Beauty and the Brit (36 page)
“Practically? I’d understand why you’d want to get out of debt. Honestly? I’d think you were selling out a dream. I’d like to have a fairy godfather around when it comes time to pay the property taxes on a house that doesn’t exist for land I can’t imagine anyone will want to buy. I’ll be eating Ramen noodles and working any hours I can find, scrabbling like the rest of the great unwashed until I can even pretend to go after my dream.”
She hadn’t realized how tight her voice had grown until she finished and David stood staring. “So I’m not struggling enough for you, is that it?”
“You’re not struggling at all.”
The man was clueless. Gorgeous, talented, pulse-poundingly hot, but clueless.
“Well, that’s lovely, that is. Here I thought you were the only one who supported me.”
“This is a ridiculous conversation, David. You’ve run Bridge Creek perfectly well without ever having asked my opinion, so don’t. As for my support—you have it. I love this place. I’ll call hay guys from here to Mexico if you want me to. But ask me if you’ve struggled? Hell, no. You’ve got the luxury of giving up.”
“Where did this side of you come from?” His eyes flashed with wounded pride.
Nobody in her old neighborhood would wonder about this brutally honest Rio. She supposed she’d never shown it to him.
“I’ve been on good behavior,” she said, all too truthfully. “But from where I stand, I think I’m a better survival expert than you are.”
Wounded pride turned to bright anger, but nothing about it caused fear of him, nor did it curb her annoyance. Even so, desire flew hot and hard through her veins. He grasped her by the upper arms and hauled her to him. With crushing decisiveness he covered her mouth with his and plundered until his kiss forced her head back and drew the strength from her legs.
For a moment she believed they’d have their tryst after all, and then he pulled his lips from hers and released her, swaying in the aftermath.
“You meet with Paul tomorrow. Get through that, and we’ll talk.”
T
HE NEXT MORNING,
although Rio tried to talk him out of it, David refused to let her go meet with Paul without him. He accompanied her and Chief Hewett, whose presence was a surprise in and of itself, to Minneapolis and the rendezvous with Detective Peterson even though Rio said little, didn’t touch him, or look for reassurance, the entire seventy-five-minute drive into the city. The tension between them had only grown, and it didn’t help that the whole situation felt like an episode of
Law & Order
that had been written for Inspector Clouseau.
Two blocks from the restaurant where Paul had agreed to show up with Hector, Peterson, dressed as Hewett was in nondescript plainclothes, met them with overblown enthusiasm. “I can’t thank you enough for helping with this, Miss Montoya. We could be putting an end to something that can legitimately be called a reign of terror. Even Hector Black doesn’t know who he’s dealing with in the case of Boyfriend.”
“You do what you have to do,” Rio said.
“This shouldn’t take more than ten minutes.” The inspector touched her on the shoulder. “Just talk like you normally would. All Hector has to do is admit the money clip is the one they want.”
“Shouldn’t there be some sort of signal if she gets in trouble?” David asked, immediately feeling three pairs of incredulous eyes on him, as if he’d asked whether she should tap dance naked if she needed help.
Unexpectedly Rio grinned, returning for one moment to her normal, confident self. She rose on tiptoe and kissed him softly beside the mouth.
“You know exactly what to do with mistreated horses, right? I promise I know what to do with angry boys.”
“You’ll be careful?”
“I’ll be fine. So will Hector if I don’t kill him when I see him.”
He grinned back. “All right. Have at them, my menacing little ginger bird. I’ll be here.”
A feeling of dread he didn’t show engulfed him. It unnerved him to worry this much about someone else—normally such protective apprehension was reserved for his animals. He followed Peterson and Hewett to the opposite side of the street, where their view was unobstructed. Rio checked her watch and leaned against the storefront’s plate-glass window. After only five excruciating minutes, David had no idea how real stakeouts ever got conducted.
Suddenly, finally, Rio was not alone. Paul Montoya arrived, his tight black T-shirt and black jeans standouts in the sea of normal, colorful, late summer colors. To David’s surprise, Rio threw her arms around him, and Paul buried his face in her shoulder.
When they finally parted, an earnest conversation began. Many head shakes on her part and much gesticulating on his seemed to get them nowhere, until Rio dug into her pocket and pulled out what had to be the clip.
