Too Sexy for his Stetson

by Olson, Mal

  Rather than laser–locking her gaze on Blade, she busied herself with studying the outside of the manila folder. Once he left, she flipped open the file. Her eyes stumbled over the name at the top. She blinked. It couldn’t be.

  But it was.

  Black print on the stark white page wavered. Her lungs suddenly sought oxygen like a marathon runner pushing for the finish line. She glanced around. No one seemed to have noticed her reaction.

  Joey Secada. Former Milwaukee police officer, currently employed as a cop in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. Skip’s alibi.

  She hadn’t guessed the distorted face of the floater belonged to anyone she’d ever met. Her heart nearly stopped. Her fingers gripped the steaming cup of brew so hard hot liquid spilled across the back of her hand, but the sting barely registered.

  Secada was dead.

  He could never change his testimony.

  And Joey Secada’s corpse had turned up practically at Skip Coogan’s back door.

  With her heartbeat galloping and the room closing in on her, she managed some semblance of normalcy. Weak–kneed, she edged toward one of the interrogation rooms and slipped inside. Closed the door.

  Of course, the name Secada meant nothing to Little Chute’s law officials.

  A lump clogged her windpipe. What the hell had the Fond du Lac cop been doing in Idaho? And just a few days after Attorney Rosenberg had approached him about the Marilyn Abbott murder case?

  She swallowed her frustration only to have it bubble out in a groan. Tears pressed against her eyes. She fought the burning sensation. Crying was for wimps and stupid little girls. Or for someone fortunate enough to have anyone around who cared.

  No one could ever question Secada again. About anything. She fingered the edge of the folder then smacked her fist on the desk. When she pulled out her phone to call Rosenberg, she discovered he’d already left a voice mail.

  Got the news about Secada just after I received an anonymous call from a man who knew I’d been questioning Joey Secada. Said he was worried about him because he’d dropped off the face of the Earth. Call me ASAP.

  Aha, Secada had reacted to their probing, and he’d discussed it with someone. Her fingers gripped the phone. A breath hissed through her pursed lips as she dialed Rosenberg’s number. He didn’t answer.

  Okay, even if they could never get a statement from Secada, maybe they could get something from the mystery caller. It was time they caught a break.

  Last night, Brandy had questioned herself and her ten–year vendetta against Skip Coogan. Now Secada turned up dead here in Coogan’s stomping ground. Suddenly, Coogan jumped back to the top of her suspect list. And Lord, that put her and the man who could curl her toes with a single kiss back on opposite sides of the Continental Divide. So far, Blade hadn’t grasped the obvious, that she was suggesting not only that Coogan had framed her mother but that he had murdered Marilyn Abbott.

  How much info dare she share with Blade? Whatever she and Rosenberg dug up couldn’t get back to Coogan. It’d give him a chance to fabricate yet another defense.

  ****

  Before Blade even knocked on the office door, Skip Coogan’s secretary buzzed him. The head honcho of Fort Shoshone’s Police Department met him at the doorway.

  “Sorry I didn’t get a chance to stick around after the banquet last night.” Blade shook Skip’s hand and grabbed a straight back chair, turning it around opposite the desk. He straddled the seat and crossed his arms over the back while Skip settled into plush leather and swiveled to face him. He slid a carved wooden cigar box Blade’s way.

  Blade waved him off. “You broke me of that habit a long time ago.” He distinctly remembered Skip’s ultimatum one fateful night, the eve before his eighteenth birthday.

  No more drinking, no more smoking. Get your ass down to the recruiter’s office tomorrow morning and enlist. If you don’t, my report gets filed with the court.

  The aroma of fine quality Havanas wafted across the desk, perfuming the air as Skip brought a cigar to his nose and inhaled before removing the gold and red band.

  “Smart boy.” Skip chuckled and used a bullet cutter to open the head of his smoke. “A man’s got to have a least one vice.” He leaned back, flicking a lighter, and held it to the cured tobacco, sucking deeply. Closed his eyes. “La Gloria… irresistible. Thought I’d conquered this vice, but Senator Miller sent these as a gift, and I hate to see four–hundred–dollar–a–box Tainos go to waste.”

