Sadness ghosted through the smile Barbara shot him. “I’m afraid the raising was more his doing than mine. But thank you.”
They exchanged pleasantries for a moment before Frank snapped his fingers. “Dammit. Just remembered something I need to talk to Lena about. I’ll be right back.”
He strode off. Alex stared after him, caught flat-footed.
Barbara laughed. “My, he must be serious about you if you’re getting the Mom Test.”
“Mom Test?”
“Yes. I hope you won’t mind if I work on my painting while we talk. I’m about to lose the light.” Picking up her brush, she wiped it off on a rag, then picked up her palette and dipped it delicately in one of the shades of orange paint smeared there.
“Ah, sure.”
“At eighteen, he got very serious about a pretty young cheerleader. But when he brought her over to meet me, the girl basically ran screaming, Of course, that was before we found the right medication, so that might have had something to do with it.” Barbara stepped back a pace to consider the painting, then moved closer to delicately place a tiny bead of paint. “Ever since then, he’s made a point of introducing me to whatever female he’s involved with to see what she’ll do.” She turned from the canvas to consider Alex. “Though you got the introduction sooner than most.” Her mouth curled in a dry smile. “Now that you’ve met the crazy lady, do you intend to run screaming?”
“Nope.” Knowing a challenge when she heard one, Alex folded her arms and rocked back on one heel. “I’m a little harder to terrify than his other girls.”
“Well, you’re a cop. You would be.” Barbara glanced toward the waterfall, head tilted as she considered it. “I hope you stick. He could use a little happiness. Sure as hell didn’t have much when he was growing up—not once I started getting sick. By the time he was nine, he was doing more taking care of me than the other way around. Made sure I got up to go to work, made sure I ate. Lied like a rug to every teacher, cop, or social worker who asked too many questions, trying to make sure they didn’t take him away from me.” She fell silent, adding another bright highlight to a koi scale. “Though in retrospect, he’d have been better off if they had.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” There’d been cases where the South Carolina Department of Social Services had placed children with foster families who turned out to be worse abusers than their birth parents. Some of those kids had died.
“Oh, I’m sure. When he was sixteen, I almost slit his throat with a box cutter because I thought demons were going to possess him.”
Yep, Barbara was testing her. “You don’t seem too worried about demons at the moment.”
The woman grinned wickedly, looking so much like her son, Alex had to grin back. “By the grace of God and the pharmaceutical industry.” She sobered. “The meds I take can have some ugly side effects, but I never skip a dose. I’d do anything for that boy.”
“I hear that.”
The painter’s gaze met Alex’s, suddenly fierce. “Don’t hurt my son, Alex Rogers. He’s been hurt enough.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was a chilly, bright afternoon. Bruce lay in his sniper nest in hunter’s camouflage, almost invisible among the weeds, brown stalks bobbing under the playful touch of an October breeze.
He wasn’t expecting his target for another hour or so—she hadn’t even radioed dispatch she was going 10-7 for lunch yet. But it was better to arrive early and settle in than cut it too close and risk movement that would spook his prey.
That damned well wasn’t happening again.
Adrenaline hummed seductively in his veins as he imagined the shot he’d take—the sight of blood and brain exploding from the dyke’s head. The heady power, the grim satisfaction of getting revenge on Murphy for poaching on Bruce’s territory. He’d known from the way the SEAL talked about Gaffney that the bastard considered her a friend. Maybe losing her would hurt Murphy enough to throw him off his stride.
He could handle Alex. Frank worried him.
Obtaining Gaffney’s badge might be problematic, though. Bruce badly wanted it for his father’s shrine, but it was broad daylight. He wasn’t sure he’d have a chance to retrieve it without being observed by some nosy bystander. And painting the patrol car was definitely out.
He frowned, brooding. Since he’d gotten rid of Ted, nothing had gone right. He hadn’t had a chance to plant a camera at Murphy’s house, for instance. Getting one in place at Rogers’s mill village shack had been no problem, but all it had recorded was her packing a suitcase and stuffing her cat in a carrier.
