by KyAnn Waters
“Don’t give me grief. You’re twenty-five and still live at home, too.”
“But I have a social life,” Dawn said with a bit too much condescension and tossed her yoga bag into the backseat of her cherried-out Hyundai. Black tinted windows, bass thumping stereo, and soft leather seats in a fifteen thousand dollar car. McKenna thought it was a waste of money, but then she wasn’t entertaining in the backseat of her vehicle. Evidently, Dawn had.
“I told Elliot I’d bring him home dinner. After we watch some television, I’ll listen to him bitch and moan about the state of affairs in this country under the watchful eye of the President.”
“A night with dear old dad.” Her lips smirked. “Sounds fun.” Dawn climbed in behind the wheel and started the engine. “Like a trip to the gynecologist.”
McKenna rested her hand along the frame of the open door. “You said your gynecologist was better than your last boyfriend. At least Dr. Nelson was thorough.”
Dawn’s eyes widened. “Remind me to schedule another yearly tomorrow. I’d forgotten that.”
“You’re terrible.” McKenna stepped back.
“Yeah, and you love me for it. See you later.”
“Bye.” She shut the door, then Dawn gunned the engine. Standing on the curb, she watched her best friend zip out of the parking space.
She glanced down the street. The sax was now playing a seductive melody that pulled McKenna to the stone bleachers to bask in the ambiance for a few minutes. The crowd had thinned to a few dozen. She found a place in the back of the amphitheater and let her eyes drift closed while the sax played right into her soul. This she understood; the sound of solitude.
* * * * *
Overhead, the ceiling fan stirred hot air, rippling the thin sheet covering Detective Dustin Pearce from the waist down. Through the open windows, sounds of the river mingled with the rustling leaves on the giant oaks surrounding the riverfront apartments. From the bedroom, he had a pristine view of the complex’s gardens. Small, murky streams harboring giant goldfish, mossy lily pads, and pond frogs slowly wound by the side of walking paths between the buildings. Cotton pollen looked like drifts of snow along the edge of the river.
The doorbell was an unwelcome shrill in the hot, one bedroom apartment.
Dustin strode out of the bedroom wearing a pair of long cargo shorts with the top button undone. Tyson Jones, his partner of three years in the Olden City Police Department, homicide division, let himself in. “You sleeping alone?” His friend laughed. “Of course, you are,” he answered his own question.
Dustin’s hair was slightly damp with sweat from his nap. He pushed it off his forehead then took a wrinkled T-shirt off the back of the davenport, a glaring tribute to the nineties with its bright plaid print.
“All you’ve got is warm beer,” Tyson complained.
“I was too lazy to put it in the fridge. There’s ice.”
Tyson peered into the thick, crusted, frosted freezer that had seen its best year in 1984. Room enough for two ice trays, and nothing more, which was fine since it was too hot to cook in the little kitchenette. “Ever think about upgrading to a refrigerator with ice in the door?” Tyson asked.
Dustin took the glass with a measly few cubes and the beer. “Had one.” He twisted the cap off the long neck bottle of MGD. “Trish got it, along with the house, the dog, and the kid.” His lips pursed on the bitter taste of the beer, made more so by the fact that he used to drink locally brewed micro beers.
A lot had changed in the three years since the divorce. Trish had a new husband, and his baby girl now had a brother. Hell, the last time he’d had his daughter overnight had been nearly six months ago at Christmas. Thirteen-year old girls would rather spend time with their friends than with their fathers. At least that’s what Dustin told himself when Janie didn’t want to spend time with him.
Tyson sat in the mesh lounge chair next to Dustin, propping his feet up on the edge of the second floor balcony railing overlooking the parking lot of the apartment complex Dustin called home. “Divorce sucks. My third was the nastiest. She took my fishing pole. Brooklynn hates fishing.”
