by Nikki Duncan
She hung up and stared at the silent phone in her hand for three seconds before a full body spasm shook her. “Ugh. What a sleaze.”
Grateful she hadn’t met the detective personally, she dialed Harte’s cell. It rang once before his deep voice vibrated into her ear—effortless and arousing, a truly genuine purr that belonged on sex lines.
“Detective Harte.”
At least someone knew how to answer a phone. “It’s Maggie Sullivan.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I received a delivery you should see.”
“What?” The professional inquiry he’d led with became a terse one-word snap.
“I would prefer it if you came over.” The raccoon image was planted firmly on her memory, but she’d rather not describe it. “It’s on my porch.”
“We’ll be right there.” He said something in a muffled voice, then spoke directly into the phone again. “Keep your broom in the closet.” Click.
She held the phone away from her ear and rolled her eyes. What was it with cops? Did their mothers not teach them any manners? Or did the academy erase the training?
She checked on Jared, told him to stay in his room and listen for Emma. He nodded and kept playing his game. She headed back to the entryway to watch for Harte out the front window, but he and his partner were already on the porch.
They were dressed similarly in jeans and snug, muscle-hugging T-shirts with lightweight suit jackets likely intended to conceal their guns. Harte’s partner, Craig if she remembered correctly, took pictures while Harte ordered someone on the phone to come deal with the animal. He hung up, slipped the phone into one pocket and pulled a pair of latex gloves from the other. He lifted the paper from the carcass. His body stiffened.
She wasn’t sure how to define the look on his face, but violent rage was mild.
Rather than spy on them, and she had no desire to see the raccoon up close and personal again, Maggie moved into the living room, certain they would ring the bell when they were ready to talk. The flickering images of the animal, of Harte stiffening, of the dead woman’s once happy face kept her alert. Incredibly alert.
She fluffed and straightened the pillows. Turned a few of the knick-knacks on the entertainment center back in order. Looked around the room for something else to do and settled on straightening the magazines before she realized she was fidgeting. She never fidgeted.
Determined to stop, she sat on the sofa and flipped through the parenting magazine still in her hand. The doorbell rang, jarred her from her skimming. BD and his partner stood on a bloodstained doorstep, free of the dead animal.
Handsome in a classic blonde, sexy-guy-next-door kind of way, Harte’s partner would likely be the charmer of the duo. His flirty smile and half wave of greeting confirmed it. She’d bet he could break a woman’s heart without her feeling a moment of pain.
“Mrs. Sullivan.” Harte’s hard gaze roamed her face. Her temperature shot up. “You may remember my partner, Craig Harrison.”
“Yes. Come on in.” She shook Craig’s hand and was a little stunned to find herself smiling at him, considering the reason for their visit. Definitely a charmer. She nodded toward the smear of blood on the porch she’d have to clean up soon. Very soon. “Thanks for coming so quickly and taking care of that.”
“Thank you for calling us.” Harte held up the plastic bag with the pictures as they moved inside. “Hopefully this will lead us to answers. Miss Dane’s family deserves closure.”
What about mine? Why was Mike’s replacement killed? “So you identified her already?” Maggie closed the door against the summer heat and humidity. When she moved up beside Harte, his eyes were riveted on the once again clean living room.
“Yes. You clean up quickly.”
“Yes.” She would have preferred sleep, but until four thirty a.m. the last two nights she’d alternately cleaned and checked on the kids and watched the street for Harte’s car. He’d been pretty well hidden behind a neighbor’s sedan, but she’d spotted his black Audi.
Each time, an edgy flurry had spread through her at the sight of his car, encouraging her to go ask why he was watching her house and how long he’d been doing it. Another part wasn’t sure she wanted the answer. Especially now.
She led them into the recessed living area. “I don’t know who would have left that on my porch. Neither can I help but wonder what kind of message the picture is supposed to be sending. What does this have to do with me?”
