by Susan Stoker
“Do you want me to have one of the deputies drive you home, Miss Sinclair?”
She shook her head, hoping Nash hadn’t left the building. “No, it isn’t too far to walk.”
The sheriff tipped his head, a frown deepening the lines across his forehead. “I guess you’ll be okay in broad daylight. After being chased last night, you should keep your night forays to a minimum, or go out with a friend. No use tempting fate or the bad guys.”
Since she had a job working nights, staying inside at night was impossible. She had to get to and from work. Stiffening her spine, Phoebe held out her hand. “Thank you, Sheriff Olson. I’ll be careful.”
“You might consider letting your folks know you’re okay.” His big hand enveloped hers in a reassuring grip. “I keep thinking my daughter is about your age. I’d want to know she was safe.”
“I’ll think about it,” she said. “My father is very overbearing. I’d like to put off the confrontation a little longer.” At least until she was firmly on her own two feet and established in Hellfire. Then she’d let her father know she was okay and not coming home anytime soon.
She stepped out of the sheriff’s office, and Nash hooked her elbow and hustled her toward the exit. “You could have told me you were the daughter of Jonathon Sinclair, the richest man in Texas.”
Anger rolled off him like puffs of steam. Pulling her arm free of his grip, Phoebe lifted her chin and marched on her own toward the door. “I am not my father. I’m just Phoebe.”
“Well, Just Phoebe, your father has a statewide manhunt out for you, with a ten-thousand-dollar reward attached.” He pushed through the door and held it for her.
“So?” She stopped and faced him, crossing both arms over her chest. “Are you turning me in and collecting?”
“Hell, no.” Again, he gripped her arm and led her out into the parking lot. “I’m driving you back to your garage apartment and then going home. Today’s my day off.”
Irritation prickled her skin, and she stopped short of his truck. “Go home, Deputy Grayson. You aren’t responsible for me. I can get back to my apartment on my own.”
Scowling, he opened the passenger door of his truck and held it. “Get in.”
“I’ve had enough of taking orders from the men in my life. Screw you!” She stepped around him and the truck, and marched across the parking lot.
“You’re going the wrong way,” he yelled.
Without looking in his direction, she turned and headed the other direction.
A chuckle sounded behind her. “Still going the wrong way.” He caught up to her and gripped her arms. “I’m sorry. I don’t like being lied to, so sue me.”
For a long moment, she held back her shoulders and her chin up. Then she released the tension that had built inside since Lola woke her with the news that morning. “Deputy Grayson—”
“Nash,” he corrected.
“Nash.” She drew in a breath and let it out. “Despite the fact that I lied to you, I don’t like lying, and I don’t make a habit of it.”
The anger leached from his face, and he released her. “Then why did you do it?”
Phoebe stared into his blue eyes. “What would you do if you ran away from a wedding in a car that didn’t belong to you and discovered a body in the trunk about the time a sheriff’s deputy rolled up behind you?” She flung her hand in the air, and assumed a high-pitched, sarcastic tone. “Hi, I’m a rich man’s daughter with a dead man in my trunk. Could you help me get him out so I can be on my merry way?”
For a long moment, Nash stared into her face. First one side of his mouth twitched upward, then the other. A moment later, he laughed so hard, he held onto his belly and bent double.
Phoebe had to admit the man was even hotter when he smiled. This was the first time she’d seen him laugh, much less smile. “You should laugh more often.”
“And you should stop attracting trouble like bees to honey.” He straightened and wiped the tears from his eyes. “Sweetheart, I can’t imagine you killing a man.”
Her hear flipped at the endearment, and her lips twitched. “I can’t even kill a spider. How would I kill a man?” Her gaze slipped lower to the mouth that had a moment before been smiling. Now it wasn’t. When his lips weren’t pressed into the usual tight line, they were full and temptingly kissable. Phoebe swayed toward him, pressing a hand to his chest. “I need to get back to the apartment. I promised to clean Lola’s house as payment for rent.”
This time when Nash held open the door to his truck, Phoebe didn’t argue. She brushed past him, her hip touching his, sending a shock of heat through her, reminding her he was way too sexy when he smiled, or laughed, or hell, if he just stood there with his broad shoulders and incredibly blue eyes.
Now was not the time to get involved. Especially with a man of the law. She forced herself to look out the side window, instead of sneaking peeks at him. He could be the one to arrest her when the authorities finally found Ryan’s body, and didn’t find the men who’d killed him. Getting involved with her could cause Nash to lose his job. He didn’t deserve to inherit her troubles by falling for her. Not that he would. But she sure felt the attraction and, given other circumstances, she might even fall for a guy like Nash Grayson.
