MAD DOG AND ANNIE

by Virginia Kantra

  Her hands twisted in her lap. "He's still Mitchell's father."

  He wanted to shout a denial. Like she needed him yelling at her on top of everything else. "And you're his mother," he said as calmly as he could. "His primary caregiver. Judges pay attention to stuff like that. Rob is just jerking your chain."

  "I can't take that chance."

  His jaw hurt. He was clenching it too hard. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  Her gaze slid away from his. "I think you investigating Val's case makes Rob nervous."

  "Are you asking me to stop?"

  "No. But—did you find a connection today between Rob and the motel?"

  She wasn't going to like what he had to tell her. Hell, he didn't like it himself.

  "Not yet." Frustration burned his gut. He wasn't in the habit of sharing with civilians. But this was Annie. It was her lead. Her friend. And at this point he couldn't let her hang false hopes on his police work. "Nobody could give me a positive ID. Maybe when I get a photo, it will jog somebody's memory. The manager doesn't remember if Rob was there last summer or not, the desk clerk wouldn't know him if he saw him, and the cleaning woman is new."

  "What about records? You said there might be receipts—"

  Maddox shook his head. "I got a subpoena for the motel's charge records from a year ago, but they'll take a while to wade through. My guess is he paid with cash he stole from the restaurant, anyway."

  "I'm sorry you've had a wasted day."

  He didn't want her sympathy. He didn't deserve it. Not when he had nothing to offer her in return.

  "I wouldn't say wasted," he drawled. "So far I've pushed the lab for enough evidence to incriminate Con MacNeill and pressured your ex-husband into threatening you. Not bad for a day's work."

  "You'll turn up something," she said with quiet faith. "There has to be something."

  He didn't deserve her trust, either. He'd done nothing to earn the warm feeling that caught his chest when she looked at him with those big green eyes like he was damn Dick Tracy. This investigation was a disaster. But telling her that wouldn't do a lot to help her peace of mind.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. Something."

  "You should get some sleep."

  Tenderhearted Annie. He didn't want sleep. He wanted her. He wanted to tail her to her room and see if she made up her bed with flowered sheets. He bet she did. He wanted to tuck her in and hold her close until the tension leaked from her shoulders. He wanted the stuff that came after that, too, wanted to feel her warm and wet and welcoming over him, around him, while he moved and she moved and her soft hair touched his face.

  But he wasn't going to get what he wanted. Nothing new there. Not the sex and not the chance to come home at the end of the day and find himself in her smile. Though maybe… If he stayed in Cutler, did he have a shot at making it with her?

  He frowned. Never mind that. Annie was exhausted. Her mouth drooped. Her eyes were shadowed. And there was no way in hell he could picture her inviting him up for an invigorating bounce on her bed while her boy slept down the hall.

  So, it was the couch again.

  Maddox sighed and looked around for the blankets he'd folded and stashed last night.

  She pressed her lips together. Trouble?

  "What?" he demanded.

  "I told you," she said with difficulty. "People are talking. I can't risk talk. I can't risk anything that Rob can use against me, and he doesn't like it that we're … close."

  Not the couch, after all. The car.

  "So, how far away do you figure will satisfy him?" Maddox asked. "The driveway? The curb? Across the street?"

  Her silence reproached him.

  Damn.

  He tried to make a joke of it. "Maybe I'll knock on your neighbor's door, ask to use the bathroom. That should convince them I'm not sleeping over."

  Her mouth was set. Her eyes were miserable. This was getting them nowhere.

  He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "Kiss me," he said.

  That woke a flash of spirit. Her chin came back up. "What for?"

  He made himself grin at her wickedly. "Do you only kiss me when you want something?"

  Her answering smile started in her eyes. "I guess I want what all those other women want. But I'm not going to get it tonight."

  Her frank regret stirred him more than the most practiced come-on.

  "Kiss me good-night, then," he said hoarsely.

