Too Sexy for his Stetson (11 page)

“Uh–huh. So, apparently Mr. Drop Dead Gorgeous isn’t a jerk after all.”

Brandy took off jogging.

“Come on, what happened?” Tonya adjusted her pace to stay alongside Brandy.

“Nothing. A kiss that’s all.”

“Pffft.”

Brandy pumped it up. She shouldn’t have brought up the subject, because it certainly wasn’t a
nothing
kiss. Keeping her focus on running, she forced herself not to glance aside, but she knew Tonya’s elegant dark brow was raised in a demanding third–degree arch.

She didn’t get close to people, ever. Yet she’d let down her guard with Blade in ways she’d never done before. And if life in the fast lane with the sexy lieutenant turned out to be half as exciting as last night’s sample, it would be some ride. A ride that would culminate in a dead end.

Tapping Brandy’s shoulder, Tonya slowed her down. “Sounds interesting.”

“I’m not looking for a relationship or anything serious. And if I were, it couldn’t be with a colleague.”

“Sometimes things happen whether you’re looking or not. And if they come in the form of tall, hot, and sexy? Why the heck not? You can take a little ride without buying the horse or advertising your private business in the
Daily News.
”

Brandy accelerated the pace and pulled ahead while she fought the visual Tonya had painted of riding Blade Beringer, which fine–tuned into a steamy video.
One Hot Kiss
, starring One Hotter Man. By the time they circled back to Tour d’Alene, the video loop threatened to drive her crazy. It would be so easy to progress to the next stage—doing what comes naturally. Sex. Maybe Tonya was right.
That
didn’t have to qualify as a relationship.

And if they kept things light? And discreet?

But given free rein, the chemistry between them would be as explosive as dynamite, which brought her right back to the point. It would be downright dangerous for their careers. Any indulgence between the two of them could, and most likely would, blow up in their faces.

So an hour later, why did her heart skip when she noticed her FTO’s Tahoe parked in front of the A–frame sheriff’s building? And why did it continue to hip–hop as she coaxed her truck up the final ten yards of driveway and tooled to a stop in the parking lot?

She hated the out–of–control feeling. Taking in three deep breaths, she jumped out of the truck and jogged to the door. Inside, she strode purposely through the office, making it a point to keep from immediately honing in on Blade as she fell in line behind Todd Christenson at the java station. She concentrated on continuing to avoid eye contact with her FTO so no one would notice that she was undressing him with her eyes.

Todd filled a paper cup and handed it to her. “Genuine L.C.S.M.” Little Chute Sheriff’s Mud. “You’re going to need it.”

“How so?”

“We got another threat from the Neo Nazi contingent. A note tacked to our front door suggesting the dam is vulnerable. The Department of Homeland Security is not taking the threat lightly.”

Blade joined in. “HS has engaged the Joint Terrorism Task Force. They consider a terrorist attack on the dam highly possible.”

“Wow!” Brandy faced him. Her pulse skipped. She swigged her coffee, letting it scorch her throat, while a certain kiss hot enough to start a forest fire burned across her mind. How in the hell was she going to make it through five months of training with Blade Beringer and not spontaneously combust?

“Here’s the report on the John Doe we fished out of the river.” Mr. All Business handed her a folder. “I’ll be in Fort Shoshone for most of the day. Brandy, you can go over the report and make a list of follow–ups. This afternoon, you’ll be working with Joe on dispatch. Christiansen’s in charge of the patrol schedule.”

Rather than laser–locking her gaze on Blade, she busied herself with studying the outside of the manila folder. Once he left, she flipped open the file. Her eyes stumbled over the name at the top. She blinked. It couldn’t be.

But it was.

Black print on the stark white page wavered. Her lungs suddenly sought oxygen like a marathon runner pushing for the finish line. She glanced around. No one seemed to have noticed her reaction.

Joey Secada. Former Milwaukee police officer, currently employed as a cop in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin.
Skip’s alibi.

She hadn’t guessed the distorted face of the floater belonged to anyone she’d ever met. Her heart nearly stopped. Her fingers gripped the steaming cup of brew so hard hot liquid spilled across the back of her hand, but the sting barely registered.

Secada was dead.

He could never change his testimony.

And Joey Secada’s corpse had turned up practically at Skip Coogan’s back door.