Tyson took a drink of beer and leaned back, causing the chair to groan and creak under his six foot, two hundred and thirty pound body. With skin the color of coffee and eyes that shimmered with flecks of gold, women seemed to gravitate to Tyson. White, black, lesbian, it didn’t matter. Shemar Moore meets The Rock, with a Glock strapped to his hip. Women couldn’t resist the man. Which explained three marriages that had all ended in bitter divorces. Tyson loved women just as much as they loved him. “Got to be tough not seeing your kid every day.”
“Yeah.” It was one of the reasons Dustin kept himself busy.
Tyson leaned forward as the pretty redhead from 1A walked to her yellow convertible. “Becca,” he called. “Playing a little tennis?”
Dustin chuckled. He’d have thought that would be obvious.
Becca lifted her racket while her short, pink miniskirt flirted, giving a glimpse of her ass. “You haven’t called,” she teased while her words sounded accusatory.
“Baby,” Tyson smoothly replied. “You know how busy I get down at the station.” He stood and leaned his forearms on the wrought iron railing.
She rested her hands on her trim hips. “You don’t look busy to me.” She turned her brightest smile to Dustin. “Thanks for last night.”
“Glad I could be of service.” Dustin cracked a smile as Tyson nervously shifted from one foot to the other.
“See ya.” Dustin returned her wave as she jumped into her car and peeled out of the parking lot.
“Are you tapping that?”
Dustin tipped his glass to his mouth while raising an eyebrow.
“Christ, Dustin, I’m not parking my cock where yours has been. No one’s happier than I that you’re finally moving on after Trish. If you ask me, it’s been too damn long.”
Dustin stood, stepping back through the sliding glass doors into the apartment. The loud rattle and hum of the air conditioner did nothing to chase the heat from the apartment. “I’m not sleeping with Becca. I fixed her leaky shower head.”
Tyson took a deep breath. “Glad to hear it. Not that I don’t think your dick’s been neglected, but I always worry about mine first.”
“She’s all yours.” Dustin didn’t want to date, and casual sex was Tyson’s sport, not his.
Tyson sat on the sofa, crossing his ankle over the opposite knee. “When she gets back from her tennis game, I’m replacing the smile on her face with a look of satisfaction.” He picked up the remote to the television. “What channel is the race on?” He flipped through the Sunday afternoon line up until he found the stock car race. “Ten bucks says Johnson finishes in the top five.”
* * * * *
McKenna wasn’t surprised the house was dark when she arrived several hours later than she anticipated. At twenty-five years old, her father wouldn’t expect her to give an accounting of her time. She had been coming and going at her leisure for as long as she could remember. In fact, he’d bought her first car when she was sixteen because he didn’t want to be bothered anymore with curfews and carpools.
After toeing off her shoes by the front door, she went to the kitchen and slipped his dinner into the stainless steel refrigerator. Elliot had left her a note on the counter of the center island. Sorry I was harsh with you, Dad.
“Dad?” McKenna finished her large bottle of water and set it in the sink. He hadn’t been Dad since she was nine years old. He thought it sounded too much like whining. From that point on, he’d given her a choice of sir or Elliot.
She read the note again. It had been a long time since she’d had much more than passing words with her father. They were roommates in a huge house that ran more like a mausoleum. Neither of them really had a life. Elliot worked constantly. There were times he became so obsessed with his life’s work, she wondered if he’d remember to eat. That was one of the reasons she never moved out into a place of
her own. Although they could go days without seeing each other, he needed her. She was all he had and he was the only family she had.
She glanced at the note again. “Sorry I was harsh.”
It had been a long time since Dr. Elliot Porter had said anything that could be constituted as harsh. He hadn’t really said anything kind either. He barely spoke to her. Although, when she was younger, she could remember times when he had been blinded by anger. He’d been more than harsh the time she thought her car was in reverse, but actually she’d put it in drive and went right through the garage door into the back of his classic Mercedes. She’d been sixteen and, for a moment, wondered if she’d see another birthday.
Not that birthdays mattered. Elliot wasn’t sentimental. That was okay with her, really. It didn’t matter that he rarely remembered holidays. He didn’t have to talk to her to let her know he cared about her. She had everything she could possibly need. What she didn’t, she purchased. With her father, money equaled affection. So he must care since she always had access to his funds if there was something she wanted.
