Borrowing Trouble (16 page)

He kneaded her neck, moved down to her shoulders, and seemed to hesitate, like he was warring with himself, but never took his hands away. Then he whispered, “Take off your uniform, sweetness.”

She unbuttoned her top and let it slide off her shoulders. He played with the lace on her bra and pushed her shirt off until it fell to the floor. Little by little he undressed her, removing her boots and socks first. He wrestled with her gun belt. She removed it while he worked his way up to her snap and zipper. He tugged down her pants, leaving her in nothing but her skivvies.

Thank goodness she'd put on good ones. Black and lacy.

“Cold.” She shivered.

He lifted her like a bride, carried her into the bedroom, and laid her down on the floral duvet. “Frilly in here too.”

She knocked a row of pillows off the bed and crawled under the blanket. Brady kicked off his shoes, pulled his shirt over his head, undid his belt, and whipped off his jeans. He stood over the bed and she thought she could stare up at him forever. His body reminded her of a marble statue—cut and solid. His arms ropey with muscle and inked in color. He got under the covers and touched her everywhere, making her breasts and nipples tingle.

“You feel good,” he said as he kissed the curve of her shoulder. “Smell good too.”

She shuddered when he unfastened the clasp on her bra and took her breasts in his callused hands, his erection pressing against her. “Oh, Brady.”

He reached underneath her, pulling her closer and tighter . . . to that very spot that throbbed for him. And they kissed and kissed, rolling around in her ruffled, lavender-scented bedding. His fingers crawled under the elastic waist of her panties, making her hotter and wetter. She sucked in a breath, closed her eyes, and moaned her pleasure while he took her to heaven. Then he dragged her underwear down her legs and plunged into her, taking her up, higher and higher, until her pulse raced and her heart soared. He held her arms over her head and went deeper and faster. She wrapped her legs around his hips, feeling filled and completely surrounded. Connected, body and soul.

“Jesus, sweetness, I can't hold back any longer.” The muscles in his neck strained.

“Don't . . . want . . . you . . . to,” she said in a stuttered voice that didn't sound like her own. “Brady.”

“I'm right there with you, baby.”

They rode the crest together, clinging to each other, until they came crashing down. Brady gathered her in his arms and they just lay there, spooning and listening to the trees whistling in the evening breeze.

“What are you thinking?” she asked him, wondering if he was already having regrets.

“That it was even better than the first time and that we didn't use a condom.”

“Oops.” She flipped over to face him. “I'm healthy. You?”

“Yes. To tell you the truth, you're the first woman I've been with since I left LA. Are you on any form of birth control?”

“No.” She hadn't been that sexually active to warrant it. At least not in the last six months.

“All right, we'll just have to monitor the situation.” He seemed freaked out about it, not that she could blame him.

“I'm sure it'll be fine.” Sloane wanted to be reassuring but frankly didn't even know where she was in her cycle. She hadn't had any reason to track it.

He bent over her and brushed a kiss across her lips. She thought he meant to leave, but he plopped down next to her and wrapped her in his arms.

“You hungry?”

“I could eat.” Come to think about it, after Brady's big breakfast, she'd never had lunch. “What did you have in mind?”

“Whatever you want.”

“You've been cooking all day,” she said. “How was your confab with the Baker's Dozen?” She thought it was hilarious that Mr. Alpha Brady belonged to an all-woman's cooking group, especially given that all the ladies were happily married. Sloane had never met a man more secure in his masculinity.

“It just so happens that we made chicken tortilla soup—Donna's recipe—and I have leftovers.”

“I'd definitely be down with that. Should we go over to your place?”

“Nah. You stay put. I'll get it and bring it here.” He sat at the edge of the bed and put on his clothes.

“Do you miss Pig and Tangelo?”

“It was a good gig . . . helped me make a name for myself. If I'd stayed, I'd probably have my own restaurant by now.” He stood to pull up his pants and button his fly.

“Do you ever think about moving to another big city, somewhere out of California, and starting there?”

He sighed. “In a big city, at a big restaurant, there would be publicity. The reason I came here is because I could still do my best cooking and stay incognito . . . at least until Sandra's dealt with.”

What a life, to always be looking over your shoulder, Sloane mused. But as a cop she'd seen it before. Women running from abusive husbands or boyfriends. Movie stars threatened by deranged admirers. People victimized by ex-lovers. Unfortunately, a lot of times there wasn't anything the law could do about it.