With her heartbeat galloping and the room closing in on her, she managed some semblance of normalcy. Weak–kneed, she edged toward one of the interrogation rooms and slipped inside. Closed the door.

Of course, the name Secada meant nothing to Little Chute’s law officials.

A lump clogged her windpipe. What the hell had the Fond du Lac cop been doing in Idaho? And just a few days after Attorney Rosenberg had approached him about the Marilyn Abbott murder case?

She swallowed her frustration only to have it bubble out in a groan. Tears pressed against her eyes. She fought the burning sensation. Crying was for wimps and stupid little girls. Or for someone fortunate enough to have anyone around who cared.

No one could ever question Secada again. About anything. She fingered the edge of the folder then smacked her fist on the desk. When she pulled out her phone to call Rosenberg, she discovered he’d already left a voice mail.

Got the news about Secada just after I received an anonymous call from a man who knew I’d been questioning Joey Secada. Said he was worried about him because he’d dropped off the face of the Earth. Call me ASAP.

Aha, Secada had reacted to their probing, and he’d discussed it with someone. Her fingers gripped the phone. A breath hissed through her pursed lips as she dialed Rosenberg’s number. He didn’t answer.

Okay, even if they could never get a statement from Secada, maybe they could get something from the mystery caller. It was time they caught a break.

Last night, Brandy had questioned herself and her ten–year vendetta against Skip Coogan. Now Secada turned up dead here in Coogan’s stomping ground. Suddenly, Coogan jumped back to the top of her suspect list. And Lord, that put her and the man who could curl her toes with a single kiss back on opposite sides of the Continental Divide. So far, Blade hadn’t grasped the obvious, that she was suggesting not only that Coogan had framed her mother but that
he
had murdered Marilyn Abbott.

How much info dare she share with Blade? Whatever she and Rosenberg dug up couldn’t get back to Coogan. It’d give him a chance to fabricate yet another defense.

****

Before Blade even knocked on the office door, Skip Coogan’s secretary buzzed him. The head honcho of Fort Shoshone’s Police Department met him at the doorway.

“Sorry I didn’t get a chance to stick around after the banquet last night.” Blade shook Skip’s hand and grabbed a straight back chair, turning it around opposite the desk. He straddled the seat and crossed his arms over the back while Skip settled into plush leather and swiveled to face him. He slid a carved wooden cigar box Blade’s way.

Blade waved him off. “You broke me of that habit a long time ago.” He distinctly remembered Skip’s ultimatum one fateful night, the eve before his eighteenth birthday.

No more drinking, no more smoking. Get your ass down to the recruiter’s office tomorrow morning and enlist. If you don’t, my report gets filed with the court.

The aroma of fine quality Havanas wafted across the desk, perfuming the air as Skip brought a cigar to his nose and inhaled before removing the gold and red band.

“Smart boy.” Skip chuckled and used a bullet cutter to open the head of his smoke. “A man’s got to have a least one vice.” He leaned back, flicking a lighter, and held it to the cured tobacco, sucking deeply. Closed his eyes. “La Gloria… irresistible. Thought I’d conquered this vice, but Senator Miller sent these as a gift, and I hate to see four–hundred–dollar–a–box Tainos go to waste.”

“Like you said, you deserve at least one vice.”

“Speaking of vices…” Coogan’s gaze shifted to Blade’s. “I can see why you were anxious to make a get–away last night.”

Heat crept up Blade’s neck, the reference to Brandy reminding him of the kiss, making him feel like a delinquent teenager again.

Taking another draw, Skip stretched back in the padded chair and eased into Q & A so casually a novice wouldn’t have recognized the tactic. “Tell me about Brandy.”

Blade’s mind stumbled over just how hot last night’s kiss had been and somehow managed a somewhat intelligent reply. “She’s going to make a great deputy. She’s got a lot of heart and enthusiasm.”

“Un–huh.” Skip flicked ashes into a marble ashtray. “She’s got a lot of something, which makes it hard for me to believe you’ve had time to notice her heart and enthusiasm.”

“We’re working together. I’m trying
not
to notice the other stuff.”

A muscle under Skip’s right eye twitched. A nervous tick Blade had never noticed before. He wondered why he made note of it. Curiosity nudged him. How could he tactfully get Coogan to elaborate on his history regarding Brandy?