Her feet were whisper quiet as she started up the stairs. “Yuck.” Her foot slid in something sticky on the hardwood leading to the bedrooms. Curling her toes, she walked on her heels into the bathroom at the top of the stairs and turned on the fluorescent, overhead light.
She touched the dark, tacky substance and rubbed it between her fingers. Turning on the spout in the tub, she put her feet under the water and watched as splatters of red dotted the sides of the tub. With sickening dread, she realized it was streams of blood swirling and churning like rivers down the drain.
Horror stuck in her throat, cutting off her breath. “Elliot!” she screamed as she scrambled from the tub. In her haste to find her father, McKenna slipped on the tile in the bathroom. Smears of red marked the doorjamb and wall. “Oh, my god!” Nausea roiled in her gut. Light from the bathroom illuminated blood in the hallway.
Wet from the water, her feet slid into more puddles of blood on the way to her father’s bedroom. Too much blood.
She fought the images that only haunted her dreams as she struggled to move. The memory of a night five years before felt like a heavy weight trying to hold her down. Fear kept her from reaching Elliot’s door. Her stomach clenched.
Air swooshed from her lungs. She couldn’t breathe. Her feet lost grip, and her knees slammed into the floor. Crying out, reaching for support, she brought the marble hall table down to the floor breaking the pillars into several large pieces. The vase of flowers crashed. Crystal splintered into shards reflecting light against red. Water soaked into the shattered picture frames.
“Elliot!” she cried, glass penetrating into her hands and feet. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks. She struggled with the knob to her father’s bedroom door. Blood from cuts and deep gouges in her palms kept her from gripping the handle. “Elliot!” she pleaded for him to hear her. Finally, the door gave way.
Animal-like screams ripped from her soul as she crawled across the carpet and collapsed near the bed.
“Oh, god, no!” she cried as her mind clouded with black. This couldn’t be happening again.
He's too hot, too smart, and too young… and too damn hard to resist.
The El Paso fashion gala was slated to be the hottest event of the year and a must do if Liz Monahan, the creative brains behind Nina Bruno Designs, was to vault the company to the big time. Circumstances put Liz at the party in one of her own creations, escorted by a young, handsome model hired to show her off to the well-known and well-established. But Liz didn’t count on her date being an undercover Texas Ranger who is investigating a human trafficking ring. She also didn’t count on being kidnapped and trafficked herself.
When Texas Ranger Ben Hunter slips away from Liz Monahan at the gala and begins his investigation, he couldn’t be more surprised to arrive in Juarez, Mexico to find her held captive by infamous human trafficker Carlos Sanchez. In order to save her, Ben must commit murder. Hers.
Abducted
Texas Rangers: Special Ops
Reconnaissance Team
Tarah Scott
&
Evan Trevane
Chapter One
Nina Bruno Designs caters to the modern woman. The mature woman who knows that life begins after forty.
Liz mentally repeated the litany as she blinked at the strobe of photoflashes illuminating the night outside the limousine. The car slowed behind a line of other limos entering a circular drive and Francis Remmey’s estate came into full view. Spotlights crisscrossed the Edwardian columns and stone façade of the mansion.
Only a few hours ago, she had been giddy at the prospect of getting caught on camera by the reporters that now crowded each approaching vehicle and lined both sides of the walkway leading to the hacienda’s steps. It seemed the entire state of Texas had converged on El Paso for the fashion event of the year, the fifth annual G International Gala hosted by Larissa Remmey, owner of G International fashion magazine.
Now, however, getting noticed was a double-edged sword.
Liz shifted her attention to the two co-workers sitting across from her. Richard Anderson, VP of Marketing of Nina Bruno Designs, and Brenda Pierce, Head Designer.
“This is a bad idea,” Liz said.
“You and your dress are going to be a hit,” Richard said. “Stop worrying.”
