Too Sexy for his Stetson (12 page)

Blade hadn’t mentioned anything about the identity of the floater. But then, did he know there’d been a connection between Joey Secada and Skip Coogan? How much of the article about her mother had he read?

Once he learned Secada had been Skip’s alibi and that his death occurred in Idaho mere days after Attorney Rosenberg had contacted him in Wisconsin, how could he not suspect Skip?

To Brandy, it was a no–brainer. The ME’s report would prove Secada’s death was no accident. She pulled out her phone and for the millionth time tried to call Rosenberg. Finally, she got through. “This is Brandy. So what’s this call you got?”

“Make that two calls,” Rosenberg answered. “The guy contacted me again. You’d better sit down, Brandy. He says he’s Marco Secada, Joey’s brother. He’s scared he might be next on the list. Says he can prove Joey was with him the night of the Abbott murder, seventy–five miles from Milwaukee.”

Brandy’s knees wobbled. She collapsed on the desk chair. “Holy shit. That’ll shoot Skip Coogan’s alibi out of the water.”

“He wants protection in exchange for his statement.”

“Tell him he’s got it.”

“I tried. He hung up before I had a chance to assure him we could keep him safe. Keep your fingers crossed that he calls back soon.”

If this guy was in hiding and didn’t want to be found, Brandy had way too little cash flow to finance a quick, full–scale search. And they needed a lot more details about his story to prove that he really was Joey Secada’s brother. Then they had to prove he was telling the truth. Had there been security cameras at the location where Joey and Marco had been the night of the murder? Credit cards receipts from a restaurant? Phone records? Anything that could discredit Skip Coogan’s alibi?

After Rosenberg disconnected, Brandy glanced at her watch and tipped her head toward the clock on the wall. Where was Beringer? She had a legitimate reason for wanting him to walk through the door. Really she did.

Stalling, she cleared her desk and closed down the computer, then sauntered out to her pickup, which sat baking in the late afternoon sun. She glanced around the parking lot and out toward the road. Blade’s vehicle was nowhere in sight.

After she opened the windows, she circled the truck, giving it a once over. Checked all four signal lights. And adjusted the duct tape covering the bullet holes in the door.

No Blade.

Ten minutes later, she crawled behind the wheel and fired up the engine. A few minutes after that, she found her Ford sputtering down the highway that headed out of town. Next, it turned down Blade’s drive—like a heat–seeking missile on target.

What was she doing? She certainly hadn’t planned to go to his place. She puffed out a breath. Now that her creaky old pickup had taken her this far, she decided to continue down the winding gravel path that served as his drive.
You could have called him… the discussion could have waited until tomorrow… this isn’t Mayberry. Deputies don’t just stop by their FTO’s place after hours.

The inherent Beringer–flutter tickled her stomach, but the truck kept rattling over one pothole after another until it delivered her to her FTO’s front door.

His Tahoe was nowhere in sight.

Rambo barked, pirouetted, and wagged his tail, greeting her in the distance from his fenced–in yard. The sight caused her mouth to stretch into a huge smile, and a warm feeling spread across her chest. She jumped out and strolled through prairie grass and wildflowers. When she walked to the backyard, she skirted the edge of a swath of blackened turf. The scent of burnt grass lingered in the air. At the chain link fence, she squatted. Rambo nudged his nose against the diamond–shaped holes, wagging his tail, and she reached through to scratch his ears.

“Hey, Rambo, when’s your partner coming home? It’s past time for your walk.”

He nuzzled her hand, his warm pink tongue reaching through the fence to caress her fingers.

Kisses. Rambo and Blade were quite the pair when it came to kissing. Her instincts told her she should be trying to erase the memory of Beringer’s kisses. Instead, she savored it. A sweet taste of something she could never have again.

Ears perked, Rambo barked once and stood alert, watching the drive. With her hand shielding her eyes, Brandy anticipated Blade’s arrival, and with the sound of the approaching vehicle, her pulse kicked up. The Tahoe appeared from a plume of dust and pulled alongside her truck. Her heartbeat hammered. Much faster than it should have.