Subtlety wasn’t Blade’s forte. “I have no idea what really went down between you two, but I think Brandy may be inclined to bury the hatchet.”

“Probably in my skull.”

“I doubt that.” Blade smiled. “Look, Coogan, understandably, she has hang–ups over her mother’s conviction. But she was a kid when she started carrying a grudge against you. Maybe you should cut her some slack.”

“Watch out for that one. She was a wild child. Ran away from her grandparents, and right at the age a girl needs supervision. God only knows what she’s been up to all these years, roaming free. No family stability, no decent upbringing. Girl like that could be trouble.”

Not a comment Blade would have expected from Coogan. Surprise and unease gnawed at his insides. Keeping his emotions in tow, he struggled to avoid a confrontation before he had a chance to assess his mentor’s unusual behavior. “Hey, you know me and my philosophy on women. I’m not looking for anything other than a few good times, no serious involvement.”

“When it comes to Wilcox, that’s smart thinking.”

“I hear you. Even if I had a notion to indulge in some good times, which I don’t—”Aw, man, was his nose growing? “She’s off limits.”

Skip snorted and exhaled. “Boy, one of these days you need to find yourself the right woman and settle down.”

“Not likely.”

“Why? You still harboring those self–doubts?”

Blade’s stomach knotted.

“Hell, you’ve more than proven yourself.”

“But I’ve never forgotten my ass could have been hauled off to jail on a felony charge.” Young and stupid, he’d been running with the wrong crowd. And even though he hadn’t participated in the heist, the vehicle he’d been driving when Officer Coogan pulled him over that night so many years ago had been stolen. By his buddies. And Coogan had saved Blade’s hide. Turned his life around.

Even so, Blade Beringer could never forget what he was made of. Bad genes. He shared DNA with one nasty son of a bitch. What was to keep his dark side from someday rearing its ugly head?

“I saw something worth saving in you, my boy.”

“Whatever happened to that report?”

“I burned it the day you finished boot camp.”

Blade grinned. He had guessed as much. Coogan’s single act of kindness, his tough love, had been Blade’s salvation. Skip had laid it on the line and forced him to sign up with Uncle Sam, and it was the best thing that had ever happened to him. “I won’t ever forget that you gave me a chance.”

In turn, over the years, Blade had filed his share of reports in a bottom desk drawer. And most of the punks he’d given similar breaks to had also proven themselves to be worthy of saving.

“Blade, my boy, it’s time you cut
yourself
some slack.”

“Yeah, well…” His gut balled into a knot. “Some things don’t come out in the wash.”

“Bullshit. You’ve paid your dues. Like I said, find yourself a nice gal and settle down.”

Coogan straightened and tamped ashes again. “And I guarantee a certain little blonde is not the right kind of woman for you. She may get your britches hot and bothered, but Brandy Wilcox isn’t half good enough for you.”

“Like I said, I have no plans—” A muscle in Blade’s chest clenched. What happened to turning one’s life around? He’d never known Skip to be so closed minded, especially with someone like Brandy, who in Blade’s estimation had beaten the odds. She may have grown up without parental guidance, but she’d turned out pretty damn remarkable. “Maybe she’ll surprise you.”

Coogan shrugged and replied doubtfully, “Maybe.”

At Skip’s animosity, Blade’s rebellious teenager kicked in, urging his inner rebel to rumble. But before he could turn the discussion into a debate, Coogan’s secretary broke in.

“Sorry to bother you, Chief, but there’s a twenty–five car pile–up on the interstate near exit 25, and traffic’s backed up all the way to the River Road exit.”

“No rest for the wicked.” Coogan snuffed his Havana and jumped up. “Catch you later, Blade.” At the doorway he hesitated. “Meanwhile, heed my advice and save those good times for the right lady.”

Blade sat contemplating for several minutes. As he strode out of Coogan’s office, he wondered why his friend’s attitude bothered him so much. Why did he care what Skip thought about Brandy? Was it because of his devotion to Skip? Or did he simply care a hell of a lot more about Brandy than he should?

CHAPTER TEN

T
he day had passed, and a prick of disappointment pierced Brandy’s chest when punch–out time rolled around and Blade hadn’t returned. She found herself pacing the floor. She needed to discuss the Joey Secada report with her FTO, as well as the likelihood that his death was not an accident. Although what seemed blatantly obvious to her may not strike Blade the same way.