Deadly Holidays (9 page)

Frankie slipped back into her car and watched Arthur Holden through the store’s plate-glass window as he paid for his items.  She slunk down in her seat when he entered the parking lot.  Assured he had not seen her, she followed his car at a discreet distance until he reached Pine Street, where he parked his Mercedes in front of a white house with its porch light blazing.  Frankie pulled in front of a neighboring home, parked, and pulled out her night-vision binoculars and a camera. 

Soon a twenty-something, buxom young woman wearing a red nightie, a Santa-helper hat, and a smile opened the front door and thrust herself into Holden's arms.  She squealed as he twirled her around a couple of times.  This was definitely not poker night with the boys.  Focusing and aiming her camera, Frankie took several candid and compromising shots of the couple before they went inside.

Frankie arched her back to stretch, then placed her hand over her mouth as she yawned.  It had been a long day.  Since Lane had to work tonight, too, she'd taken Ashley over to her Aunt Megan's house to make holiday cookies.  That her little girl loved to visit her aunt assuaged Frankie's guilt in not spending the evening with her.

She dug in her duffle bag until she found a thermos of hot Starbucks espresso, and poured some in a plastic cup.  Hoping the shot of caffeine would perk up her system, she drained the cup, then filled it again.  Taking a deep breath, she leaned her head against the car's headrest and watched the house.  After an hour, her eyelids feeling heavy, she draped her red-plaid stadium blanket across her legs and turned up the heat.  Frankie was drifting into a nap, when a loud boom — sounding like a tree had just fallen on top of her vehicle — startled her so much, she screamed and jumped in her seat in alarm, hitting her head on the vehicle's ceiling.

It was then that a very large man jerked open her passenger door and plopped himself down in the seat next to her.

"Lane, damn it!  You could have given me a heart attack!" 

"Serves you right for sleeping on the job," Lane returned.

"I thought you were working tonight.  How did you find me, anyway?"  Could the man be any more annoying?  The shame of it all was that she'd known this, and married him anyway.

"Got the night off, and since when has it ever been difficult for me to find you?  I'm a good — make that excellent — detective," he replied with a smirk.

"So why are you here?" Frankie asked, as she folded the stadium blanket and threw it in the back seat.

Lane grew serious and whispered, "I miss you, baby.  It seems like we rarely have time together anymore." 

His eyes, filled with a curious, deep longing, swept over her.  Guilt was a knife slicing deep into her heart.  Lane was right.  With Lane working two jobs, they didn't have much time together, and it was all her fault.  The economy nose-dived and her business followed.  It was all they could do to make ends meet, and she felt responsible.  And now she was pregnant, adding another mouth to feed.

Frankie leaned back to look at him.  "I miss you, too."

Lane slid his arm around her shoulders, as he threw her duffle bag in the back.  "Show me."

"What?"

"You heard me.  Get over here and show me how much you miss me."

"Lane Hansen, I'm on surveillance.  Professionals don't make out while they are on surveillance."

"Yes, they do."  Lane did something he hadn't done in a long time.  He grabbed the lever beside his seat and pushed his seat back as far as it would go.  He then lifted her across the console in one smooth movement, ending with his surprised wife sitting on his lap, right where he wanted her.

He kissed Frankie hard, igniting a fire within her that heated all the way to her curled toes. Lane's mouth felt hard and hot.  His hands were wandering down her back under her shirt, then beneath the waistband of her jeans.  At that moment, the last thing on her mind was the geriatric adulterer inside the house she was supposed to be watching.  Frankie moved sensuously against him until Lane groaned, and she felt the rock-hard evidence of his arousal.  Lane lifted her, and before she could register what was happening, she was straddling him and he had her jeans zipper down.  He planted soft kisses along Frankie's neck as he quickly helped her shed her coat and top.  Now licking and kissing, his mouth moved down her neck until he pushed her bra up and cupped her breast, his lips touching her nipple with tantalizing possessiveness.  Frankie struggled first with his jacket, and then his shirt.  The desire to be against him, flesh against flesh, was overwhelming.

"You feel so good..." Frankie moaned.

The first blow to her vehicle was to the windshield, loud as thunder and just as destructive as lightning.  Safety glass rained in on them.  They separated and Frankie, adjusting her bra, searched the back for her duffle bag to get her Glock.  What the hell was going on?  Before she could find her gun, three more blows were delivered to the hood of her SUV. 

Arthur Holden, holding a Louisville Slugger as if preparing for a home run, used her car as the ball.  He swung the bat, this time crashing on the driver-side door.  By this time, Lane had gathered his wits, grabbed his service revolver, and popped out of the SUV. 

Holden, getting a good look at Lane's six-foot-five, hard-muscled body, took off at a good clip, considering he was sixty going on seventy-something, with one pissed-off law enforcement officer husband not far behind. 

Frankie struggled with the driver’s door until she realized it wouldn't open.  She scooted across the console and flew through the open passenger-side door
. 

“Stand down, Babe.” Lane called out to his wife, who was following in hot pursuit.

