She opened her mouth to argue then closed it again.
Partly she knew he was right; she wouldn’t have a clue what to do if there were intruders and might require rescue or do something totally stupid that made the situation worse for Neil.
Partly the conviction in his voice went right to her clit. This was a real-life scary situation, not even remotely a sexy roleplay, but her pink bits didn’t know to make that distinction. They just heard a handsome Dom using the trademarked Voice of Authority and responded.
God, she had it bad.
Neil took a second to open the trunk, which surprised her, but it became clear when she saw the tire iron in his hand. He handed the Challenger keys back. “Lock the door. If you hear shots, drive like hell to the police station,” he ordered, then kissed her.
That was The Voice of Authority too, but this time even her clit knew the difference.
Chapter Ten
Neil decided to go in through the garage. Car thieves would start there and probably not get any farther.
As a bonus: inside the house, you probably wouldn’t see if the garage lights had been turned on, just in case something more complicated was afoot than stealing classic cars.
Three cars, just like she’d thought, or rather one car and two car-shaped lumps under covers, even within the garage. The Prius was plugged in, charging, where Suzanne had left it before they headed to the Cape. It was locked, and apparently undisturbed, which made sense. People stole Priuses but they wouldn’t be worth as much as Frank’s vintage collectibles.
Gingerly, he lifted the covering on the closer car, a turquoise and white ’57 Bel Air.
Neil froze.
That trunk had been pried open, awkwardly. It wasn’t closed properly now, probably wouldn’t close again without repair work. Not something a car thief would do. If a thief couldn’t pick the locks, he wouldn’t damage a vehicle he might be able to come back for later.
Something smelled off.
He didn’t want to look. He was enough of his father’s son, his grandfather’s grandson, that it pained him to see damage to a classic car. But he had to.
Yup, the window was smashed, the way you’d do it if a pet or a kid had been locked in and you didn’t have time to wait for a locksmith.
What he saw inside the car was wanton destruction, subtle as a brick. Slashed upholstery, a few panels dislodged like someone had been looking for something and wanted Suzanne to know they’d been looking for it.
He didn’t dare curse out loud, but he mentally let loose a barrage that would make his uncle the dockworker wince.
Car theft was bad enough. No one liked to have expensive property drive away without them.
But this was worse. If they hadn’t had the incident this morning, if someone hadn’t been following them on the Cape, he’d interpret this as vandalism, idiots with too much time on their hands, not enough brains in their skulls and probably too much booze or drugs in their bloodstream having what they considered fun. Yet with everything else he’d seen, this cranked up from everyday stupid shit to something much more threatening not to mention personal, as if someone had a serious case of hate for Frank or Suzanne or what these cars represented.
The white-knight part of him that Suzanne brought out made him want to charge into the house and check it out, but he knew better. You just didn’t go into the scene of a potential burglary alone and armed only with a crowbar and a bad case of wanting to look heroic in front of a pretty woman.
Every muscle in his body tensed with the strain of resisting the urge to charge into the house. Not his jurisdiction, not his case, not even remotely a good idea to play hero, but he wanted to. Almost needed to, and not just for all the reasons he’d become a cop in the first place, but because it was Suzanne’s house, Suzanne’s danger. He’d known her for less than twenty-four hours and he was already starting to feel responsible for her, protective of her, and not because she was a member of the public he was sworn to serve and protect. It was because she was Suzanne, and she’d gotten under his skin.
Some idiot caveman part of him had decided that one evening of sex (really great sex, sure, but still one evening of sex) meant she was his.
That line of thinking could only get him in trouble in so many ways.
Time to beat a strategic retreat and call in the locals.
Fuck.
* * * * *
Suzanne stared at what remained of Frank’s home office. Some part of her supposed she should be hysterical, but right now, the mayhem wasn’t sinking in.
She wasn’t letting it.
That furniture, tossed around like a careless child’s toys, was part of the set for a crime drama. The shredded books that looked like a chimpanzee with a bad attitude had gotten to them were the props. The hole in the wallboard? Part of the set design. Frank’s computers and tablet gone? Well, of course they were. It was that kind of show.
The fact that much of the house looked nearly as bad wasn’t even close to registering yet. The dishes were mostly intact, but the contents of the fridge and cupboards had been ransacked, and for some reason all the salad dressing and mayo had been emptied, and a half-jar of spaghetti sauce. The bedroom was torn apart, and she’d looked away when she saw what happened to the mattress. It seemed too much like those knives had been ripping into her.
Although the computers and Frank’s tablet were gone, the TVs and Suzanne’s jewelry hadn’t been taken.
The thieves had missed her tablet in the large tote she used for work. She’d laughed hysterically when she realized that. Her house was a disaster, even her bed destroyed, but she could still make her appointments today—and read her kinky ebooks.