Sloane stretched out in the bed, waiting for Brady, all worries of Roger banished from her head. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that the man on the square couldn't have been him. Just the same body type, is all.

A few minutes later, she heard Brady come through the door and head to the kitchen. She got up, wrapped herself in a robe, and headed to the bathroom for a quick shower, passing Brady on the way.

“Got room for two?” Not only had he brought soup, bread, and beer, but clothes too. Looked like he was bunking here for the night.

“Of course.”

“Get the water hot while I get this into a pot.” He held up the container of soup.

“Grab an extra towel from my closet.”

By the time he joined her in the shower, she'd gotten a good steam going. Brady grabbed the soap out of her hand, started on her back, worked his way lower until he slid the bar between her legs. She snatched it away from him and took her time washing him. They both shampooed each other's hair and Brady kissed her.

“You know this is a really bad idea, don't you?”

“You'll have to be more specific,” she said. “Showering? Because personally I'm a stickler for good hygiene.”

He looked at her with those sexy hazel eyes and said, “Me staying the night, which I fully intend to do as long as there's a chance that this Roger loser is hanging around.”

“I don't need you to protect me,” she said and rested her forehead against his. “But I want you to stay.”

He nudged her under the water so they could both rinse the shampoo from their heads. She reached up on tiptoe to put her lips on his, letting the hot water sluice over them while they kissed.

“You in a rush to eat?” he asked.

“No.”

“Good,” he said. “Because I'm hungry for something other than food.”

“H
ey, boss, Lina just called. Her truck broke down on State Highway 70, near Chilcoot. She needs a tow. You want me to go out?”

Griffin only hesitated for a second. “Nah, I'll get her.”

“You've got her cell phone number, right?” Rico's lips curved up in a smart-ass smile.

Griffin flipped him the bird. “Hold down the fort while I'm gone, will you?”

They had two oil changes and three appointments for smog checks. Not bad for a Monday. At three, Griff had a meeting with a Sacramento lobbyist who wanted a custom bike. He had a cabin up here and had seen some of Griff's work at the car show in Clio last month. That left him plenty of time to get Lina and haul her Scout back home. He grabbed a set of keys from his office, hopped into the cab of one of his tow trucks, and got on the road, not liking the idea of Lina stranded alone.

Despite the winter's lack of snow, his tow business did a booming business. This time last year, most of his calls had been weather-related accidents and cars stuck in the mud or snow. This year, not a lot of snow but plenty of breakdowns. Good thing he'd purchased the tow trucks against Owen's advice. The old man thought selling fish bait would be the secret to Griff's success. The barber wasn't exactly Jeff Bezos.

It took Griffin thirty minutes to reach Lina's truck, marooned on a barren stretch of high desert just past Chilcoot. He pulled ahead of the Scout, managing to weave around two telephone poles. Lina got out of the truck and rested her arms on Griffin's open window.

“Thanks for coming.”

“No problem. What happened?”

“It started to sputter a few miles back like it was running out of gas. I pulled over here and the engine went dead. It said I had half a tank. But maybe my gas gauge isn't working.”

Griff doubted it. The ancient truck had seen too many miles and was ready to go to that great junkyard in the sky. “Let's haul her in and check 'er out. Hop in and get out of the cold.”

Lina got in on the passenger side while Griff adjusted his boom to get his tow chain as close as he could. He got out, fastened the chain and hook to the Scout's axle, and got back in the cab. With the boom, he lifted the Scout's two front tires onto the back of his truck and hung a U-turn on the highway.

“Sorry you had to wait out here by yourself.”

“No big deal. I would've called Rhys, but he and Maddy are on their way home from San Francisco.”

“You coming from school?”

“Mm-hmm. I don't have any more classes this week and Brady wants me to help prep for the wedding. I'll be screwed without a car.”

“Let's see what we can do.” He absently brushed her leg with his hand. “Don't remember you ever wearing pantyhose before.”

“I interviewed for a summer internship today with an engineering firm that builds suspension bridges. I wanted to look professional.”

He slid her a sideways glance. “You look good.” Too damn good. “You get it?”

“I won't know for a while. A lot of people are applying. So if not this summer, maybe next.”

That sounded logical and mature to him—and very unlike Lina. Typically she was the impatient type. Wanted what she wanted now, never later.