"Stand down? He’s my target, dammit!” Frankie called back. “I’ve got this...”

“You’ve got it? You don’t even have all your clothes on.” Lane snorted.

Frankie was cold, as in freezing.
She stopped, looked down to see that not only was she not wearing her coat, but she was also missing her top. “Shit,” she mumbled under her breath as she raced back to her SUV, gathered up her clothes from the floor, then put them on, leaning against the vehicle while sobbing hysterically.

Still running, Lane leaped and tackled Holden, holding him face-down in the snow.  "You freaking idiot!  You just made a huge mistake."

"Mistake?  If anyone made a mistake, it was the slut you were with.  Did she really think she was following me unnoticed?"

Slipping a pair of handcuffs on Holden's wrists, Lane rolled the man over.  "No, buddy, you're the one making the mistake.  That so-called slut is my wife.  And let me introduce myself.  My name is Lane Hansen and I run the Major Crimes Department for the County Sheriff's Office.  Oh, by the way, you, sir, are under arrest."

Lane walked, half-dragged Holden to his vehicle, read him his rights, and then locked him in the back seat.  When he returned to Frankie, she was still leaning against her SUV, sobbing.

Lane pulled her against his chest and rubbed her back in an effort to get her to calm down.

"Baby, it’s okay.  I know you could have handled this, but I was here and that jerk could have hurt you
.”

She pushed at him and smothering a sob said, "You don't understand.  We paid off this SUV last week.  It was finally paid for.  One less bill.  And now it will cost us hundreds if not thousands to fix."

"Not necessarily," Lane said as he brushed a clump of blonde hair out of her eyes.

"What are you talking about?"  Didn't he hear what she just said?

"I assume the jerk in the back of my car is who you were following."

"Yes, that's Arthur Holden.  His wife hired me because she suspected him of cheating on her," Frankie said.

"Was he?"

"Yes."

"Did you get photos?"

"Yes," she said as she glanced inside at her camera.

"Then you take more photos of the damage he just did to your car and you add it to your client's bill."

"Hmmm, not a bad idea.  Mrs. Holden did say money was no object."

"I have another idea."

"Let's hear it," said Frankie, as she kissed him on the cheek.

"Give me an hour to get this guy to the jail, and then meet me at the house.  We need to finish what we started here.  I wasn't kidding when I said I missed you.  I also want you — a lot."

Frankie raised her wrist to look at her watch.  "One hour.  Our house.  In the bedroom.  No clothes.  Got it? And I hope you've taken your vitamins today."

She watched Lane as he headed back to his vehicle.  Yes, she needed to tell him she was pregnant.  But not tonight.

<><><> 

December 23

By the time Frankie reached their home, it was two in the morning.  She bounded out of the car like an Olympian, unlocking and relocking the front door, and rushing up the stairs, taking them two at a time.  In her bathroom, she ran hot water in the big garden tub, using a substantial amount of the rose-scented bubble bath that Lane liked.  Stripping off her clothes, she threw them into the hamper, and eased into the tub.  It was steamy-hot the way she liked it, the heat relaxing her aching muscles.  It had been such a long day with the fruitless search for Shawn Isaac in the woods beside the farm where he used to live.  As if that weren’t enough, she'd followed Arthur Holden to his girlfriend's house, where calamity ensued and her car fell victim to Arthur's Louisville Slugger.  Frankie was exhausted, but then she was exhausted all the time when she was pregnant with Ashley.

Thinking of her little girl made her smile.  She visualized Ashley fast asleep with Hunter by her side in one of Aunt Megan's and Uncle Tim's guest rooms. 

Frankie heard the twist of the front door lock, then the door opened and slammed shut again.  Lane was home.  Her heart jolted and her pulse pounded.  The man had the uncanny ability to turn her on just by thinking of him and his hard, ripped body—plus a sexual attraction that seemed to emanate from every pore, pulling her to him like iron to a magnet. She was powerless to resist him.

Frankie heard his heavy footsteps racing up the stairs, so she jumped out of the tub, not caring that she was dripping water all over the floor.  When she reached the bathroom doorway, she draped her naked body seductively against the frame, waiting for him to enter their bedroom.  She couldn't help but wonder how long she could pull off sexy before she'd start showing the baby she was carrying.  She was already a bit self-conscious because she hadn't lost the last ten pounds after having Ashley.  Lane had told her that any concerns about her weight were silly.  He told her sexy was an attitude—not a size or number
—
and she had lots of attitude.

When Lane burst through the bedroom door, the only thing he was wearing was his white boxer shorts.  She knew the moment he noticed her because her temperature shot up about one hundred degrees as his smoldering eyes raked boldly over her, starting from her eyes to her shoulders to her breasts.  Slowly, sensually, his gaze slid downward until her body ached so much for his touch, she didn't think she could withstand another second without it.  In one forward motion, she was in his strong arms, her soft curves molding to the contours of his hard body. She gasped as bare chest met bare chest.  Claiming her lips, Lane crushed her to him.  He kissed her like he was hungry for her, sending new spirals of ecstasy surging through her body, down to her toes.