Divorced, Desperate and Dangerous

by Christie Craig

  She barely managed not to cough. But her eyes watered. Then, all of a sudden, she recalled him talking about a Joey two months ago.

  “Is this the same Joey whose wife runs a restaurant?”

  “Yeah, I did tell you about him, didn’t I?”

  “You didn’t mention he was a P.I.”

  “I guess I didn’t. But he does work at the restaurant with his wife, too.”

  She nodded.

  He pulled his drink up to his lips and barely sipped the way she should have. “You obviously got through the school year,” he said. “Did Billy Nash pass kindergarten?”

  The fact that he’d remembered the name of the adorable, but pain-in-the-butt student she’d had the most trouble with this year, did another number on her heart. Instantly, she recalled how easy he’d been to talk to—about her work, her woes, her fears. Everything. Including her concerns about Ricky. Which helped him arrest her brother.

  “Yeah, he passed,” she said feeling confused.

  She used to swing by Ricky’s three or four times a week after school, and most of the time, she’d wind up just sitting and talking to Trey . . . Turner. He listened and had even seemed like he cared.

  “Thanks to you, I’m sure,” he said. “Have you warned the first grade teachers he’s coming?”

  “Actually, I did.” Her gaze shifted to his opened shirt again. She downed the last sip of her drink and set it down beside the turtle. “You know, I should probably go.”

  She jumped up and started around him and the coffee table. But her foot got caught in his, and, probably due to the two glasses of brandy, she fell. Landed right in his lap.

  He caught her around her waist, his fingers slipping ever so slightly under her tank top to caress bare skin.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “No,” she said honestly. “The brandy went to my head.”

  “It can do that,” he said and smiled.

  “Stop.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop being nice. Stop making me remember.”

  “What do you remember?” he asked, letting go of one side of her waist and ever so softly brushing her hair from her cheek.

  She gazed at his mouth and she could definitely remember that night she’d gone into his bedroom. The way he’d kissed her. The way he’d touched her.

  “You want to know what I remember?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He chuckled. “I remember every time you came to that house, I would forget. Forget all the terrible things I’ve seen. Forget the God awful news I watched at night. Forget that I wasn’t supposed to let anyone close. Forget that I swore to never let another woman get anywhere near my heart. Forget that I hadn’t told you my real name. While you made me forget a lot of things, I can still remember how your hair smelled like strawberries. Or, how when you were upset, you nipped at your bottom lip like you’re doing right now. I remember that when you laughed, it was like I’d been given a gift. I remember when you smiled, I would wonder what I could do to make you laugh.”

  He took a sip of his brandy, and looked at her over the rim. His blue eyes, with long lashes, seemed brighter. “I remember that pink sundress you wore, and how at night I would dream of taking it off of you. And God help me, but I remember the night you walked into my bedroom and pulled off that nightshirt. I have never seen anything so beautiful in all my life. I remember—”

  She put her finger over his lips. They were so soft, velvety almost. Touching him was a mistake, because she forgot. Forgot she wasn’t going to let herself want him. Without thinking of the consequences, she leaned forward and kissed him.

  And then she remembered, remembered how much she had wanted him.

  The kiss started hesitant, then went straight to hot. Their tongues met, tasted, and explored. The brandy on their lips made the meeting of mouths even more intoxicating.

  She slipped her hands inside his shirt. His hands moved back to her waist, where he gently held her. His thumbs barely came under her tank top and touched bare skin.

  She shifted, moving one of her legs over him so she straddled him. The hardness in his lap pressed against her most sensitive areas, making her hungry for more. Her hips shifted ever so slightly against that bulge. His kisses moved from her mouth to her neck, sending wonderful tingles all the way down her spine.

  Then she heard Frank’s bedroom door open. Footsteps moved down the hall toward the living room. Turner picked her up and sat her beside him so fast, she couldn’t think. But the sound of the sofa giving up air sounded so loud she was certain Frank could have heard it.