  She did, wrapping her arms around him, pressing up tight against him, giving him a taste of her tears and her warmth and her sweetness. And he kissed her and hungered for her and cursed Rob Cross.

  "Sleep well," she whispered.

  "Sweet dreams," he replied.

  He didn't sleep well. He hardly slept at all, and his dreams, when they came, were wild and heated. He woke up sweaty and stiff, and his condition had nothing to do with spending the night in his car and everything to do with Annie.

  * * *

  He'd parked across the street again.

  The sight of his battered blue sedan keeping silent, stubborn vigil lured Ann to her window again and again. Peeking through the ruffled curtains the next morning, she felt like some boy-crazy sixth grader spying on a crush.

  She bit her lip. Really, she ought to march out there and tell Maddox that fifteen feet of asphalt was not likely to discourage the gossips.

  But she didn't. Instead she stood and watched, her pulse loud in her ears, as he got slowly out of the car. He must be stiff. He rolled his shoulders beneath his wrinkled uniform shirt, and her breath jammed in a helpless confusion of lust and concern. He leaned against the hood of his car. Even from a distance she could see how his dark slacks pulled across his powerful thighs.

  She thought of touching him there and everywhere and blushed alone in her bedroom. She would like that, she realized. Even he would like it. And she smiled with a delicious and unfamiliar confidence, hugging her arms as if to hold in a precious secret. Who would have guessed that plain, thin, awkward Annie Barclay would be dreaming of sex with Mad Dog Palmer?

  It was as if by giving himself to her—his big square hands and hot solid body, his patience and whispered praise—he'd restored a part of herself. For that alone she was grateful to him.

  Ann leaned against the cool wood of the window frame, watching as he ran a hand through his thick, short hair and resettled his hat on his head. Well, all right, more than grateful. Gratitude was too lukewarm to describe her feelings for Maddox. She admired his staunch acceptance of responsibility, his stubborn determination to protect and serve. She appreciated his strict control and dry humor. She liked the woman she saw reflected in his eyes, a strong woman, a competent woman … a woman who was dangerously close to falling in love with the man.

  Panic formed a lump in her throat. She knew better. Really she did. She wasn't turning control of her heart, her future and her son over to another man ever again. Even a man like Maddox.

  She swallowed hard, and the panic retreated halfway down her chest.

  It was okay, she told herself. Maddox hadn't asked for control. He wasn't asking for more than her body. He wasn't asking for more than two weeks.

  And she wanted those two weeks, wanted to be with him more than she wanted anything except to keep her son safe. For as long as she could have him, she wanted Maddox.

  And to get him, she needed to do something to thwart Rob's threats.

  * * *

  She carried his coffee out to him in both hands like an offering. Which, Ann supposed, it was.

  As she started down the short concrete walk, she saw Dorothy Hicks pause outside her one-story bungalow, her robe clutched closed and her mouth hanging open.

  Maddox scooped up the woman's morning newspaper and handed it to her, saying something that sent the older lady scuttling back inside.

  Ann crossed the street. "What was that all about?" Maddox scowled, looking disgruntled and dear. "I told the old snoop I wasn't watching your house. I was staking
out hers."

  Ann fought a smile and lost. "Oh, that should stop the neighbors talking."

  "Damn fools."

  "It's this town," she said, handing him the mug. "If you parked twenty miles away and I wore a chastity belt, somebody would still swear I was stuck on you." She waited a beat before adding deliberately, "And they'd be right."

  He gulped hot coffee. Grimaced. "You picked a hell of a time to mention it."

  She sighed. "I picked a hell of a time to let it happen."

  "Because of Mitchell," he said tightly.

  "Because of the custody issue. Yes."

  He nodded once. His eyes were bleak. She touched his arm.

  "It's all right," she said softly. "I know you're doing everything you can."

  "Yeah." His jaw worked. Whatever he did, she knew he wouldn't consider it enough. But he didn't say that, because he didn't want to worry her. His determined honesty, his dogged consideration, pressed on her tender heart like fingers on a bruise.