  “Like you said, you deserve at least one vice.”

  “Speaking of vices…” Coogan’s gaze shifted to Blade’s. “I can see why you were anxious to make a get–away last night.”

  Heat crept up Blade’s neck, the reference to Brandy reminding him of the kiss, making him feel like a delinquent teenager again.

  Taking another draw, Skip stretched back in the padded chair and eased into Q & A so casually a novice wouldn’t have recognized the tactic. “Tell me about Brandy.”

  Blade’s mind stumbled over just how hot last night’s kiss had been and somehow managed a somewhat intelligent reply. “She’s going to make a great deputy. She’s got a lot of heart and enthusiasm.”

  “Un–huh.” Skip flicked ashes into a marble ashtray. “She’s got a lot of something, which makes it hard for me to believe you’ve had time to notice her heart and enthusiasm.”

  “We’re working together. I’m trying not to notice the other stuff.”

  A muscle under Skip’s right eye twitched. A nervous tick Blade had never noticed before. He wondered why he made note of it. Curiosity nudged him. How could he tactfully get Coogan to elaborate on his history regarding Brandy?

  Subtlety wasn’t Blade’s forte. “I have no idea what really went down between you two, but I think Brandy may be inclined to bury the hatchet.”

  “Probably in my skull.”

  “I doubt that.” Blade smiled. “Look, Coogan, understandably, she has hang–ups over her mother’s conviction. But she was a kid when she started carrying a grudge against you. Maybe you should cut her some slack.”

  “Watch out for that one. She was a wild child. Ran away from her grandparents, and right at the age a girl needs supervision. God only knows what she’s been up to all these years, roaming free. No family stability, no decent upbringing. Girl like that could be trouble.”

  Not a comment Blade would have expected from Coogan. Surprise and unease gnawed at his insides. Keeping his emotions in tow, he struggled to avoid a confrontation before he had a chance to assess his mentor’s unusual behavior. “Hey, you know me and my philosophy on women. I’m not looking for anything other than a few good times, no serious involvement.”

  “When it comes to Wilcox, that’s smart thinking.”

  “I hear you. Even if I had a notion to indulge in some good times, which I don’t—”Aw, man, was his nose growing? “She’s off limits.”

  Skip snorted and exhaled. “Boy, one of these days you need to find yourself the right woman and settle down.”

  “Not likely.”

  “Why? You still harboring those self–doubts?”

  Blade’s stomach knotted.

  “Hell, you’ve more than proven yourself.”

  “But I’ve never forgotten my ass could have been hauled off to jail on a felony charge.” Young and stupid, he’d been running with the wrong crowd. And even though he hadn’t participated in the heist, the vehicle he’d been driving when Officer Coogan pulled him over that night so many years ago had been stolen. By his buddies. And Coogan had saved Blade’s hide. Turned his life around.

  Even so, Blade Beringer could never forget what he was made of. Bad genes. He shared DNA with one nasty son of a bitch. What was to keep his dark side from someday rearing its ugly head?

  “I saw something worth saving in you, my boy.”

  “Whatever happened to that report?”

  “I burned it the day you finished boot camp.”

  Blade grinned. He had guessed as much. Coogan’s single act
of kindness, his tough love, had been Blade’s salvation. Skip had laid it on the line and forced him to sign up with Uncle Sam, and it was the best thing that had ever happened to him. “I won’t ever forget that you gave me a chance.”

  In turn, over the years, Blade had filed his share of reports in a bottom desk drawer. And most of the punks he’d given similar breaks to had also proven themselves to be worthy of saving.

  “Blade, my boy, it’s time you cut yourself some slack.”

  “Yeah, well ” His gut balled into a knot. “Some things don’t come out in the wash.”

  “Bullshit. You’ve paid your dues. Like I said, find yourself a nice gal and settle down.”

  Coogan straightened and tamped ashes again. “And I guarantee a certain little blonde is not the right kind of woman for you. She may get your britches hot and bothered, but Brandy Wilcox isn’t half good enough for you.”