They pulled into Lola’s driveway, then Nash got out and opened her door for her. When she went to slide down from her seat, he grabbed her around the waist and lifted, setting her gently on the ground.
“So, you’re cleaning Lola’s house?” he said.
She nodded. “That’s the plan.”
His brows arched. “As a rich man’s daughter, have you ever cleaned a house?”
Stiffening, Phoebe tilted her chin upward. “Not actually. But how hard could it be?”
“You have my number. Call if you have questions.” He winked.
She was left standing in the driveway, thinking he was arrogant and a know-it-all. House cleaning wasn’t rocket science. She could handle it.
An hour later, standing in an ever-growing blob of suds, she hated eating her words, and she loathed even more calling Nash for help. But if she didn’t do something soon, the entire house might be buried in the seething, frothing mess emanating from the washing machine. She dove for the phone and dialed Nash’s number. “I cry uncle. Is there any possibility you’re still in town, and could come over and tell me how to stop Lola’s house from being consumed by bubbles?”
Laughter met her ear, and she was tempted to slam the phone onto the cradle, but she couldn’t hang up when Nash was the only person she knew besides Lola. If she wanted to save Lola’s house, she had to put up with Nash laughing at her.
Once he got past the initial bark of laughter, Nash said, “I’ll be right there.”
True to his word, he showed up fifteen minutes later and walked into the kitchen where the suds had completely covered the tile flooring. He followed the flow to the source, the older model washing machine. “What soap did you use in the washer?” he asked as he leaned over the machine and switched it off.
“The blue liquid I found under the kitchen sink that said detergent.” She left him with the foaming machine and returned with a bottle of blue liquid.
“Honey, that’s dishwashing detergent, not laundry detergent.”
Heat swirled low in her belly when he called her honey. “What’s the difference?”
He nodded toward the flood of bubbles. “The difference is how sudsy it gets. Laundry detergent is low-suds. Get me a plastic cup and a bucket. We have to get the water with the soap in it out of the washer tub, and then run the rinse cycle several times to get the soap out of the clothes.”
Forty-five minutes later, the clothes were rinsed and in the dryer, and the bubbles had been mopped up, making the floor sparkling clean.
Phoebe’s stomach rumbled, and she pressed a hand to it.
Nash smiled. “Hungry?”
For a moment she couldn’t think past the way his mouth curved upward and his blue eyes shone. Then her belly
sounded off again. Phoebe laughed. “I guess I am. With everything that’s happened this morning, I suppose I forgot to eat.”
He grabbed her hand. “Come on. Bob’s Diner has the best burgers in town.”
“No.” She pulled back. “I need to go to the store and stock up on groceries. I can’t spend all my money on a burger. I have to make my tip-money last all week.”
“I’m buying.”
She shook her head. “You’ve already done too much for me by taking me to work and back.”
“Then consider having lunch with me returning the favor. I don’t like to eat alone.”
Phoebe chewed on her bottom lip. When her stomach protested yet again, she sighed. “Okay. But I’ll pay for my own.”
Nash didn’t argue, but he drew her out of Lola’s house, not letting go of her hand until she climbed into his truck.
Phoebe barely noticed how damp she still was from cleaning up the bubble mess. Inside she was warm and happy. She hadn’t been arrested for murder, and Nash wanted her company at lunch. Perhaps he’d only invited her so he could keep an eye on her. After all, she had been chased by bad guys and discovered a body in her trunk. Now that the car and the body were missing, he might want to stay close and see if they turned up with her hand in the middle of it.
Anything that might start between her and Nash would be tainted by a murder and a theft. Until they found the true killers, Nash would probably always consider her a suspect. Yeah, he’d said he couldn’t imagine she had it in her to kill someone, but even the slimmest doubt would hang over her until the men responsible were found. She’d only known Nash a very short amount of time. But what Nash thought about her mattered more than she cared to admit.
Nash sat across the table from Phoebe Sinclair, the daughter of one of the richest men in Texas, and couldn’t remember enjoying a hamburger as much. Sure, she was high-society and way out of his league, but then he didn’t expect their lunch date to go anywhere. It was just nice to sit across the table from a beautiful woman who might possibly be just as messed up as he was.
He didn’t like that she’d lied, but he could understand why. Who would have believed a runaway bride wasn’t the prime suspect in her fiancé’s murder, especially if she was carting him around in her trunk?