“I couldn’t say.” Harte’s face remained void of emotion, but his tone stated the lack of answer was due more to job commitment than lack of suspicion. Craig shot a quick surprised glance at his partner, but veiled it instantly.
“Of course not,” Maggie muttered.
Harte asked questions along the lines of those he’d asked Saturday. Only this time they were more focused on her and any possible enemies. As if she’d done anything as a single mom who builds websites to make enemies. When she said as much, he suggested the heat of the summer and the inactivity of school not being in session, kids got bored and pulled pranks. She knew bored-over-the-summer kid pranks. This was no prank.
They wrapped up the questions and headed toward the door. “Thanks again for calling me.”
“Didn’t have a reason not to. Oh…” She met Harte’s gaze wanting to make sure he understood her coming point. “When you get back to the station, you might mention a thing called professionalism to Detective Pritchett. While your phone manners aren’t great, his are appalling and could land him or the Dallas PD in a lawsuit.”
“What did he do?” Harte’s jaw hardened so his growled question came through gritted teeth. White-hot hatred burned in his eyes and pulsed in the air.
Maggie took a blinking step back before she got burned. That anger was aimed at the other cop? She’d hate to be a real enemy facing him.
“What did he say?” Harte repeated the question, each word a punishing punch.
“He answered your phone.” She thought about ending there. “Apparently I don’t know the pleasure I’m missing by preferring you to him because he can satisfy all my needs. Oh, and I have a name, but he seemed to be under the impression it was either sugar or darlin’. I felt the need for a shower when I hung up.”
Harte’s pupils shrank until the blue of his irises popped dominantly. He methodically clenched and unclenched his hands in tight fists while the veins in his neck bulged and throbbed. “I will deal with him.”
“Let me know if you need a statement.”
“The bastard would have an explanation.”
She’d never witnessed a blind rage, yet didn’t doubt for a second if Pritchett crossed Harte’s path any time soon, Harte would find immense pleasure in making sure he was the closest thing to a dead man walking.
“He isn’t worth killing,” she murmured.
“Maybe not.”
Mmm-mm-mm. She’d always gone for the brainy types, but the tightly leashed, raw power radiating from Harte, mixed with his spicy clove scent and downright sexiness called to her inner female. Seeing him at such a primal moment… Her pulse points pounded.
“Right.” Maggie reached behind her and opened the door. A series of loud pops rang out. Wood splintered and stung her cheek.
She dove toward the floor. Her heart stampeded. Craig rushed outside in a semi crouch.
Harte seemed to materialize beside her, hovering so big she couldn’t see beyond him as he stretched a leg out and kicked the door closed. The gun he hadn’t been holding a moment ago pointed to the floor by his side.
“What was that?”
“I’m not sure.” Harte cocked his head and focused on something she couldn’t hear for a moment before easing her up and toward the couch. “Sit down.”
Shaking her head, she pulled away and ran down the hall. Harte stopped pursuing her after two steps and a harsh curse. He still stood cemented to the tile with pale cheeks and a terror-stricken stare when she returned from checking the kids. What had
scared him after the fact? “Were those gunshots? Was someone shooting?”
“Maybe. It could be nothing.”
It wasn’t. He and Craig both knew it was something.
Worrying her wedding ring, she watched Harte shed the fear-filled shell and slip back into in cop mode. Alert. Brash. Utterly controlled and intense while he waited for Craig to return. She would have expected Harte to be the one seeking out danger while Craig soothed a woman’s fears and worries.
“Mags?” Harte lowered his gun between his knees as he sat on the table in front of her. “Are you okay?”
She met his gaze and was struck by sincere warmth. Familiarity. He always called her Mrs. Sullivan. Until now. And she hated when people shortened her name, so why didn’t it bother her with him? Think about it later. She took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Yes.”
“You sure?” He leaned forward.
His blue eyes were gentle and wary, as if he expected her to wig out. Rooted in his gaze, arrested by his calm, she settled. Her pulse slowed to almost normal.
“Maybe.” Instead of thinking of him as a grumpy detective who happened to be the star of her sex dreams, she saw him as a man who could be tender. A man who made her feel safe.