Alex had only been seeing Frank for a week, and she was already moving in. That said everything you needed to know about the little whore, didn’t it?
Murphy’s house was probably where all the really good action was happening. Unfortunately, the SEAL had a hell of a security system, and Bruce had yet to determine how to get past it without attracting every cop for miles.
So the audio recording of Frank and Alex making their little date in the patrol car would have to do. Unfortunately, he doubted it had the pop to go viral the way Arlington’s video had. Might still be enough to get them fired . . . but he doubted it.
Which was why he’d sent the recording directly to the Coach’s wife. That would hurt them all where it really counted. Bruce was willing to bet her parents had no idea of what kind of disgusting things Alex did.
They knew now, though. Or they would.
Imagining their pain and distress, Bruce smiled. Another bit of revenge for Dad. Next he’d send it to the television stations, see what would happen.
Hell, by the time he killed her, her parents, and her fucking SEAL, she might welcome the bullet.
Smiling, he lay in his nest of weeds like a copperhead. Waiting.
* * *
Diane Gaffney had known she was a target since the night Ted was shot. That had been made painfully obvious by the bigoted slurs painted all over his patrol car. Somebody definitely did not like gay people—and Diane had been out of the closet for years.
So she’d evaluated her daily schedule, looking for the moment when she’d be most vulnerable. The good news was, she didn’t make a particularly easy target. As the sergeant for Able platoon, she drove around Morgan County, acting as backup or providing management to whatever cop needed her. Even she never knew where she’d be at any given time, which would make her a seriously hard target as far as the sniper was concerned.
The only point of vulnerability was her lunch hour. Diane had a favorite restaurant she’d hit anytime she wasn’t at the opposite end of the county. Rose’s Home Cooking lay off I-85, one of those places that served a meat and three—some kind of entrée and three vegetables. The fried chicken was damned near as good as her mother’s, the corn bread had a wonderful, buttery crunch, and the iced tea was so sweet, you could stand a spoon in it. All of which was why Rose’s was usually packed.
What’s more, there was a hill overlooking the parking lot where she’d set up if she were the sniper. Brush and weeds would provide cover beside an access road, which would make a perfect escape route.
It stood to reason that the sniper was using some kind of scanner to keep track of police activity. Either an old-fashioned radio-type unit, or one of the cell phone apps. Diane’s money was on the app. If the killer was monitoring police communications, he’d know when she went to lunch.
So every day since Ted died, Diane had played bait.
Ben Tracy and a couple of deputies from the SWAT team had spent every afternoon staking out the section of road overlooking the restaurant. And every day, she’d radioed in that she was going 10-7 at Rose’s for lunch.
Not that she’d actually pranced out where she could be shot. Diane had better sense than that. But she had left her vehicle parked in the parking lot, hoping the killer would take the bait so she, Tracy, and the SWAT volunteers could grab his psychotic ass.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t, much to the frustration of the hunt
ers. Instead, he’d gone after Frank, Alex, and Bruce. It was only by the grace of God that he’d missed his targets.
Unlike certain idiots she could name, she tended to assign the deputies’ survival to luck more than any lack of skill on the killer’s part.
Diane had had hopes that today their trap would net the killer, but unfortunately, she’d received a call from Tracy twenty minutes ago telling her he wouldn’t be available. Evidently somebody had managed to get himself killed, and the detective had been called in to assist on the case. Which wouldn’t be a problem, except the two SWAT team members were also working the same murder, leaving her without any backup at all.
Diane had dropped by to see if she was needed, but so many deputies had already responded she decided there was really no point. She’d be more useful making sure all hell didn’t break loose elsewhere in the county.
So they’d just have to try to trap the sniper tomorrow.
But . . . She was only about ten minutes from Rose’s, and she was in the mood for some chicken. She’d go 10-7, make sure the sniper hadn’t shown up, then go have lunch. Odds were slim the asshole would have picked today to try for her, but she was feeling paranoid enough to want to check.