  “I forgot my blood pressure pill,” Frank apologized as he moved through the living room to the kitchen.

  Then Reese glanced down and saw the oh-so-noticeable bulge in Turner’s jeans. With the lamp on beside him, the soft yellow glow spotlighted the quite impressive part of his anatomy that tented his jeans. She reached beside her, grabbed a pillow, and placed it in his lap.

  He looked at the pillow and then at her. His blue eyes held a smile, and damn if she didn’t want to kiss him again.

  The ache between her legs tightened at the thought of him being hard. Of course, she shouldn’t have been surprised; she’d practically given the guy a lap dance.

  “Night again,” Frank said, moving out of the room without looking at them.

  Good thing, too. She was certain even in the semidarkness he would have been able to see her red face. “Goodnight,” she managed to say.

  When his door shut, she stood up. “I should . . . go.”

  “Okay.” But he caught her hand and got to his feet. Leaning down, he kissed her cheek. Just her cheek. “Sweet dreams.”

  She shook her head and glanced up into his eyes. They looked hungry. Hot. Good gracious, what had she been thinking? Wait, she hadn’t been thinking.

  “I . . . I’m not sure that was a good thing.”

  “Don’t worry.” He brushed a slow finger over her lips that were still wet and swollen from his kisses. “I’m sure enough for both of us.”

  “Goodnight,” she said, knowing she had to get away from him before she pushed him back on that sofa and climbed on top of him again.

  “Goodnight, Reese,” he said and slowly released her hand. The way his soft touch glided off her palm felt sad. Like a goodbye that shouldn’t happen. She walked into the bedroom and leaned against the door talking herself out of turning back around and pulling him into the bedroom with her.

  • • •

  Turner couldn’t have been asleep fifteen minutes when his phone rang. He shot up and grabbed it before it woke up anyone else.

  “Yes,” he said, obviously still asleep, because he hadn’t even checked to see who was calling.

  “Detective Calder?” the voice said.

  He ran a palm over his face, trying to wake up. “Yes.”

  “It’s Sheriff Wilson.”

  He leaned forward, dropped his elbows on his knees. An uncomfortable feeling tugged at his crotch, and he glanced down at the bulge behind his zipper. Friggin’ hell, the thing still hadn’t gone down. If he was at home, he’d have taken a shower and solved the problem. But solving those problems in other people’s bathrooms didn’t feel right.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Can you come down to the hotel?”

  “Shit. What happened?” He gritted his teeth, thinking about how little sleep he was going to get again tonight. But he reached for his shirt and stood up.

  “We’re hoping you can tell us,” the sheriff said.

  Chapter Seven

  He got to the hotel in less than eight minutes. When he saw the ambulance pulling out, his gut knotted. Hurrying inside the office, he headed to where he spotted Sheriff Wilson.

  “What happened?”

  “The hotel clerk’s girlfriend called us. They were on Facetime when some guy came in. She wasn’t sure what happened, but she said it sounded like there was some fighting going on. We found your card on the floor b
eside the kid.”

  “Shit! Someone must have come here looking for Reese.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Is the kid going to be okay?”

  “I think so. When we found him, he was unconscious, but he was coming to when the ambulance got here.”

  The cop walked away to talk to another clerk behind the counter. Turner reached for his phone. He didn’t want to ask for help, but damn it, this was getting out of hand.

  Luke picked up the phone on the third ring. “Yes.”

  Turner had forgotten it was in the middle of the night. “That offer of help still stand?”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s getting messy.”

  “No problem. I’ll get Jason and Chase up and—”

  “No, just come in the morning. I want to get her out of here, but with only one way on and off the island, I’m almost scared the creep might be waiting for me to do just that.”

  “Okay, I’ll get them up bright and early and we’ll be there around nine or ten.”

  “Thanks.” Turner hung up as the Sheriff walked back over.

