Sweetest Desires (A Sweetest Day Romance)

by Beverly Taylor

  “I wanted to meet you in a public spot, and I know you like places like this where women are plentiful.”

  “Oh, I see,” he said the wiser. He took a swig from his beer bottle. “You don’t trust being alone with me, or is it you don’t trust yourself?” he grinned slyly.

  The only response she gave was a waive goodbye.

  In spite of everything, he grinned as he watched her curvy figure sway to the music.

  Pausing at a nearby table, she turned to see him watching her. “Get some sleep,” she yelled over the noise, and disappeared through the crowd.

  * * *

  Randy parked, closed the cell phone and leaned his head back. Idly clicking the Paper Mate with his thumb, he stared out the car window, watching the raindrops fall. His radio was tuned to a station that played back-to-back 1970’s R & B oldies. Hearing The Stylistics crooning “I’m Stone In Love With You” and The Natural Four singing “Can This Be Real,” took him back to his childhood. He remembered his older sister playing the forty-five records over and over on the family’s stereo console.

  Engine idling, wipers slapping, Randy lingered in the evening shade, his eyes drawn to the single light burning in the second-floor window. A shadow passed behind the closed shade.

  This was the third night he’d been sitting across the street from Katharine’s house, waiting for the mystery man to appear. The only person besides Katharine and the two small children that he’d seen come through the door was a tall, attractive woman whose name he had easily discovered, was Natalie Harper.

  Tonight, though, Katharine seemed to be alone except for her children, who had gone to bed at eight o’clock, judging from the lights in their rooms.

  Just as he lifted a brown paper bag concealing a beer bottle to his lips, an unmarked cop’s car pulled into Katharine’s driveway. He was nearly certain the man who got out was the one in the photos Cindy had supplied him with. He couldn’t see the face clearly, but the build and the hair were identical. He was dressed in a business suit, but Randy could have spotted him as a cop by his pronounced gait even if he hadn’t seen his car. Something seemed oddly familiar about him. Randy watched as the front door opened and Mystery Cop disappeared inside.

  Despite having lost his job as a regular policeman, Randy had plenty of connections at police headquarters. He placed a call to his longtime friend, Carrie, a dispatcher with the Department, and asked her to run down the tag. She called back to inform him that the car was assigned to Detective Walter Freeman.

  The name rang a bell, and Randy looked again at the photographs, studying them more closely. Now he understood why the man had seemed so familiar. He hadn’t seen him for more than nine years, but Freeman had been one of the officers who testified against Randy not long after he’d graduated from the police academy.

  During the incident, Randy had left his nine millimeter in his police car—holster and all—parked in a high-crime neighborhood with the rear passenger-side window rolled down one-third of the way. Very easy for any passerby to stick his arm through and lift the gun. No telling what would’ve happened had it fallen into the hands of a criminal or a delinquent.

  A concerned citizen had phoned in the incident, and Freeman and his partner, some red-faced guy with an Italian name, or whatever, were sent to investigate.

  Randy had been spending a few moments with a prostitute-stripper when he should’ve been on patrol. He’d pleaded with Freeman not to report him, but Freeman had been outraged, calling his behavior despicable, reckless, and negligent and telling Randy that he’d disgraced his badge and uniform.

  The investigation had resulted in Randy being discharged. His appeal to the Board of Commissions had ended in a unanimous decision that upheld the original decision and required his immediate termination. He’d vowed to repay Freeman for denying him a second chance, and now the time had come for a little payback.

  * * *

  Only a few days had passed since the intimate kiss, and Freeman had been pleasantly surprised by Katharine’s phone call inviting him over to talk and apologize.

  The talk had gone well, and he returned to his car with a clear conscience and a renewed friendship. Beyond that, he didn’t dare to hope.

  He was backing out of the driveway when a car pulled away from the curb a hundred yards behind him. The placement of the headlights told him it was a midsize late-model sedan. Its high beams reflected off the rain-washed pavement, and he adjusted his rearview mirror to cut the glare.