The knot in her stomach cinched tighter. “What in God’s name were we thinking? We have an arsenal of models, any of whom would pant at the opportunity to debut the first design in our winter collection. Just because Lisa wasn’t able to accept our offer to replace Tanya didn’t mean we couldn’t find someone else. Why didn’t we try?”
“Name someone else who lives in El Paso,” Richard said. “Even better, name someone old enough who would fit into that dress. You’re the one who’s been selling the idea that older women don’t want to see teenagers modeling the clothes they buy.”
Liz tugged the bustier top higher. She had to remember to make the darts deeper for women her size. “My attributes aren’t enough to warrant me modeling this dress.”
“Yes they are,” he replied. “But the point is moot. We had no choice.”
Liz tamped down on the panic that began three hours ago upon watching the news report that their New York buyer Genevra had declared bankruptcy. That meant the three hundred thousand dollar payment they were expecting in sixty days wasn’t coming. An hour after they’d learned about Genevra, they got a call from a local reporter that the model they’d hired to debut their winter-line dress had just been seen getting into a limo outside her downtown El Paso hotel wearing a layered chiffon flamenco-style dress that screamed Jorge Estonia—their direct competition in Dallas.
In a span of three hours, Nina Bruno Designs—the company she had poured her life savings into—had gone from the verge of financial independence to teetering on financial ruin. The worst part was that the employees and investors now expected her to pull off what Tanya could have accomplished in her sleep.
When Brenda had approached Liz with the design early that spring, she’d fallen in love with the strapless, bustier-style leather bodice and chic gathered skirt design. But the thought never entered her mind that she might be forced to wear the twenty-seven inch dress in an effort to keep the company from going under.
Another Xenon-flash flared, jarring her from her thoughts.
Brenda leaned forward and straightened the strap on Liz’s three-inch heel sandal. “You look as good as Tanya in that dress.”
Liz pursed her lips. “We promoted Tanya as the model for this dress. People are expecting her, not a replacement ten years older, and certainly not a company executive.”
“You’re only seven years older,” Richard said. “But you don’t look a day over her thirty-seven.”
Liz shot him a dry look. “If that’s meant to boost my ego, it doesn’t.”
Richard returned the look. “Get your priorities straight, Liz. You want our first invitati
on to Larissa’s gala to be our last? Without this event, our winter collection ends up in bargain stores and we don’t get invited to another major fashion show this year.”
Liz knew he really meant, ‘We won’t be in a position to go to another major fashion show this year—maybe no other fashion show ever.’ The company no longer had the luxury of growing slowly. This was Nina Bruno Designs’ only chance to stay in business.
“Damn that bitch,” he muttered.
“Richard,” Liz admonished.
He shook his head. “Don’t start with me. You hired Tanya.”
“She’s the best model in her age bracket,” Liz said. “And, as you pointed out, one of the few who would fit into this dress.”
His eyes lowered to her chest. “Not anymore.”
* * *
From the corner of his eye, Ben saw another limo stop in front of the estate and turned his head in time to see the rear door open and Richard Anderson emerge from the vehicle. Anderson turned and extended a hand into the car’s open doorway. A slim arm reached toward him and cameras flashed in quick succession as a long, shapely leg stretched toward the paving stones. Elizabeth Monahan’s face came into view, illuminated by camera lights.
Ben lifted an eyebrow in appreciation as she rose to her full five foot nine—no, he dropped his attention to her three-inch heels—her six-foot height. He raised his gaze up those long legs, then the pleated skirt that brushed toned thighs, and blew out a silent whistle. Whoa. Her breasts nearly spilled over the bodice of the leather top—the dress that was kicking off the winter collection for Nina Bruno. His appreciative mood vanished. What was the Creative Director of Nina Bruno Designs doing wearing the dress Tanya Xavier—his date—was supposed to be modeling?
NB Designs had hired him as Tanya’s escort. He was the arm candy that said, Buy this dress and land a man like me.
Something had gone wrong for Elizabeth Monahan to be wearing the main attraction. Was he to escort her or did the change of plans include another escort? Maybe she decided that Tanya would wear another dress. He didn’t like surprises. She should have called. But why would she? He was just the hired help.