It’d be a damned shame to get her head blown off over a chicken breast. Even one of Rose’s.
So Diane parked her patrol unit at the base of the hill, beyond a stand of trees that should conceal it from the sniper—assuming he was even there. According to the SWAT guys, the bastard would have gotten into position long before he was expecting her to arrive.
Diane got out of her car and left the door open a little way so the sound of it closing wouldn’t betray her. Then she drew her weapon and padded silently along the road, keeping alert for any sign of the shooter as she went.
This was probably going to end up being another complete waste of time—but she didn’t care to take the chance that the killer was waiting to cap her.
Rounding the bend, she spotted a shape lying in the long weeds. Diane froze. A man in hunting camouflage with a rifle braced against his cheek, sighting on the parking lot below.
Diane’s heart leapt into a thundering roll as she aimed the gun at the back of his head. “Hey, asshole! You’re under arrest! Drop your rifle and lace your fingers behind your neck!”
He moved so fast, he caught her by surprise, flipping over on his back and jerking his rifle around. For a split second, she saw his face—and recognized him. The surprise of it froze her finger on the trigger for a deadly split second. “Greer, you son of a bitch!”
She fired a heartbeat before he did.
* * *
Alex sat in Frank’s lap in his favorite chair in the great room as he fed her lunch—taking a bite himself, then giving her one as the television murmured something mindless in the background. The meal was one of those stir-fry creations from a recipe he’d gotten off the Internet—chopped steak, peppers, squash, and snap peas all simmered together in teriyaki sauce. In between bites, he caressed her nipples through the MCSO tee.
Feeding a sub was one of those minor acts of dominance and care that Doms in general—and Frank in particular—seemed to enjoy, particularly when building up to some sort of scene. He’d told her this one wouldn’t be all that demanding, mostly because she was still sore from last night’s adventure in the dungeon. But any form of sex with Frank had a way of getting her stirred up. And she wasn’t the only one, judging by the erection she could feel growing under her deliciously sore ass.
A manic purring sounded at their feet, where SIG was demolishing his own bowl of Frank’s creation. The cat, like Alex, had happily settled in at his temporary home. The Dom was always doling out strokes, which were all it took to win SIG’s love.
Alex’s, too, come to think of it.
Frank presented her with another bite of teriyaki. She closed her mouth over it, making the bite sensual: sucking on the tines of the fork, then licking away every trace of sauce. “Delicious,” she murmured. “But then, everything you do is delicious.”
He grinned. “Suck-up.”
The comment sounded like the kind of banter Ted and Cal used to exchange. The memory hurt worse than Frank’s whip.
Something of what she felt must have shown on her face, because his expression darkened to sorrow. He wrapped a big hand around the back of her head and pulled it down for a kiss, slow and sweet and lingering. I know how you feel, the kiss said, because I feel it, too.
In gratitude, Alex deepened it, licking at his teeth and dueling with his tongue until the pain fell away in the slow rise of desire.
Blam blam blam!
She jolted against Frank as a fist pounded the front door again. SIG yowled and darted under the couch to hide. Blam blam BLAM! “Alex! Alex, you get out here!”
“Coach! That’s the Coach!” Springing off Frank’s lap, she raced for the bedroom to search for the bra she’d removed the night before. “Oh, God, oh God, what’s he doing here? How’d he find out where I am?”
“Calm down, babe.” Frank strode after her, both of them ignoring her father’s continued pounding as she snatched off her T-shirt, grabbed the bra off the floor, and thrust her arms into the straps. He pushed her fumbling hands out of the way and fastened it for her. “It’s none of his business where you’re staying.”
“Tell him that!”
BLAM BLAM BLAM! The blows seemed to be getting louder as the Coach’s patience eroded. “Alexis!”
“You’re not a teenager he caught in the back of somebody’s car.” Irritation dropped Frank’s voice to a growl. “You’re a grown woman. You have a right to be any damn where you want.”
“I don’t think he got the memo!” Alex dragged the tee back on.
