room too quiet for my comfort. I had a feeling his lust wasn’t the only thing I’d just aroused.

  “That’s right,” I admitted with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm and one last wistful eye tour of that phenomenal body. I should have known that nothing this good would last. Maybe it was bad karma. Or simply the poor judgment I’d suspected since my very first sexual experience. Whatever the case, I appeared destined to set the world record for disastrous choices in men.

  He draped the terrycloth around his hips and propped one broad shoulder against the elegantly tiled stall opening. Good-looking and money, too. His luxurious townhouse sat on a rare, neatly manicured plot of designer grass in the swankiest part of Houston. Not to mention the very expensive, very classy Jag he drove.

  All likely paid for by other people’s hard-earned money, if the warrant for his arrest was legit.

  Now that pissed me off. Narrowed everything into instant, crystal clear focus.

  “Look, Jackie,” he said gently, his face the perfect mask of genuine affection in spite of the suspicions no doubt taking root, “if it bothers you that much, you don’t have to tell me.” He traced a finger down my arm, eliciting a shiver in spite of my surge of irritation and absolute determination not to react. “I’m perfectly content with things just as they are.”

  Damn. That was sweet. “Actually,” I countered, “I do.” I swung my weapon into position, my aim automatically zeroing in center torso. Disbelief registered briefly in his eyes. “Have to tell you that is,” I explained flatly. “I’m a private investigator who does a little bounty hunting on the side. And your ass is mine, darlin’.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sour sweat, bad coffee and stale smoke.

  Houston Police Department’s Central Processing always smelled that way. No matter what time of year, no matter how heavy or light the number of reluctant guests. Maybe it was because mos
t of the detainees were male and either flat out nasty, perspiring profusely or both. The stagnant aroma reminded me of the boys’ locker room back in high school.

  Not that I thought boys were stinky or that I spent that much time in forbidden male territory but there was that one senior who had made my ripening freshmen hormones fizz like a shaken bottle of Double Cola. Apparently I wasn’t any smarter about men back then either. Otherwise I wouldn’t have lost my virginity on a battered wooden bench surrounded by dented metal lockers and abandoned football gear.

  O-kay...enough with the stroll down memory lane.

  I ignored the leers sent my way by a couple of the social misfits draped against the bars of their cages. Freshly apprehended perps generally fell into two categories. The ogling slugs who knew the routine well enough to be bored and the quivering first-timers huddled in the far corners fearing for their very survival.

  Ken Willis refused to fit into either slot. He’d shut down like going-home traffic at five o’clock on Friday, uttered not a single word to me after I identified myself. All emotion had blanked from his face. He’d merely pulled on his clothes as I ordered, then offered his wrists for the Tuff-Tie cuffs I dredged up from the bottom of my Birkin.

  Sounds kinky, I know. But carrying around the essentials like a gun, cell phone, hand restraints, as well as pepper spray and a Tazer, is part of the job. Just like a Girl Scout...always prepared. Too bad I’d missed out on the merit badge for recognizing creeps posing as Prince Charming.

  I paused at the processing desk long enough to collect a body receipt for the fugitive I’d just turned over and produced a smile for the uniform on duty. “Thanks.”