The targeted theft, and the level of destruction, had made the police ask who might have a grudge against her or her late husband, or have reason to think there was something on Frank’s computer that might harm them? The best Suzanne could come up with was the girlfriend, maybe, or someone connected to her, but she didn’t know who the girlfriend was—or, for that matter, if she’d actually existed outside Suzanne’s suspicions. Janice was holding on to Frank’s password-protected secondary phone because she’d neither wanted it in the house nor felt like dealing with the truths hidden in it. Trying to come up with a reason other than a grudge that someone would ransack the house and cars was even harder. Industrial espionage was a possibility, she supposed, but why here instead of Mayhew Robotics, where work had continued as usual after Frank’s death? Why now?
And why so violently? As the detective from the Bellwood PD pointed out, stealing corporate secrets tended to be a slick, impersonal kind of crime carried out by professionals who could more often than not do it electronically. This was messy, amateurish.
And then there were the two men who may or may not have followed them to the Cape. The police officers took that all down too.
Finally, the detective asked the question she’d been trying to figure out how to answer: what was her relationship with Neil? She wasn’t ashamed of having a fling with a good-looking young man, but if Neil was trying to be discreet and their stories didn’t match, that might send the police off on the wrong track. “We just met yesterday when he came to look at the car,” she finally said, “but we clicked. Started flirting, decided a test drive all the way to Falmouth seemed like a good idea. When it seemed we’d been followed out to the Cape, Neil decided we’d try to lose them by hanging out at a friend’s place for a while. I think he called in the plates on the vehicles—he’s Boston PD—but I’m sure he’ll tell your partner all that.” Noncommittal and for now the officer didn’t push it.
Then again, her face was probably flaming thanks to her damn redhead complexion. The detective, not being born yesterday, probably guessed they’d done more than go for a drive together, but for the moment, her relationship-or-not with Neil seemed to have no bearing on the case so the detective didn’t pre
ss the issue.
It felt like hours, but when the police got ready to leave, she realized they’d been there less than an hour, and that included officers combing the house and garage for evidence.
She drooped. Tears welled and she blinked them back.
Crying never did any good. Crying in front of other people would only make her feel weaker and more vulnerable at a time when her skin had been stripped off and she’d been thrown in salt water.
And she still had a 10:30 appointment with a prospective client.
She could cancel, she supposed. But then what would she do? Sitting around her ruined house all day sounded depressing as hell and not exactly safe. Besides, it wasn’t like she could hang out with Neil while he worked.
She managed to maintain the façade of calm she’d displayed for the police (though by now she suspected it looked more like exhausted numbness), once she and Neil were alone in the house. She’d insisted on showering alone just to prove to herself that she could.
In the shower, the warm water undid her. She let herself cry a little and to her surprise, it softened the knot in her belly. She let the water wash over her, wash the evidence of tears away. By the time she left the bathroom, clean, dressed and groomed, if free of makeup—she decided that she didn’t want to use any of what had been scattered on the floor and scooped it all unceremoniously into the trash—she figured Neil would see a strong woman, one who was handling the situation well.
One who wasn’t going to take advantage of a fling, however amazing it had been, by getting all emotional and needy at him.
She would not cling to Neil. He’d been a rock all along, and she didn’t think she’d have coped nearly as well with everything that had happened without him. Not that she felt like she was coping all that well, but she hadn’t collapsed in a tear-sodden heap on what was left of her sofa, or started screaming uncontrollably or any of the other dramatic and pointless reactions that tempted her. She refused to give in to the urge to throw herself into his arms and blubber while using his strength to hide from her problems.
For reasons she’d probably have to talk with a therapist to figure out, the destruction of Frank’s beloved cars and so much of his stuff made her feel closer to Frank than she had while he’d been alive. She wouldn’t want to let him down now. Sleeping with another guy didn’t seem like a betrayal of his memory, not with his secrets and his cheating, but blubbering all over another guy, expecting him to save her, did.
“Shower’s all yours,” she said casually.
“Took one while you were still asleep at Sam’s. I made coffee. You get first dibs because it’s your house that got trashed.” He handed her a steaming cup and she knew without asking that he’d made sure to check out the coffee pot and pods that had been scattered on the counter. “Mine’s brewing now.”
He put his arm around her waist. She leaned into his warm, strong body and his other arm pulled her closer, mindful of the coffee. She didn’t cry, didn’t shake, didn’t cling. But if he wanted to hold her, she’d put her head on his shoulder, breathe in that masculine scent she thought she might already recognize blindfolded, and take the comfort he offered.
In the distance, she heard the gurgle of a Keurig at the end of its brewing cycle. “It’s a beautiful morning,” Neil said. “How about I grab my coffee and we go out on the deck?”
Smart man. Then again, this wasn’t the first time he’d dealt with someone whose home had been burglarized. He must guess she would be more comfortable in the undamaged, still serene yard than in any room of the violated house.
The backyard was calm in the morning light, green and peaceful with a honeyed scent of alyssum from the small flowerbed bordering the house. A squirrel scrambled up the oak tree that partially shaded the deck and a few birds chirped as if nothing had happened, as if behind the familiar red back door her home hadn’t been violated.
She shook herself. Forced herself to focus on the relentless cheer of morning birds, on the squirrel’s liveliness, on Neil’s blue eyes and the equally blue sky, on the parted curtains of the house next door, where her elderly neighbor Mrs. Wurstoff was no doubt speculating about what was happening and calling all her friends from the garden club to share theories—anything but the weight of memories on top of everything else.