****

The first thing Blade noticed when he pulled up was Brandy’s truck. His gaze shot to the fence, to the woman hunkered next to his dog. The woman he’d been thinking about ever since he’d left Skip’s office this afternoon. His blood pulsed as he climbed out and ambled her way.

Her attention locked on him as he sauntered closer, and a strange feeling washed over him—foreign, unnamable. Tension pulled at his gut. He found it impossible not to admire her.

Yeah, her feminine curves happened to be proportioned exactly the way he liked, and while he was having lustful notions, he may as well get all hot and bothered over her eyes. Exotic and as purple as Thunder Mountain at dusk. Too bad it wasn’t only the physical attraction that grabbed him. But unfortunately, Brandy touched him deep inside in a way that messed with his heart. And that could only mean trouble.

He gave in and got lost in the deep purple haze, his inner rebellious teenager flaring to life, maybe to spite Coogan’s warning. He told himself Lieutenant Beringer ought to kick that inner punk’s ass for every impropriety that raced through his mind.

Looming over Brandy, he reached through the fence to stroke Rambo’s head. A sweet scent wafted directly to his brain. Brandy’s blonde curls glowed in the sunlight. Without even trying, the woman sent electricity jolting through him, playing havoc with the fit of his pants.

“What’s up?” he asked.

She pushed to a standing position. “There’re a couple of things I want to run by you.”

He wandered toward the gate. She followed.

“About last night?”

“What?” She looked away a second. “Oh, you mean the break–in at my apartment?”

Okay, Darlin’, we’ll pretend neither one of us is thinking about the kiss.
“Yeah, the creep who broke into your place. I knew I should have gone inside with you and checked things out.” And another thing he should do was keep his hands to himself, but for the life of him, he couldn’t stop himself when his fingers settled over hers where she’d curved them over the fence.

Did she feel the sizzle?

She faced him. He swore he could see the pulse in her throat beating like a butterfly on speed. Yeah, the chemistry between them was undeniable. It’d been obvious from the minute they’d met on opposite ends of her rifle, the minute he’d stared into deep purple sin.

“Look, Beringer, what happened last night was way beyond stupid. I get it. We’re working together, and it can’t happen again.”

“True,” he said. “We should just forget it. We’re mature adults.” Uptight parts of his body begged to differ with the claim to maturity.

But neither was he
totally stupid
. He knew when to hold ‘em and when to fold. “So, what’d you want to talk about?” He unlatched the gate, and Rambo came to the rescue, licking his hand.

“Hey, buddy, did you miss me?”

Rambo danced, wagging his tail, and smothered him with another round of kisses.

“It’s about the file on the guy we fished out of the river,” Brandy said.

Blade’s hand pressed the muscles at the back of his neck, and he massaged the start of a tension headache. “I’ll make you a deal. I need to unwind. How about taking a walk with Rambo and me, and we’ll talk later.”

Rambo scampered next to Brandy and nuzzled her wrist.

She smiled at the dog. “Okay.”

They followed Rambo and hiked toward the bank of the river along an overgrown path that meandered through meadowland cluttered with wildflowers.

Blade found a stick and pitched it. His four–legged bundle of energy promptly raced after it and returned, the prize clamped in his mouth.

“Good boy.” He patted Rambo and scratched his ears before holding out the stick, then withdrawing it. With the next offering, Rambo latched on. Tug of war lasted several minutes until Blade commanded, “
Aus,
” and sent the stick sailing in the air again.

Seconds later, Rambo returned, bringing his treasure to Brandy.

What the heck?
It figured; even his dog was mesmerized by her.

“Tonight’s frozen pizza night,” he heard himself say, “and I don’t like leftovers. So you’d be doing me a favor if you stayed for supper.”

****

Brandy’s first thought was
no way
. Alone, inside, with the man for whom the song Crazy Kisses had been written? But holy cripes, if she couldn’t be in the same room with him without thinking about jumping him, she didn’t deserve to be a deputy trainee. “I wasn’t looking for an invite to supper.”

“I know.” He smiled. “You came to discuss business.”

“Exactly. Like I said, it’s about the John Doe… I wanted to run—”

“Shhh…” He settled his index finger on her upper lip, on one of the many spots his tongue had seared the night before, and then gave her a soulful look.

Oh, man, for a minute, it seemed he might be thinking about having her for supper.