  She propped next to him against the hood of the car, very conscious of the cold metal beneath her, and his hip warm beside her.

  "Will you talk to Con today?" she asked.

  He nodded. "I need to establish his alibi, so Rob's defense can't claim the police didn't do our job."

  "I want to help," she said.

  He gave her one of his dark, hooded looks. "Then take care of yourself. Stay at the restaurant with Val today."

  She angled her chin. She was flattered, touched, seduced by his concern. But not to the point of putting herself under police surveillance. "It's my half day. Ten to two. But I'll be all right. Rob will be at his office."

  "It could be dangerous."

  "I don't think so. He's threatening me with a custody hearing now. He's not going to risk me calling the police."

  "I don't like it," Maddox said flatly. "Why don't you put in a couple extra hours at the restaurant until I can bring you and Mitchell home?"

  "Today? What about next week? What about every day between now and the trial?" She shook her head, frustrated by his inability to see and her own inability to act. "I can't live my life waiting for my ex-husband to jump out of the bushes. Rob spent years controlling me. I let him use my fear to control me. I'm not going to let him do it anymore."

  "You need to be careful."

  "I need to be normal." The words burst out. "I need to get on with my life. And that doesn't include you driving me everywhere like some kind of bodyguard."

  "Doesn't include me, you mean."

  She was shaken. "That's not what I said."

  He was slapping his pockets, looking increasingly disgusted. With her? With himself? With the whole situation?

  "I need a smoke," he said.

  Perfect. He was turning back into a chain-smoker, and that was her fault, too. "Don't let me stop you."

  He glowered. "You're not. I can't find a match."

  "I'm sorry. I can't help you. I don't smoke."

  "I know that," he said impatiently. "I just figured you might have matches for people who—" An arrested expression crossed his face.

  "What is it?" she asked.

  "I just thought of something I should do."

  She frowned. He might as well have patted her on the head. "What?"

  He bent his head to kiss her, a brief, hard kiss tasting of coffee. His stubble brushed her cheek. Despite her chagrin, something inside her softened and loosened.

  "It's a long shot. I'll let you know if it works out," he promised.

  * * *

  Ann let herself into the house on Stonewall Drive

  with an old key and sweaty palms. Her heart beat so high in her throat she thought she might choke.

  But Maddox Palmer wasn't the only one who thought of things to do.

  Not that he would think of breaking and entering, she thought with a spurt of near-hysterical humor. Not that he would approve of what she was about to do. He was an officer of the law.

  But Ann had broken the law already, at first unknowingly and then unwillingly and always for the wrong reasons. Maybe now she could bend it for the right ones, to protect the people she loved: Val and Mitchell and, God help her, Maddox, too.

  She closed the front door behind her, and her past rushed in on her.

  Nothing had changed. A row of gold-framed botanical prints she'd ordered from a catalogue still marched above the chair rail in the dining room. The custom-made drapes, stiff with starch, swooped over the front windows. A lamp shaped like a duck decoy angled its light over Rob's Barca-Lounger. It was still her house, her pride, her prison, constructed bit by bit of matching paint chips and fabric samples. She had the creepy feeling she'd left this morning instead of twelve months ago.

  She shivered.

  Maybe when I get a photo, it will jog somebody's memory.

  She had photos, albums and albums lining a living room shelf, all posed and preserved to support the illusion of the perfect family living a well-ordered life. Egg hunts, beach trips, trick-or-treating, with the focus on Mitchell and Rob scowling in the background.

  Oh, yes, she had pictures. She hadn't had time to take them with her. And now, looking at them made her a little sick.

  Kneeling on the living room carpet, she selected a recent snapshot—Rob's thirtieth birthday celebration at the club—and stuffed it in her purse and took a deep breath. What else?

  I got a subpoena for the motel's charge records from a year ago, Maddox had said, but they'll take a while to wade through.

  Maybe while she was here she could look at Rob's records? Maybe she could prove he had used the motel.