  His fingers touched the Glock nine millimeter he wore when he was on duty, comforted by the familiarity of the cool, smooth steel. He took pride in carrying it, took pride in being a policeman like his father. Calmly, in no particular hurry, he took the next left and waited to see what the other driver would do. A second later, headlights turned the corner behind him.

  He felt the first prick of annoyance. Who would be tailing him? More to the point, why? Deciding two could play this game, he began zigging and zagging his way back and forth on the cross streets at a steady, unhurried pace. In his rearview mirror, the headlights maintained an even distance, close enough that their reflection bouncing off the wet pavement blurred visibility, yet far enough away to remain anonymous.

  Freeman ran his fingers over the Glock again, remembering what he’d been taught at the academy. Shoot to kill. From the first day of firearms training, it had been drilled into his head. Never draw your weapon unless you’ve already made the decision to take a human life. What that boiled down to, in most cases, was self-defense. If a detective fired his or her weapon, Freeman could almost guarantee that it was to save either his own life or someone else’s.

  Whoever his tail was, he was merely trying to annoy Freeman, to draw him into some psychological game of cat and mouse. If he’d meant him any harm, it would’ve been easy enough to corner him or run him off the road. But this game playing was like Chinese water torture, designed to drive him crazy.

  And he was getting royally pissed.

  In a split-second decision, he slammed on the brakes, and his sedan screeched to a halt. The creep wanted to play? Fine. He’d give him what he was asking for. Heart thundering, adrenaline whooshing through his veins, Freeman snatched up his gun, flung open the door, and stepped out of the car to face his pursuer.

  For a full ten seconds, he stood in the rain in the blinding glare of high-beam headlights, legs braced apart, hands gripping the Glock like the maverick cop, Martin Riggs, in the Lethal Weapon series, the barrel pointed straight at the windshield of the car behind him. The driver shifted into reverse and began backing away, transmission whining as it gained speed. When the car reached the intersection, the driver spun it around and sped off into the rainy darkness, tires screaming on the slick pavement.

  Freeman lowered the Glock and slumped against the side of his car, waiting for his thundering heart to slow.

  His breathing restored to normal, he climbed back into the sedan and locked the doors. Twenty minutes later, he pulled up to his apartment complex and parked, unsnapped his seat belt, and took a quick look around. The street was empty, the streetlights haloed by fog. The tail had apparently given up. But Freeman was more spooked than he’d realized. When he reached for the door handle, his hand trembled. Glancing around one last time, he locked the car and kept his hand on his weapon as he approached the front door.

  A new thought flashed across his mind. He wondered if the moron driver could’ve been the jealous husband, Carson O’Connor.

  * * *

  “Bet that scared the devil out of him, or should I say the Devlin?” His snicker turned into a belly laugh. Randy had gloated after he told Cindy the whole story.

  He’d insisted that she meet him at his apartment. Since Cindy was thrilled to receive the information, she agreed. Now that she’d gotten what she’d wanted, she could finally close this chapter of her life with Randy.

  “I like your hair pulled up,” Randy complimented. “Very sexy.”

  She couldn’t use t
he ol’ sniff and cough act this time.

  He then took her hand and stroked the back of it, his touch light, as though he feared to break the fragile bones. His hand moved beneath her skirt, clutching her bottom. “I thought now that our friendship had moved to another level, you might want to, uh, maybe, you know, have sex, or rather make love, or whatever you want to call it.”

  Furious, she turned on her heel and would have stalked away if his hand hadn’t shot out to grab her arm and bring her back around.

  “Since I gave you want you wanted, you’re damned well going to give me what I want.”

  Her eyes moved down to his tight grip around her arm. She then glared into his eyes, determined not to show her fear. “Should I take that as a threat, Mr. Devlin? And if you try to force yourself on me, God will strike you dead.”

  She’d never seen this side of Randy. She knew nothing about this man. Zilch. He might be a psychopath or a rapist. She hadn’t even considered doing a background check on him. There’d been no reason to. It was all supposed to be a friendly favor with no strings attached.