  His phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket. “Yeah,” he said.

  Turner looked away, letting him have his conversation, and frowned when he saw the blood on the floor.

  “Wait. Slow down,” Sheriff Wilson said.

  Turner looked up, hearing the tension in the officer’s voice. “But how did he know where she was?”

  Where who was? This couldn’t be about Reese, could it?

  “Damn it! I’d better go!” He hung up and his tight gaze zeroed in on Turner. “We’d better get back to Frank’s.”

  “Why?” Turner asked his tone tight.

  “That was the ambulance driver. The clerk made him call me. The guy looking for her got suspicious that he knew something and beat the truth out of him. The kid was in the diner and saw you two leave with Frank. He told the guy where he thought she was. At Frank’s beach house.”

  Turner shot out of the office to his car. He didn’t wait on the Sheriff. The thought of that asshole near Reese, the same asshole who could kill people and beat them so badly they were unconscious, made his blood run cold.

  • • •

  Reese stood outside on Frank’s patio. Where was Turner? She could swear she heard his phone ring. But when she finally got the nerve to step outside her bedroom, basically admitting she hadn’t slept a wink, tormented by the ache between her thighs, she found he was gone.

  She stepped back inside the house and quietly closed the French doors. Looking at the blanket on the floor, she picked it up. It almost felt warm. She brought it to her nose. It had the smallest trace of his scent—a little spicy like a man’s soap. Putting it back on the sofa, she went into the kitchen to look out the window to see if his car was still parked outside. It wasn’t there either. Where had he run off to?

  She turned to go back to bed, and came to a sudden stop when she heard a slight jarring sound of the front door opening.

  So Turner had returned. She almost said something, but then she spotted the figure moving through the dark living room. Short and heavy. She knew instantly it wasn’t Frank or Turner.

  The ski mask he wore over his head was as ominous as the gun he held out. She shifted back a step, her heart thumping against her breast bone.

  He quietly moved into the hall, heading toward the bedrooms. The bedroom where she would have been. And toward the bedroom where Frank was sleeping.

  Where Frank could be shot.

  Frank, who was kind enough to bring her into his home, even knowing it could bring him trouble. Suddenly more angry than scared, she crept past the bar and snagged the stone turtle with one hand and the petrified dinosaur poop with the other. The heavy turtle bumped into the wall.

  The would-be assassin turned.

  She swung into action.

  She slung the turtle.

  The guy ducked, but she must have got him, because he hit the wall causing a loud thud. He grunted, but unfortunately, she hadn’t hit hard enough. He raised his hand and leveled the gun in her direction.

  With everything she had, she threw the petrified poop.

  The gun exploded.

  • • •

  Turner drove like hell back to the beach house, leaving Sheriff Wilson, his sirens, and blue lights behind. All he could think about was what it had felt like to kiss Reese again. To hold her. To have her sitting in his lap.

  Turner’s headlights splashed across Frank’s front door–his open front door—as he came to a screeching halt in the driveway. A car parked in front of a house two doors down took off like a bat out of hell. Was that Jimmy Harper’s man? Turner tried, but the car was already too far away to get a license plate.

  Sheriff Wilson must have seen the car speeding down the street, too, because his squad car lit out after him.

  Turner’s breath caught in his lungs. Fear that he was too late burned like acid in his gut. He didn’t remember getting out of his car. He was halfway to the door when he heard the gun go off.

  With his Glock gripped in his hands, he ran inside, his heart thumping against his chest bone.

  He saw Reese fall back against the wall, her arms folded across her middle. A man lay facedown on the hall floor. And a few feet from his hand rested a gun.

  Frank charged out of his bedroom with a thirty-five automatic in his hand. “What happened?” he called out.

  “Get his gun,” Turner ordered and faced Reese.

  She still held her folded arms over her middle. Was she shot? His gaze roamed over her, praying he wouldn’t see blood. “Are you okay? Are you shot?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm as he touched her shoulders and felt her trembling.