“Good, good,” Peterson murmured.
Rio held it out of Paul’s reach. At last Paul turned, made a “come” motion, and a gaunt, leather-jacketed figure slunk into view, hands thrust into his pockets, prominent cheeks sallow.
Rio’s mouth began moving before Hector got close enough to interact. From their vantage point half a block and a street width away, David and the policemen could hear raised voices, but no words. Without warning, Rio and Hector sprang at each other, and Paul jumped between them, splaying a hand on their chests to push them apart. David’s heart leaped into his throat, and he lunged as well. Hewett caught his arm.
“Easy, man,” he said. “She’s fine. She’s the aggressor.”
“Daft little idiot,” David said.
“She’s tough. And it looks like her brother can handle it.”
“I thought you mistrusted her.” David turned in amazement.
“She’s proven herself more than trustworthy,” he said quietly. “I care a lot that she and her sister don’t get hurt, and I just want to get her home safely.”
Home.
David wondered if that slip of Hewett’s tongue could ever be true, or if Rio would always be a child of the city. Or if it was her Wild West dream that would come true.
More raised voices floated across the street. Hector grabbed for Rio’s hand, but she yanked it violently away and stepped back. The first clear words traveled from the scene.
“Fuck you, bitch.”
David shot forward again, his blood boiling. Again Hewett grabbed him.
“David . . .” he warned.
“If he touches her . . .”
“Leave it to us,” Peterson said.
Once more, Rio’s mouth moved in mile-a-second lecture mode. Finally Hector seemed to calm and, to David’s surprise, Rio pointed across the street directly toward their position. Both police officers looked at each other in confusion. This was not in any plan. All she was supposed to do was glance their way when Hector had given the word. Instead she waved them over.
“I’m going alone,” Peterson said. “Hewett, back me up. Matherson, stay out of the way.”
David had no reason to argue with the detective’s directive, but he didn’t like it. He hadn’t analyzed the incident in Basra for years, but he’d pulled it out of hiding last night and the memory sat in the forefront, fresh and painful. He had supposedly learned from it—learned not to blow, not to rage. He knew he should sit on his figurative ass and wait. But his senses tingled with apprehension—the knowledge something was wrong—the same feeling he’d had that desert night so long ago.
Peterson headed across the street at a leisurely stroll. Hewett circled to the left, and David peered at the threesome across the road. Rio had her hand protectively over the clasp of her purse where she’d stuffed the clip. Paul stared at Peterson, and as the officer neared them seemed to grow taller in suspicion. Suddenly David knew exactly what was going to happen. Rio had told them she had friends with her. Peterson was a good actor, but the wrong age to be a friend of Rio’s. Hector was going to figure out the entire ruse, and Rio was going to get hurt.
David moved in the opposite direction from Hewett and trotted through the crowd until he could cross the street without Hector seeing him. Peterson had nearly made it to Rio’s side when Hector bellowed “Stop!”
“You bee-atch, you brought the cops.”
“This is just a friend of mine,” Rio replied angrily. “Don’t be an idiot.”
In one swift move Hector grabbed her wrist, twisted it, and trapped her against his chest. Like Wolverine unsheathing his blades, he flashed a knife at Peterson. “You stay away from me or I’ll cut her, I swear. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Heco, give it up,” Paul said.
“Shut the piehole, Inigo. You set this up.”
“He had nothing to do with it,” Rio said, struggling. “And the police want Boyfriend, not you.”
“That’s right,” Peterson soothed. “Just put the knife away, Hector. Hurting someone won’t help your case.”
David crept closer, hugging the building. Hector cranked a little harder on his hold, and Rio squeaked in discomfort. Red flared behind David’s eyes, but he held his breath.
“Just stay away,” Hector said.
“You’re a complete, brainless jerk,” Rio hissed at him.
“Shut up.” He tightened his grip again.
This time Rio growled at him like Thirty-one did when she was pissed. She lifted a foot, cocked it, and landed a heel kick directly below Hector’s knee.
He yowled and loosened his hold enough for her to sink to the sidewalk. Hector made a grab, caught a fistful of her fiery hair, and David launched himself at Hector’s legs. As they both hit the pavement, David caught a glimpse of Peterson swooping in to envelope Rio, Paul chopping at Hector’s wrist, and the knife flying free. Then he concentrated on the struggling body beneath him.