“I don’t think I’m a suspect,” she said, hoping she was right, “so why do I feel like I was just interrogated?”
“Because you kind of were. Not because they think you did anything wrong, but because this doesn’t seem like a simple break-in and they’re trying to get all the information they can. Maybe some detail that doesn’t mean much to you will fit in with some other seemingly random clue. If it makes you feel better, they asked me a lot of questions too, especially about the guys in the SUV. I emailed them the information I’d dug up, not that there was much.”
A layer of tension dissolved. The police had been polite, but so persistent and persnickety in their questions that on some level she wasn’t sure they believed her. Good to know they did—well, at least provisionally, because even though she knew she’d told the truth as far as she’d known it, they had to figure she might be lying about something, or at least not saying everything she knew. “That makes sense. But God, it’s exhausting. Wish I could pass out right there—” she pointed to one of the Adirondack chairs on the deck “—and sleep in the sun. Though I suppose I’d never be able to actually fall asleep here today. That’s going to take a while.”
“I’d rather you didn’t try until someone’s in custody for this, or at least there’s a clue what they wanted.”
What they wanted. That fell into the by-now enormous category of “I don’t have a clue and I don’t think I can handle thinking about it more right now.” Seemed like a great time to move on to another topic, one that wasn’t directly related to crime, her personal safety, or Frank’s secrets, which were maybe something more complicated than adultery. But she had to ask.
“It shouldn’t be long, right? It’s basically just a break-in, even if there are weird things about it.”
He shook his head. “Maybe if they get a lucky break. But even if one of the criminals was dumb enough to leave prints, it can take weeks to get fingerprints processed for a nonviolent crime. Complicated forensics take even longer. It’s not like on TV, unfortunately.” He squeezed her hand. “I have to head back to my place anyway. We can go together and you can crash there. I changed the sheets yesterday morning and everything.” He paused, then added, “I know we don’t know each other well, despite everything that’s happened. Maybe there’s someplace you could hang out today that might be more comfortable than being in my place when I’m not even there.”
“I still need to work today,” she told Neil, trying to sound firmer than she actually felt. “I’ll just stop somewhere and grab a little makeup. Oh, and a phone.” She made herself smile, though it felt more like a rictus. “Probably one of those cheap-ass prepaid flip phones because hopefully I won’t have to use it long. Thank goodness I have my contacts backed up online. I remember so few phone numbers anymore. Which reminds me I’ll need yours.”
Neil grabbed his wallet, pulled out a card. “Cell’s scrawled on the back.” He brushed a lock of hair off her cheek. “I wish I could spend the day with you. Sooner or later this is all going to hit you like a MBTA bus.”
She forced another smile. “Why do you think I’m making myself go to work, even if I’m fried and so far off my game I hope this is one of those chatty, opinionated clients who’s done her homework and has pictures and paint samples lined up to show me? I won’t be alone, and I won’t be wandering around town like a lost soul to avoid the mess that used to be my home.” She hoped she’d get past that bone-deep sense of displacement, but right now, it was hard to imagine she’d ever feel comfortable in the house again. She’d always felt like it was too big for just two people, let alone for one, and she’d had in the back
of her mind that she’d sell it once she figured out where she actually wanted to be, but she didn’t appreciate feeling driven out.
Kind of like her marriage to Frank. One thing to decide to end it, another to have the decision forced on you by the whim of a universe with a cruel and crazy sense of humor. And as much as she’d gotten bored with Bellwood’s cushy suburban safety, its very dullness made its violation, its shift into a crime scene, all the more jarring.
Neil brushed away a lock of hair and tucked it behind her ear. This time, he let his hand return to her cheek, cup her face gently. “I’d keep you with me if I could but I don’t think shadowing a cop would be relaxing. You stay at my house for a few days, though. I don’t want you alone, here or anywhere.”
She’d leaned into his big, warm hand, driven by the need to grasp any comfort she could find, but despite feeling better for the contact, she shivered at his tone, and it wasn’t a pleasurable erotic shiver. The conviction in his voice told her that he, at least, believed she might be in danger. “I don’t want to come back here tonight,” she whispered. “Maybe not ever. I was going to call Janice.”
To her astonishment, Neil managed to laugh. “I was going to talk to you about the fact we have a friend in common before all hell broke loose. How do you know Janice King?”
“She’s my oldest friend. I’ve known her since college.” Her eyes narrowed. “And I bet I know how she knows you. You’re involved in Boston Kinksters United too.”
“Guilty as charged. Did she know you were selling the Mustang?”
Her brain still reeling, but in a less ominous, more amused way than it was earlier, Suzanne answered, “Of course. Why that little… I mean, if she set us up, she did a good job, but I’m still going to smack her upside the head.”
“I’m not complaining about the results, but it was a damn sneaky thing to do, even if it worked. And pulling poor John into it—bet he had no idea he was being used for Janice’s evil purposes.”
Drive: Cougars, Cars and Kink, Book 1 Page 8