“You've got a lot of things you're juggling, don't you? Even working on Valentine's Day, huh?”

She shrugged. “I'm not seeing anyone, so it's no big deal. How about you and Dana? You have plans before or after the wedding, since she's not coming?”

Griffin cleared his throat and focused on the road. “We're not a couple, Lina.”

“Oh.” Her voice sounded surprised. “I'm sorry. When did you break up?”

“Uh, we were never really like that . . . a couple, I mean. We just dated for a while and decided we were better as friends.”

“Really? I'd gotten the impression that the two of you were . . . serious.”

“I don't know where you would've gotten that idea. Certainly nothing I ever told you.”

“Yes, you did. That first time I saw you at the gas station after I got back.”

“No. You said you'd heard I was seeing someone. I neither confirmed nor denied it. I figured you were still seeing that guy from USF.”

“I wasn't . . . I'm not,” she said. “Honestly, I'm too busy to be anything other than single. I don't even have time to date.”

“That's what I tried to tell you.”
Way to sound like a sanctimonious tool
, he silently scolded himself.

“You were right. About us . . . about everything.”

He should've asked her if he could get that on tape. Instead, her easy acquiescence made him angry. What they'd had was the real deal, and maybe he shouldn't have been so consumed with how young she'd been . . . how young she still was. Age was just a number, after all.

He pulled to the side of the road, slammed on his brakes, twisted toward her side of the cab, and kissed her. Not some preppy college-boy kiss either. Nothing wet and sloppy. He kissed her like a man who knew what he was doing.

“Griffin,” she said against his mouth, her hands in his hair, and the rest of her practically in his lap. “What are we doing?”

“I don't know.” He pulled away and closed his eyes. “That shouldn't have happened.”

“It's no big deal. We're just familiar to each other. Come on, let's get back on the road and forget it ever happened.”

Who the hell was this woman? Back in the day, he'd been the one who'd had to put on the brakes. She'd wanted him like no one else had. And that was saying a lot, since Griffin had never suffered from a lack of females putting the moves on him.

“Sorry.” He nosed the tow truck onto the road, and tried to pretend that he hadn't just made a fool of himself.

“Nothing to apologize for. What are you doing on the twenty-eighth?”

“Of this month? I don't know. Why?”

“Maddy and Rhys are throwing me a birthday party. If you're free, stop by. It's at the Lumber Baron. Nothing fancy, just food, drinks, family, and friends from school.”

Ah, Jesus, all he needed was to see her around a bunch of drooling frat dudes or whoever she hung out with now. He'd have to figure out a way to get out of it. “Thanks for the invite. I'll try to stop by.”

“I'd like it if you could, but if you're busy or something comes up, no worries.” She actually sounded like she meant it, like she was 100 percent totally over him.

As they pulled past Nugget's welcome sign, Griffin asked if Lina wanted him to drop her at home.

“I was sort of hoping you could look at the Scout first and tell me what I'm facing. Then I can walk to the square and get a ride to Rhys and Maddy's.”

“Okay. I'll see what I can do, but I've got an appointment at three.” Griff looked at his watch.

At the Gas and Go, he maneuvered the Scout into an empty bay while Rico unchained the tow truck and parked it. Lina stood over Griffin's shoulder as he examined the engine. Nothing jumped out at him, but he'd have to do a complete diagnostic before he knew the problem. First, he wanted to check on her theory about the gas gauge. Griff stuck a hose in the tank to measure the amount of fuel she had left. The Scout held nineteen gallons. From the gas line on the hose he estimated that it had nearly ten left. So not a gas problem.

“This'll take a while,” he told her. “I probably won't have an answer until tomorrow. Let me drop you somewhere.”

“I can walk. You've got that meeting pretty soon.”

“Lina, it'll take me five minutes to run you to the Lumber Baron. You've got heels on.”

“All right. How much do I owe you for the tow?”

“Let's figure it out after I know what's wrong, okay?”

She nodded. He stood there for a few seconds just looking at her, because she was that pretty.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

“Uh, nothing. My truck's on the street.” He led the way, unlocking the doors with his key fob. And because Griff wanted to touch her, he helped her in.

When they got to the Lumber Baron he leaned across her to unlock the door.

“Thanks for rescuing me today, Griff. You'll call me as soon as you know, right?”