She looked around the room, took in the plastic covered paper now on the floor, the splinters of wood and the no longer unlocked windows.
A woman killed.
A gutted raccoon.
A picture of her late husband.
Getting shot at.
Everything was connected. Somehow. When she factored in Harte sleeping in his car outside of her home she became more certain. She wasn’t safe.
“Mags?”
Their first instinct had been danger. And not entirely because they were used to it. Whatever had happened in the park had them on edge. And for the first time, she felt exposed and vulnerable in her home.
“I’m scared.” She didn’t like making the admission, especially to Harte. But she’d put it out there and couldn’t rescind it now.
He rested a hand over hers. Sadness clouded his eyes when he met her gaze. “I’ll take care of things.”
“That doesn’t change the facts.” She thumbed her wedding ring in circles on her finger. Tingles from his touch were enveloping her right hand. “I’m afraid to take the kids to the park, I don’t feel comfortable in my own house at night, and I can’t shake the feeling someone’s watching me—namely you.”
His throat bobbed with a swallow. “I could come by more often…check in…sort of…be around.”
He carried a gun and was big enough to make anyone think twice about breaking in. Not all bad. She’d just have to ignore the sizzle in her blood when he got close. Assuming she understood his proposal. “Are you suggesting you move in here?”
A cough sounded from the front door. Maggie jumped and turned her head. Harte jerked back. Craig stood, slack-jawed in the doorway for several “dun-dun-dun” singing seconds before shaking his cop mask back into place. “There are a few bullets in the door, but whoever was shooting is long gone or shot from a distance.”
What was happening to her neighborhood?
She turned to Harte. “About you being around more…”
“You asked him to move in! You’ve got to be kidding!” Grace’s eyes lit with mischief as she cradled Emma in her arms.
Grace was such a sweet sounding name for her sassy-mouthed meddling sister. In the year since Mike’s death, they’d shifted from close sisters to best friends. Maggie had relied heavily on Grace’s support during the pregnancy and the last few months of dealing with two children alone.
“I wish I were.” Maggie rolled her eyes as she scrubbed at the blood on the front porch for the second time. She’d repaired the bullet holes in the doorframe last night. Grace only knew a woman had been found in the park and she thought the raccoon was a prank. Maggie omitted the bit about the paper. “I was…momentarily freaked.”
Okay, she still was, but once she’d started telling Grace about Harte she’d quickly realized she needed to travel a different path if she was going to keep the gruesome truths from her pushy, though caringly so, sister.
Grace squatted in front of her and stilled. Worry pinched her flawless face. “What did he say?”
“Thanks, but no thanks. Worded more diplomatically.” Wouldn’t want to hurt the victim’s feelings.
Maggie wiped the sweat from her forehead and kept scrubbing. Physical labor with the intention of releasing frustrations didn’t work when she ended up talking about the source of the frustration.
“The idea was his to begin with, or I thought it was.” She swiped at the sweat again and scrubbed harder. “He looked horrified at the prospect.”
“Is it really the security of his presence you want?” Grace wiggled her brows. Her sister’s spirit drew men in. Combine it with the smooth perfection of her Audrey Hepburn face and the fact she was financially well off and she became lethal.
“Please!” Maggie’s system hadn’t stopped revving until half an hour after Harte had left, but she wasn’t telling Grace that. She had to focus on the protection. Prolonged exposure to the scrumptious detective could be troublesome. “He’s upped the patrols in the neighborhood and has been spending the night in his car. He knows more than he’s telling.”
How is this not telling her too much? Shut up, Maggie.
Signs of joking slid from Grace’s face as the ruling concern and worry returned. “You’re really scared.”
“No. Curious.” I’m not sure even I buy that lie.
“I could stay with you.” Grace rubbed her nose against Emma’s cheek. “You could bring the kids and stay with me.”