  She hurried through the living room to Rob's home office, past Mitchell's baby portrait and the coffee table where she'd hit her head one night when Rob had knocked her down. The vacuumed carpet revealed a patch where she'd knelt and the track of her flat-soled shoes. He must use a cleaning service now.

  She wondered how they did with bloodstains.

  Receipts were filed in the corner cabinet of Rob's office. He settled the household bills. Settled them and sorted them and scrutinized them for extravagance. Look at this water bill, he'd complain, but she was the one who paid for the dripping faucet or watered lawn in tears and bruises and shame.

  She wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt. She wasn't looking for utility bills, she reminded herself. She wanted credit card records, proof that would clear Val's husband and implicate her own. She reached for the metal handle, and the file drawer clattered in its frame.

  It was locked.

  She almost thought, Oh, good. Now I can go home. But that was the old Annie thinking, the old Annie acting. Or rather, not acting, just giving up again.

  She could do better. She had the photo, didn't she? And she wasn't due at the restaurant for another forty-five minutes. She squared her shoulders. Plenty of time to find a key and open a file and save her friend and her own self-respect.

  She approached the desk—Rob's desk—and gingerly slid open the top drawer. The file key was in plain sight, easily accessible.

  So was the gun.

  Her stomach jumped up to join her heart in her throat. She knew Rob kept a gun, of course, against her will and over her protests. But when had her will or her protests ever mattered in this house? At least he'd never threatened her with it.

  Not while he could get at you with his fists. Maddox's reminder echoed in her head.

  She slammed the drawer shut. Opened it again to take the key, ignoring the faint rattle that announced her hand was shaking.

  Rob wasn't here. He was at his office. All she had to do—she drew a deep breath—all she had to do was open the file and check the Visa and Mastercard statements from last year to see if he'd ever charged a room at Beyer's Motel.

  He hadn't. With one eye on her watch and her attention on the door, she examined the contents of folder after folder, spreading the pages across Rob's desk. The desk with the gun.

  She resisted the urge to look at it again, running her finger instead d
own printed lists of names and numbers. Charges for golf clubs and gas, for shoes and wine. No motels. No Beyer's, not in May or April or any month last year.

  She shuffled the papers back together, fighting discouragement. At least she had the photo. Maybe Maddox would be able to get a positive ID from someone who worked at the motel. And now he wouldn't have to waste his time plodding through the motel's records. She tucked the folders away in hanging files, locked the cabinet and opened the desk to return the key.

  The gun was there, dark and smooth as a snake coiled under the porch steps.

  You never told me he was armed.

  A man has a legal right to his guns.

  Her heart pounded. Her head did, too. She didn't think Rob would take his gun after her, after Mitchell, but then, she'd never thought he would hit her, either.

  The gun waited in the drawer. Accessible. Tempting. She almost picked it up herself, and she hated guns. Rob would have no hesitation reaching for it. She shivered.

  She could take it. And add illegal possession of a firearm to breaking and entering? No.

  She could hide it.

  Now, there was an idea. If he couldn't find it, he couldn't use it. And it wouldn't be theft, since she wasn't removing it from the house.

  But where? Not in the rose-and-cream bedroom she'd once shared with Rob. Not in the kitchen. Never in Mitchell's room. No place it could be stumbled over, nowhere Rob would go… The attic, she thought.

  She grabbed the gun by the barrel so she couldn't accidentally touch the trigger, and hurried up the stairs, holding it away from her body at an awkward angle. Twenty-five minutes until she was due at Wild Thymes.

  She was sweating. The attic was hot. The hanging bulb threw sharp shadows around the piled cartons, the out-of-season clothes and discarded toys.

  Where did you hide a gun? She was a nice girl, not a career criminal, even if she was convicted of stealing twenty thousand dollars from her best friend. Somewhere Mitchell would never look by accident, someplace Rob would never find…

  Her wildly searching gaze settled on a box by the water heater. Drapes, she thought. The old living room drapes, relegated to a carton after the new ones were hung. Perfect. Rob would never look there.