“Alexis Eleanor Rogers!” Oh, God, he was using her full name. She had to get that door open, but first she swept a frantic glance over Frank.
He looked presentable, a towering, barefooted man, broad shouldered in his black jeans and tee. A disapproving glower darkened his handsome face. He obviously didn’t think she should be running around in a panic, but he didn’t know her father. Unlike the popular stereotype of ranting high school coaches, Ken rarely got mad, being more inclined to cool displeasure than flamboyant rage. But when he did get pissed, you’d better duck. The lightning bolts were on the way.
BLAMBLAMBLAM! “Alexis, open this door!
She skidded to a stop in front of it, started to jerk it open . . .
“Security system,” Frank reminded her. He punched the code in on the foyer keypad. It disengaged with a birdlike chirp. Alex unlocked the door and jerked it open. “Coach!” And instantly felt a fool, knowing her bright tone didn’t fool anybody.
“It’s about time!” Her father glared at her from the front porch. “What were you, naked?”
“Mr. Rogers,” Frank said coldly over her head. “What brings you here?”
The Coach ignored him. “Get your things, Alex. I’m taking you home. “
Alex’s inner Daddy’s Girl wanted badly to obey. Her outer cop, on the other hand, started to get pissed. Frank’s looming presence behind her gave her the courage to voice what she was thinking. “In case you haven’t noticed, Daddy, I’m an adult now. I don’t have to—”
“Your mother got a recording in her e-mail this afternoon.” The Coach directed his next icy glare at Frank. “Are you my daughter’s”—his lip curled—“Dominant?”
Cold flooded her body, a wave of ice rolling from her chin to the top of her head. It seemed the shooter had indeed recorded them, and he’d done exactly what she’d most feared he would: sent it to her parents.
That fucker. That vicious fucker. She’d rather he’d shot her.
The Coach looked like he wanted to do the job. “That’s the right term, isn’t it? Dominant.” He glared up at Frank as he stepped forward, forcing Alex to retreat. She bumped into her lover, who still hovered protectively behind her. When he didn’t move back, she instinctively pushed her shoulders against his chest. He ret
reated a step, allowing Alex to move aside. The Coach stomped in, radiating enough testosterone to choke a bull elk.
“I looked it up on the Internet,” her father spat. “Found out all about that sick BDSM . . . stuff the e-mail said you’ve been doing to my daughter.”
Frank raised a thick dark eyebrow. “I fail to see how your daughter’s love life is any of your business.”
“Love life? What you’re doing to her has nothing to do with love!” He turned to Alex, and scanned her body, apparently checking for bruises. “Has he hurt you?”
Alex’s bruised ass checks instinctively tensed. “No, but you’re hurting me right now. Not to mention embarrassing the heck out of me. Frank is right—what we do in bed is none of your business.”
“If he’s abusing you, I’m making it my business. I stayed out of it with that jerk Gary. Told your mother you were grown, and you could make your own choices whether we approved or not. I’m not going to stand by this time. You’re coming home!”
“Alex is safer here,” Frank said, his tone emotionless. “This house has a good security system. Unlike the lock on her house, which a two-year-old could jimmy with a credit card. Or have you forgotten she’s been targeted by the sniper? The same one, by the way, who apparently sent you that recording. Probably hoping you’d make her leave this house, so he could get at her more easily.”
“She wouldn’t be a target if it wasn’t for you!” Ken gave Frank a hard, calculating stare. “What if I forward that recording to the sheriff? What’s he going to think?”
“Go ahead.” The Dom’s expression was stony as sculpted marble. “You should forward it. It’s evidence in a murder investigation.”
“Don’t dare me, boy. If you’re convicted of domestic abuse, you’ll lose your badge.”
Alex stiffened, realizing he was right. If you were convicted of domestic abuse in South Carolina, you couldn’t carry a gun. If you couldn’t carry a gun, you couldn’t be a cop.
Frank would lose the job he loved because the Coach was outraged he’d banged his precious little girl in a way he didn’t like. She’d already lost her parents; now she’d lose him, too.
Without Restraint Page 27