“I’ve had a long day. Let’s go grab that pizza before we talk shop. Okay?”

She swallowed and nodded, giving in to procrastination. Maybe because she knew when she hit him with the details of her theory, sparks were going to fly. And not the hormonal variety that usually arced between them.

As they headed back toward the house, Rambo tagged along at her heels. His devotion made her feel almost as though she belonged. Her thoughts flashed back to her childhood. She’d had a dog… once… before her mom went to prison. Just as quickly, the door to her memories slammed shut and left her heart beating an irregular rhythm.

“Brandy? Something wrong?”

She shook her head, and they stepped through the doorway. Pleasantly cooler air embraced them. Rambo scampered off and returned with his brush.

“You’re rather presumptuous, aren’t you, fellow?” she asked.

Mr. Presumptuous whimpered, his tail flipping from side to side.

“Hey, don’t be a pest,” Blade scolded, then said to her, “Watch out. He’ll take advantage once he knows he’s got you wrapped around his paw.”

“I don’t mind.” She took the brush, and Rambo hunkered on his belly beside her.

While she concentrated on grooming him, the tension lifted from between her shoulders. She stopped to flex her back muscles. Rambo nudged her hand.

“Hey, pooch, I’m no pushover. I just happen to enjoy this as much as you do.”

When she glanced at Blade, who had already preheated the oven and stuck the pizza in, she wondered if he would take advantage of her if he knew
he
had her wrapped around his finger?

Blade made eye contact. “A word of warning. Next he’ll try to rope you into tug of war. Once you give in to that, you’re stuck. He’ll be in love with you forever.”

“I wouldn’t mind.” Although love and forever were two words foreign to Brandy’s vocabulary.

A few more minutes of brushing, and the kitchen timer dinged.

“Come and get it while it’s hot,” Blade called.

Double entendre, much?

When she looked up, Blade stood next to her, his hair falling over his forehead. He held out his hand, which was a good thing, because that comment had rendered her too weak–kneed to stand on her own.

He pulled her up, clasping her fingers seconds longer than necessary.

A wave of heat shimmied from her neck down her chest and parked low in her belly.
Cripes.
She dropped his hand like the live wire it was and marched to the kitchen sink to wash her hands.

With an oven mitt, Blade transferred the pizza to a hot pad on the table and cut it into wedges. Snatching a piece, he stuffed a huge bite into his mouth before he dropped onto a chair. Brandy sat opposite him while he slid the pizza pan toward her. And then, out of the blue, he asked, “So, I was wondering, how’d you manage on your own at such a young age?”

Her hand froze mid–reach as though searching for the perfect slice of pizza. She’d thought she’d escaped that question last night, but she wasn’t surprised he’d logged that little detail. For a second, she thought about the day she’d gotten word her mother had been killed in prison. The day she’d decided to take off.

She searched, painstakingly, for the perfect slice and found a piece loaded with pepperoni. Admired it. Took a giant bite.

“Brandy? Talking can help. Someone told me that recently.”

She chewed fifty times. But neither Blade nor his question were going away any time soon. If she ignored him, he would probably sit there until doomsday.

“When my mom went to prison, the court gave my grandparents custody. My paternal grandparents. It wasn’t the best situation. We didn’t agree on anything.” She looked up. “Mom died. I decided to take off.”

“They didn’t track you down?”

“No.” She’d done her best to cover her tracks. But later, when she was scared and hungry, and lonely, she’d wished they would find her. Finally, when she was picked up by social services and placed in a boarding school, she realized they knew where she was and didn’t want her.

It didn’t matter.

“You never saw them after that?”

She pushed up from the table and traipsed to the refrigerator. God, she didn’t want to talk about this. “You got anything to drink besides beer?” And they were supposed to be discussing the Secada case.

“There’s a pitcher of lemonade on the top shelf. And would you mind grabbing me a beer?”

She brought their drinks to the table, planning to segue the conversation to the identity of the body they’d found, among other things related to the homicide case. She took a swig of lemonade and cleared her throat. He’d get one more answer, and then it would be her turn to direct the conversation. “They were embarrassed by the trial. Didn’t share my passion to prove my mother’s innocence.”