  “Like I said, I have no plans—” A muscle in Blade’s chest clenched. What happened to turning one’s life around? He’d never known Skip to be so closed minded, especially with someone like Brandy, who in Blade’s estimation had beaten the odds. She may have grown up without parental guidance, but she’d turned out pretty damn remarkable. “Maybe she’ll surprise you.”

  Coogan shrugged and replied doubtfully, “Maybe.”

  At Skip’s animosity, Blade’s rebellious teenager kicked in, urging his inner rebel to rumble. But before he could turn the discussion into a debate, Coogan’s secretary broke in.

  “Sorry to bother you, Chief, but there’s a twenty–five car pile–up on the interstate near exit 25, and traffic’s backed up all the way to the River Road exit.”

  “No rest for the wicked.” Coogan snuffed his Havana and jumped up. “Catch you later, Blade.” At the doorway he hesitated. “Meanwhile, heed my advice and save those good times for the right lady.”

  Blade sat contemplating for several minutes. As he strode out of Coogan’s office, he wondered why his friend’s attitude bothered him so much. Why did he care what Skip thought about Brandy? Was it because of his devotion to Skip? Or did he simply care a hell of a lot more about Brandy than he should?

  CHAPTER TEN

  The day had passed, and a prick of disappointment pierced Brandy’s chest when punch–out time rolled around and Blade hadn’t returned. She found herself pacing the floor. She needed to discuss the Joey Secada report with her FTO, as well as the likelihood that his death was not an accident. Although what seemed blatantly obvious to her may not strike Blade the same way.

  Blade hadn’t mentioned anything about the identity of the floater. But then, did he know there’d been a connection between Joey Secada and Skip Coogan? How much of the article about her mother had he read?

  Once he learned Secada had been Skip’s alibi and that his death occurred in Idaho mere days after Attorney Rosenberg had contacted him in Wisconsin, how could he not suspect Skip?

  To Brandy, it was a no–brainer. The ME’s report would prove Secada’s death was no accident. She pulled out her phone and for the millionth time tried to call Rosenberg. Finally, she got through. “This is Brandy. So what’s this call you got?”

  “Make that two calls,” Rosenberg answered. “The guy contacted me again. You’d better sit down, Brandy. He says he’s Marco Secada, Joey’s brother. He’s scared he might be next on the list. Says he can prove Joey was with him the night of the Abbott murder, seventy–five miles from Milwaukee.”

  Brandy’s knees wobbled. She collapsed on the desk chair. “Holy shit. That’ll shoot Skip Coogan’s alibi out of the water.”

  “He wants protection in exchange for his statement.”

  “Tell him he’s got it.”

  “I tried. He hung up before I had a chance to assure him we could keep him safe. Keep your fingers crossed that he calls back soon.”

  If this guy was in hiding and didn’t want to be found, Brandy had way too little cash flow to finance a quick, full–scale search. And they needed a lot more details about his story to prove that he really was Joey Secada’s brother. Then they had to prove he was telling the truth. Had there been security cameras at the location where Joey and Marco had been the night of the murder? Credit cards receipts from a restaurant? Phone records? Anything that could discredit Skip Coogan’s alibi?

  After Rosenberg disconnected, Brandy glanced at her watch and tipped her head toward the clock on the wall. Where was Beringer? She had a legitimate reason for wanting him to walk through the door. Really she did.

  Stalling, she cleared her desk and closed down the computer, then sauntered out to her pickup, which sat baking in the late afternoon sun. She glanced around the parking lot and out toward the road. Blade’s vehicle was nowhere in sight.

  After she opened the windows, she circled the truck, giving it a once over. Checked all four signal lights. And adjusted the duct tape covering the bullet holes in the door.

  No Blade.

  Ten minutes later, she crawled behind the wheel and fired up the engine. A few minutes after that, she found her Ford sputtering down the highway that headed out of town. Next, it turned down Blade’s drive—like a heat–seeking missile on target.

  What was she doing? She certainly hadn’t planned to go to his place. She puffed out a breath. Now that her creaky old pickup had taken her this far, she decided to continue down the winding gravel path that served as his drive. You could have called him… the discussion could have waited until tomorrow… this isn’t Mayberry. Deputies don’t just stop by their FTO’s place after hours.