“I know.” Putting more muscle behind the scrubbing effort, Maggie avoided her sister’s perceptive gaze and skill to see more than anyone was comfortable with. She’d known Grace would worry, which was why she’d left out any hint of a connection to the park. Getting Grace riled up would lead to her parents getting involved. She loved them all, knew they meant well, but she had to handle this on her terms.
Harte may be problematic, but he wouldn’t insinuate himself in all the areas of her personal life. Plus, he was licensed to carry and shoot a gun. She would tell herself his staking her street out was enough. “Honestly, I’m fine.”
“Maggie, I…”
A purring car engine drew their attention. They turned and watched the car roll slowly past.
“Isn’t that Mike’s old car?” Grace moved toward the edge of the porch.
“Yeah.” The car he’d died in and that she thought had been destroyed. How had the wide-jawed, beefy man behind the wheel gotten it?
Shadowed by the angle of the sun, dark shades and a ball cap, she couldn’t see the man’s face as he tossed a padded envelope through the open passenger window onto her grass before speeding away. Spasms speared the muscles lining Maggie’s spine.
The package looked harmless, but Maggie wasn’t interested in finding another bloody gift. Or more pictures tying Mike to a dead woman, and she didn’t want Grace seeing them either. She also wanted to figure out how the mystery driver had accessed Mike’s car when the police had impounded it.
She grabbed Grace’s leg when she started to move down the steps. “Leave it.”
“I want to know what it is.”
“Leave it.” She pinned Grace with a glare and pulled out her cell to call Harte. He dispatched a patrol car to canvas the area for Mike’s car and promised to be right over.
Maggie tried to get Grace to take the kids while she dealt with the cops, but her stubborn sister resisted until Harte and Craig pulled up less than five minutes later with a patrol car right behind them. Harte and Craig moved toward her and Grace. The officers headed to the envelope with some sort of scanner.
“Mrs. Sullivan.” Craig addressed her, but his gaze lingered on Grace.
Grace handed Emma over to her and stepped toward Craig. “I would like to know what’s going on around here.”
; Maggie stood behind Grace and shook her head at Craig begging him to watch his words. She was tired of being sheltered by her family, and it would only take knowing the raccoon wasn’t a prank for them to close in.
“It looks like a prankster has zeroed in on your sister.” Craig smiled lightly at Grace. “Why don’t you come with me? Tell me what you noticed?”
“You’re trying to hide something.”
“Simply need to get your impressions without mixing them with Maggie’s.” Before Grace could argue, he took her elbow and led her away more smoothly than anyone had ever handled her sister.
Harte—with his gaze boring into Emma—stiffly closed the distance to Maggie. His hands worked in and out of fists at his sides. Emma rolled her head and blinked at him with the wide blue eyes she’d inherited from Mike’s dad. Eyes nearly as blue as Harte’s.
He ran his hands up and down his denim-clad thighs. His gaze never left Emma. “Whose baby?”
“Mine.” She moved farther away from Grace to make sure her sister didn’t get any worrisome details. “Emma’s three months old. I was a few weeks pregnant when Mike died.”
“Sh-she’s gorgeous.” His Adam’s apple worked the words up in what sounded like a painful squeeze. He kept rubbing his thighs, his fingers clawing at his legs. Like he wanted to reach out, but was afraid.
“Thank you.” She swayed slightly, side-to-side, and watched Harte.
His gaze flicked between her and Emma, lingering longer on Emma. He seemed uneasy in his own skin. And sad. “Harte.”
Instead of saying more about Emma, he shifted visibly into cop mode with a hardening set to his jaw and shoulders. He asked her about the car and the person driving it. Not that she was able to give him much other than it being Mike’s car, the man was big with a square jaw and he’d worn black glasses and a ball cap.
“Detective Harte?” The officers approached with the envelope.
“Yeah.” He blinked and turned to Officers McClain and Lewis according to their nametags. “What’s in the envelope?”
“An iPod.” Officer McClain looked between her and Harte. Caution creased his face. “There’s dried blood on it and an inscription on the back.”