  “No.” Inhaling, the air going into her lungs shuddered as she breathed. Unfolding her arms, she pointed at the wall beside her. Even in the dark, he saw the hole in the sheetrock. His gut clenched knowing how close that bullet had come. Frank’s footsteps shifted a few feet from them as he turned a switch and light filled the hall.

  “Police,” yelled Sheriff Wilson from the door.

  “It’s clear,” Turner called out, but he didn’t look back. He pulled Reese against him. He felt her body trembling as she pressed her face into his chest. He wrapped his arm around her. Her soft weight against him felt so damn right. Dropping his head, he breathed in her scent. He knew right then that somehow, someway, he had to convince Reese that she belonged here. Belonged in his arms and in his life.

  Frank’s laugh suddenly exploded. “She took him out with dinosaur shit and a turtle. I love it.”

  • • •

  Turner stayed close to Reese the next twenty minutes. She didn’t push him away, and for that he was grateful. She hadn’t completely stopped trembling either, but she refused any more of Frank’s brandy. The ambulance had taken away the attacker, handcuffed to the stretcher. Reese had been relieved the perp had come to. It didn’t seem to matter that the creep had been there to kill her. She didn’t want to think she’d done him any real harm.

  As much as Turner wanted to argue the point, he realized that was part of what attracted him to Reese, her gentle spirit. She was a kindergarten teacher after all.

  Sheriff Wilson had asked a few questions, said he’d need to talk to them tomorrow, then he followed the ambulance away. But not before telling Turner that the car he’d taken after had gotten away. Which meant while they had caught one guy, there was still another one out there.

  And the lowlife perp knew they were here.

  He could come back to try to finish the job. He glanced at his gun sitting on the coffee table beside the matching turtle figurine that Reese had used to take down the assassin.

  Turner’s head throbbed. Indecision filled his gut. It was three a.m., and two nights in a row that he hadn’t slept. He couldn’t keep this up. A brick wall waited for him right around the corner.

  For one second, he wondered if this was part of what he was feeling toward Reese. If he had a good night’s sle
ep, would he realize that while he was attracted to her and cared about her, the thoughts of forever were too much?

  Frank sat in the light green living room chair. He and Reese sat on the sofa. For the last few minutes, no one had spoken, the silence felt heavy. The sound of the ocean whispered in the distance. He felt her arm against his, her warmth, her scent. Even with the sense of danger still buzzing in his gut, this felt right. Her being this close. Her leaning against him.

  Then Reese’s head landed softly on his shoulder. He looked down at her. Her eyes closed. Exhausted, and emotionally overdrawn, she’d finally fallen asleep.

  “Pretty little thing,” Frank said in a low voice.

  “Yeah.” Turner studied her face, and his chest expanded with emotion.

  Frank chuckled. “My Bessie would be so proud she used her turtle and dinosaur shit to take out a bad guy.” He paused. “That girl’s got guts to do what she did.” Frank continued to stare at Reese. “She probably saved me from taking a bullet.”

  “Probably,” Turner said, and he was glad she’d done it, but the thought of how close she’d come to taking a bullet herself had his breath locking in his chest. And he knew then it was love. He looked back at the door. And there was someone still out there that wanted to kill her.

  Frank frowned. “You two work out your differences?”

  Turner glanced back at Reese. Sleeping, she looked younger, and so damn innocent. He cut his eyes back at Frank, but didn’t feel up to discussing his problems with the man, not when he had other things on his plate that needed his attention. “I need to get her some place safe.”

  Frank leaned forward in his chair and folded his hands together. “I like you.”

  “Same here,” Turner said, not really sure what Frank was getting at.

  “But I like her more. Don’t hurt her.”

  There wasn’t any question of the threat in his firm tone. Turner knew Frank hadn’t said it as the good ol’ boy he’d come to know him as, but as an ex-FBI agent.