  The inherent Beringer–flutter tickled her stomach, but the truck kept rattling over one pothole after another until it delivered her to her FTO’s front door.

  His Tahoe was nowhere in sight.

  Rambo barked, pirouetted, and wagged his tail, greeting her in the distance from his fenced–in yard. The sight caused her mouth to stretch into a huge smile, and a warm feeling spread across her chest. She jumped out and strolled through prairie grass and wildflowers. When she walked to the backyard, she skirted the edge of a swath of blackened turf. The scent of burnt grass lingered in the air. At the chain link fence, she squatted. Rambo nudged his nose against the diamond–shaped holes, wagging his tail, and she reached through to scratch his ears.

  “Hey, Rambo, when’s your partner coming home? It’s past time for your walk.”

  He nuzzled her hand, his warm pink tongue reaching through the fence to caress her fingers.

  Kisses. Rambo and Blade were quite the pair when it came to kissing. Her instincts told her she should be trying to erase the memory of Beringer’s kisses. Instead, she savored it. A sweet taste of something she could never have again.

  Ears perked, Rambo barked once and stood alert, watching the drive. With her hand shielding her eyes, Brandy anticipated Blade’s arrival, and with the sound of the approaching vehicle, her pulse kicked up. The Tahoe appeared from a plume of dust and pulled alongside her truck. Her heartbeat hammered. Much faster than it should have.

  ****

  The first thing Blade noticed when he pulled up was Brandy’s truck. His gaze shot to the fence, to the woman hunkered next to his dog. The woman he’d been thinking about ever since he’d left Skip’s office this afternoon. His blood pulsed as he climbed out and ambled her way.

  Her attention locked on him as he sauntered closer, and a strange feeling washed over him—foreign, unnamable. Tension pulled at his gut. He found it impossible not to admire her.

  Yeah, her feminine curves happened to be proportioned exactly the way he liked, and while he was having lustful notions, he may as well get all hot and bothered over her eyes. Exotic and as purple as Thunder Mountain at dusk. Too bad it wasn’t only the physical attraction that grabbed him. But unfortunately, Brandy touched him deep inside in a way that messed with his heart. And that could only mean trouble.

  He gave in and got lost in the deep purple haze, his inner rebellious teenager flaring to life, maybe to spite Coogan’s warning. He told hims
elf Lieutenant Beringer ought to kick that inner punk’s ass for every impropriety that raced through his mind.

  Looming over Brandy, he reached through the fence to stroke Rambo’s head. A sweet scent wafted directly to his brain. Brandy’s blonde curls glowed in the sunlight. Without even trying, the woman sent electricity jolting through him, playing havoc with the fit of his pants.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  She pushed to a standing position. “There’re a couple of things I want to run by you.”

  He wandered toward the gate. She followed.

  “About last night?”

  “What?” She looked away a second. “Oh, you mean the break–in at my apartment?”

  Okay, Darlin’, we’ll pretend neither one of us is thinking about the kiss. “Yeah, the creep who broke into your place. I knew I should have gone inside with you and checked things out.” And another thing he should do was keep his hands to himself, but for the life of him, he couldn’t stop himself when his fingers settled over hers where she’d curved them over the fence.

  Did she feel the sizzle?

  She faced him. He swore he could see the pulse in her throat beating like a butterfly on speed. Yeah, the chemistry between them was undeniable. It’d been obvious from the minute they’d met on opposite ends of her rifle, the minute he’d stared into deep purple sin.

  “Look, Beringer, what happened last night was way beyond stupid. I get it. We’re working together, and it can’t happen again.”

  “True,” he said. “We should just forget it. We’re mature adults.” Uptight parts of his body begged to differ with the claim to maturity.

  But neither was he totally stupid. He knew when to hold ‘em and when to fold. “So, what’d you want to talk about?” He unlatched the gate, and Rambo came to the rescue, licking his hand.

  “Hey, buddy, did you miss me?”

  Rambo danced, wagging his tail, and smothered him with another round of kisses.