“Yep. But, Lina, I don't think we're looking at good news here. It's reached the point where it's mostly a money pit now, especially if you're planning to buy something anyway. If it's something small, I'll do my best to patch it up and get it running until you find something better. But if it's big, you should cut your losses.”

She flashed a sad smile. “There are just a lot of memories attached to that truck is all.”

“I know.” The first time they'd met was after she'd flooded the Scout's engine and he'd helped her get it started. Remembering that day made him want to kiss her all over again.

“But I realize that it's probably time to let go.” She climbed out of the truck and waved goodbye. “Talk to you later.”

He watched Lina walk into the Lumber Baron, feeling like her old truck—nothing more than a fond memory.

 

Three things happened on Monday. Rhys came back to work. Rose showed up on time. And Sloane finally got a break in her bones case.

The state's forensic anthropologist believed the remains to be that of a Caucasian male in his early twenties. His best guess, based on the length of one of the legs that had been found—they'd never recovered his arms or hands—was that he was somewhere between five ten and six feet tall, and according to wear on certain bones, weighed approximately 180 pounds.

What amazed Sloane was that the anthropologist could tell, by looking at his teeth and the bones around his mouth, that their John Doe had likely played a woodwind instrument. Wild, but also extremely helpful in whittling down their missing-persons pool.

Because his hyoid bone was not fractured—usually a sign of strangulation—and no bullet holes or other signs of trauma were found, John Doe's cause of death remained a mystery. But based on animal bites, the anthropologist approximated the time of death to be roughly four months ago.

It wasn't a tremendous amount to go on, but it was a significant start, Sloane thought as she walked into the chief's office for a briefing with him and Jake.

“Why's there a high school kid working in my police station, McBride?”

“Sorry, Chief, I meant to tell you about Rose when you came in, but you seemed stressed.” She looked at Jake for moral support and he nodded. “She got suspended for fighting with another girl . . . and, uh, bringing pepper spray to school. The girl and her friends have been bullying Rose for some time. I thought working here might build her confidence.”

“So we're social workers now?” Rhys raised his brows. “Did she use the pepper spray on anyone?”

“She didn't do anything with it. I think she just brought it for protection. These girls have been pretty rough on her.”

“Will I be getting calls from pissed-off parents?”

“Yes, sir,” Sloane said, dreading his reaction. “The father of the instigator . . . Taylor Grant . . . is apparently on the warpath. He thinks we should've arrested Rose.”

“How do you know this?”

“The principal gave me a heads-up.”

“Okay. Just as long as I'm not blindsided. What's Rose doing for us?”

“Administrative work. I'm having her cull through missing-persons reports.”

His brows winged up and he tilted his head, as if to say it was a big job for a fifteen-year-old. “Hey, it's your call.”

“She just needs a little support, Chief.” But Sloane worried that maybe she'd gone too far. She could've had the kid pick up trash on the highway.

“Just don't turn my department into a teen shelter.”

With a great deal of relief she nodded.

“Let's talk about what you got from the California DOJ.”

She detailed the forensic anthropologist's information on their John Doe, and told Rhys the theory about him being a musician.

“That might help narrow it down,” Rhys said. “We still don't know if it's foul play, huh?”

“Nope. But no strangulation, head trauma, stab marks, broken bones, or bullet holes.”

“I had one of these once,” Jake said. “Never could determine the method or cause of death.”

“The anthropologist thinks he's been dead since November, huh?” Rhys looked at Jake. “Seems older to me, considering we didn't have a full skeleton or any skin.”

“First off, it's been a pretty mild winter,” Jake said. “And between the bears, raccoons, vultures, and fish, he was picked pretty clean.”

“That's right about the time the cattle rustling started . . . and the drug dealing on Lucky's ranch.”

Rhys got up from his chair and sat on the corner of his desk. “Sloane, you talk to Lucky yet?”

“No. I'll go out there before my shift's over. Now that I have more to go on I was thinking of putting something out in the
Nugget Tribune
, maybe make up fliers.”

“Let's give Harlee a hotline number, put it on the fliers too, and have the kid pass them out around town. Clay McCreedy's ranch was hit hard by those rustlers. Talk to him as well. Maybe he had a ranch hand who played the flute.”

Jake laughed. “Aren't all cowboys required to have a harmonica on them at all times?”

“There you go,” Rhys said. “We're halfway to solving this thing. You ready for Saturday?”

“Yup.” Jake eyed both of them. “You two coming to the rehearsal dinner Friday night?”