  He released his grip and gave her a slow, insulting once-over.

  “I’ve checked you out too, babe. You’re living with that chick’s husband—O’Connor. Yeah, I know all about it. You’re trying to break them apart and get him for yourself. I know about slutty women like you. You’re the same slut as you were in high school. Nothing’s changed.”

  Cindy sucked in a sharp little breath, determined not to lose control. “I’m not a slut!”

  “O’Connor’s a damn fool to throw everything away for a woman like you. All I can figure is that you must be really hot in the sack. But is a roll with you worth losing all he’s bound to lose? I seriously doubt it. His eyes moved down her body. “Your beauty’s fading. You’re not even that good looking anymore.”

  She wanted to explode but managed to preserve control, albeit through glued teeth. “You don’t know anything about my relationship with Carson, only what you’ve deduced in your dirty mind. And if you try to take advantage of this situation, the wrath of God will fall upon you and no amount of prayer, not even from the holiest, can stop it.”

  He grinned impishly. “Don’t start preaching like a fire-breathing Bible prophet. If it’s so wrong for me to want to jump your bones, shouldn’t it be just as wrong for you to take a married man away from his home and family?” He waited for her to answer but she didn’t. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You’re one wife too late, babe.” He lifted the envelope that lay on the small wooden table beside him and sidled closely to her. “If marriage is what you’re looking for,” he said smoothly, drawing himself even closer to her body, “then we can make that happen right now. Even a heathen like me knows that sex with a whore creates a marriage according to the Good Book,” his fiendish grin remained.

  His breath exploded in her face with the stale stench of alcohol. Making further comments would’ve been useless, so she snatched the envelope and dashed out the door.

  * * *

  Erotically frustrated, Randy ran behind her as she hurried down the stairs. Noticing the small rose tattoo along the lower back edge of her neckline sporting the letters NL, he shouted, “I don’t know what you’re up to, Stamp Tramp, but I do know you’re not only a whoring liar, you’re a damned-to-hell hypocrite. Watch your step, babe, ’cause your next victim may not be as forgiving as I’ve been!”

  Before she had time to reply, he slammed the door behind him.

  Chapter 26

  Deanna quickly became attached to Carson. He was different, not just another one of her mother’s temporary flings. He’d given her meaningful conversation and individual attention, especially when they were in Asheville, and she’d confided to him what she couldn’t admit to any other person, her concerns about her weight.

  By now, she had moved in with Carson and Cindy and was sleeping in the third bedroom. She’d overhead her mother say to Carson how she’d continued to search for that perfect place for us. Deanna hoped the “us” included Carson. It didn’t take long for him to go from Mr. O’Connor to Carson.

  It was one of those rare Saturday evenings when Carson wasn’t traveling or visiting his children. He’d decided to relax this weekend. He would do something he hadn’t been able to do for years—read an entire novel, preferably a legal thriller.

  “I’ve just made a pitcher of unsweetened iced tea. Would you like a glass?”

  Deanna frowned. “I like sugar in mine.”

  “We’ll cure you of that soon enough. Sugar is your enemy. You shouldn’t have cake or cookies, either.” Carson leaned over and gave her a hug. “Remember our talk? That’s one of the reasons why you have this weight problem, sweetheart.”

  She tried to smile but was disappointed. She craved the sweet stuff.

  “I’ve made a fruit salad, steamed vegetables, and baked tilapia. You do like tilapia, don’t you?”

  “Uh-huh. Thank you, Carson. I’m starving.”

  Carson refrained from commenting on her appetite, but she saw his twisted smile.

  “Look. I’m fat and I’m not pretty. I know these things, and I’ve accepted them.” After a brief pause, she said, “Actually, I don’t want to talk about it.” She rubbed the side of her nose, something she always did when faced with a complex situation.

  “Nonsense! We’ve got to talk about it. More important, we need to do something about it.”