The boy fought like a caged coyote, rangy, tough, and agile. David couldn’t keep the grip on Hector’s legs, so he crawled over him and lay flat, holding him down with body weight. The next thing he knew, Hewett was pulling him off the boy, and Peterson had a knee in Hector’s kidney.
“Asshole, get off of me!”
“Close your mouth, Mr. Black.” Peterson sounded like he was ordering coffee, but he ground his knee in harder.
When Hector quit struggling and groaned, Peterson let up the pressure, stood, and hauled Hector to his feet. Like a lightning bolt, Hector wrenched, swung, and connected with Peterson’s jaw.
“Fuck!” the detective yelled. He retained his hold for another second, until Hector chopped at his wrist.
The instant he was free, Hector dashed past David like a greyhound and disappeared between two buildings. Hewett charged after him.
“You won’t find him,” Paul said. “He knows every hole in every back alley on Lake Street. I know where he’ll go. I’ll talk some sense into him.”
Rio grabbed her brother by the T-shirt front. “Just tell us now where he is.”
“I can’t,” he said. “I wouldn’t live a day if I ratted him out now.”
“Damn it all to hell,” Peterson spat, rubbing his jaw. “We had the little bastard.” He glared at David. “Didn’t I tell you to stay across the street?”
“You did. And you missed all the signs that everything was headed sixes and sevens. He’d have run long before he did and taken Rio with him.”
“We’re trained for this. We’d have had him.”
David looked at Rio, but she had her eyes glued on Paul. Since he’d been promised immunity, she released his shirt. “If you don’t call me tonight, it’ll be years before you talk to Bonnie again. I mean it.” She cuffed him on the arm.
Without a word he sprinted in the opposite direction from Hector.
“Are you all right?” David put one hand on Rio’s shoulder.
She nodded but didn’t look fine. “Thank you,” she all but whispered, and her eyes lowered uncharacteristically.
She barely looked at him after that. He couldn’t tell if she was angry or distracted or actually hurt, but her lack of connection added ten pounds to the weight in his heart. He couldn’t win. Not in Basra. Not in Minneapolis. Both times he’d averted disaster, but only by disobeying orders because the commanders and the detectives were so bloody vain they couldn’t see beyond their own embarrassment.
“The big question is whether you got Hector to identify the clip,” Peterson said, wagging his injured jaw slowly back and forth.
Rio pulled the phone from her pocket. “I think he did. He saw the money clip and said Boyfriend would quit bugging us if he got it back. He also told me Boyfriend ordered the fire but it wasn’t meant to get so big, it was simply supposed to distract us so Paul could go in and look for the clip without Bonnie knowing.”
Peterson took her phone and swiped the screen. With one touch a muffled voice came through the voice recorder. He listened and smiled with grim relief. “Bingo.”
“Sorry. I lost him.” Tanner Hewett returned, breathing hard. “Little devil slipped into some black hole somewhere.” He looked David in the eye. “I wish you’d left him to me, though. I could have tackled and cuffed him.”
That did it. Rio still refused to look at him, and even though her physical status now bordered on the shaky, David turned his back to her and glared at the officers. “You know what? Bugger the whole bloody lot of you.”
D
AVID STALKED INTO
the barn at 11:00 a.m. the next day and strode to where Rio stood watch over the little palomino rescue filly that had been quarantined earlier that morning. The rest of the horses had been cleared as healthy. This one, Rio’s favorite, had contracted a severe rhinovirus that, in her weakened state, had become life-threatening.
She expected David to ignore her as he’d done for the past eighteen hours, and the truth was, she wouldn’t blame him. He’d come along to the meeting with Paul just to keep an eye on her—and thank God he had. But he’d been chastised by the police, and she’d followed it up with . . . nothing. Barely a thank-you. The truth was she honestly didn’t know how to face him. She’d nearly gotten him hurt, and that scared her to death. She’d clearly made him angry at the little cabin the night before. He confused her and annoyed her and turned her on and stripped her of all her natural defenses and bravado.
Until she figured out where and if he fit into her life, she was a wicked wimp.
“There’s nothing we can do but give the drugs a chance to work,” he said, stopping beside her. “I’d like you to go get a jacket and saddle up Tully.”