  “That’s easy for you to say because you’re handsome. Everyone in my family is pretty except for me.” She turned her face away, embarrassed and ashamed.

  Carson reached across the table and put his hand on her arm. “Deanna, you’re thinking all wrong. A few people are blessed to be born beautiful, but most people have to work at it. If you worked at it, you could be a striking young lady. You have your mother’s beautiful skin. Your eyes are lovely, and your hair could be beautiful if you took proper care of it. And most important, you could lose some weight.”

  “No, I couldn’t,” she mumbled.

  “Well, my dear, if you gorge yourself you can’t lose weight. You have to go on a strict diet-and-exercise regimen. One of the many good things my wife taught me was how to eat and how not to eat. I could help you lose weight, Deanna, if you’d listen to me. Will you listen to me?”

  She looked at Carson. “Why?”

  “Because I care about what happens to you.”

  Not since her dad’s pep talks on why she should eat her vegetables had she heard such sincere words. She sighed. “I’ll listen,” she said, “but it won’t do any good. I’m just naturally fat. And I love to eat. Sometimes I think the only thing in my life is food.”

  “Then we’ll have to find other things.”

  She frowned.

  “You know,” he began, “My wife once told me that when she was eleven years old and five feet two and still growing, she sagged the scales at one hundred thirty-five pounds. But as she got a little older, she began to work her weight off. She told me some of it was baby fat, but for the most part, it was excess weight from overeating, careless diet, and no exercise. She went from beast to beauty. In fact, she became a top gymnast in high school, which won her a scholarship to college. And that’s where we first met.” He smiled radiantly.

  Why did he always have to say, My wife this, my wife that? Why didn’t he refer to her as his ex or just call her Katharine? Calling her his wife made it sound as if Cindy and Carson were cheating. Cindy had told her that Carson was going through a divorce and as soon as it was final, she and Carson would be married; but until further notice, it was to remain a secret between mother and daughter.

  Carson’s pep talk worked. Deanna started the diet the next day, and it was, to say the least, meager.

  Breakfast: Half a grapefruit, one banana, one slice of wheat toast, eight-ounce cup of two-percent milk, and a small glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

  Lunch: Caesar salad with tuna and a small cup of broccoli soup.

  Dinner: One piece of
baked chicken. One serving of steamed vegetables. One serving of brown rice. Fresh fruit for dessert.

  Deanna was used to eating three large meals a day, and she was also an inveterate snacker. By eleven o’clock the first morning, she was ravenous. The Caesar salad lunch did nothing to ease her growling stomach.

  At two-thirty in the afternoon, she went for a stroll. She trudged a dreadful half-mile to the McDonald’s, and ordered three cheeseburgers, two orders of fries, and an apple pie. When she finished eating, she burst into tears.

  The customers looked at her. One of the customers asked, “What’s wrong, honey?”

  “I’m supposed to be on a diet!” Deanna wailed.

  “Some diet,” another customer commented.

  She forcefully pushed herself away from the table and burst through the exit doors. She took short, slow steps out of the parking lot and on to the sidewalks.

  Deanna was lucky. She was able to catch a ride from a neighbor who happened to spot her dragging her feet down the avenue, even though she knew the walk would have done her some good.

  Hoping to avoid Carson, she returned home and locked herself in her room, throwing herself onto the bed and beating the pillows with her fists.

  After a while, she realized the tears were futile. Her only option was to calm down, wash her face, and go down to dinner as if nothing had happened.

  “Well, sweetheart,” Cindy said as Deanna tackled her rice. “How was the first day?”

  “Not as bad as I thought it would be.”

  “Good. You weren’t hungry?”

  “Oh, a little.”

  “Tomorrow, I’m going to buy a new scale. We’ll weigh you then and every day after that. It’s very important to get in the habit of weighing yourself every day. By the way, I’ve made an appointment for you with my doctor on Friday. He’ll give you a checkup and determine what your correct weight should be. That way, we’ll have a target, which is just as important psychologically as it is physically.”