Thankfully, with no body, she couldn’t be arrested. The fact her fiancé was dead couldn’t be proven. No body, no death, no murder suspect. He stared across the table, wondering how Jonathon Sinclair’s daughter had found herself in such dire circumstances and yet didn’t want her daddy to bail her out.
“What?” She touched her face. “Do I have soap film on my face?”
“No.” He pushed aside his empty plate. “Seems like it would be so much easier to make a phone call to your father, and you’d have everything taken care of. You wouldn’t have to worry about paying rent, finding a ride or working in a bar. He could line up every lawyer and law enforcement organization in the state to keep you out of trouble.”
Her lips thinned. “I’m tired of my father calling the shots for my life. I’ve been the good little daughter, doing everything my father and mother wanted of me, since I was born.”
“But you could have everything you would ever need.”
She shoved away her half-eaten hamburger. “Except self-respect and purpose. Until I worked at the Ugly Stick Saloon for one night, I didn’t know what I was missing.”
Nash snorted. “The Ugly Stick?”
“Yes, the Ugly Stick. I was actually needed. It felt good. Living with my father, the only time I’ve felt that way was when our stable hand took the weekend off. My father didn’t know it, but I took care of the horses. For three days, they were completely dependent on me for their food and water. The work gave me a sense of purpose. At the Ugly Stick last night, I liked that I could help Audrey, the woman who’d taken a chance on me, giving me a job when I had no experience.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Speaking of the Ugly Stick…I want to pick up some groceries and finish organizing my apartment before I go to work tonight.”
Nash laid a twenty on the table, and then stood.
Phoebe pulled a wad of bills from her pocket, selected a ten and handed it to him. “For my half of the check.”
He didn’t argue and accepted the bill. Paying her own way seemed to be a major point in her books. If doing so made her feel more in control of her life, so be it.
As Phoebe stood beside Nash’s truck, she raised her face to the bright Texas sun. “It’s going to be a beautiful day.” Her smile faded and she opened her eyes. “I just wish they could find whoever killed Ryan.”
“Did you love him?” Nash asked, and then wished he could take back the question. He shouldn’t care. But he did.
Phoebe’s lips tilted upward briefly and then fell. “No. I liked him okay, and he said all the right things, but there wasn’t anything else. No spark.”
“Then why marry him?”
She touched Nash’s chest, staring at where her fingers traced a wrinkle in his shirt. “I’ve pretty much always done what my mother and father wanted of me. I thought it was the right thing. Now I realize being so acquiescent was wrong in so many ways. Marriage to Ryan, had he lived, would have made us both miserable. But I didn’t wish him dead, and I’m scared to think that whoever did this is still running loose.”
She was so gorgeous with the sun’s rays bouncing off her auburn hair, turning it a flaming copper. Nash had the sudden urge to gather her in his arms and pull her body against his. He could keep her safe, if she let him. As though drawn by an irresistible force, he leaned toward her, wanting to press his mouth to hers.
Something whizzed past his ear and pinged against the glass of the passenger seat window behind Phoebe.
Nash’s gaze shifted from those tempting lips to a perfectly round hole in the glass. No sooner did it register what that hole meant than something struck his arm. He jerked at the stabbing pain.
Almost as soon as he did, Phoebe flinched and grabbed her shoulder.
“Ouch!” She glanced down at her hand. When she pulled it away from her shoulder, a bright red circle stained her palm and spread across her sleeve, where her hand had been. “What the h—”
Nash grabbed her and flung her to the ground, covering her body with his.
“What’s happening?” she said, her voice muffled beneath his chest.
“Gunfire. Stay down!”
More bullets pinged against the body of his truck, putting another hole in the window, this time shattering the glass completely. Nash lay still, listening, straining to hear the weapon’s report. Based on the lack of noise accompanying the shots, the weapon had to be a high-powered sniper rifle, fired from a good distance away.
“I can’t breathe,” Phoebe said, her voice dwindling to a whisper.
Nash eased off her body, positioning himself between Phoebe and the shooter. He eased his cell phone out of his back pocket and dialed dispatch. “Gretchen, I’m in the parking lot in front of Bob’s Diner, and we have a shooter lobbing bullets at us.”
“No shit!” Gretchen responded. “Stay down. I’ll alert the sheriff.”
“Tell him not to come to the front of the building. Seems to be us they’re shooting at, but I don’t want him to get caught in the crossfire.”
Half a minute later, Sheriff Olson appeared around the side of the diner, weapon drawn.
By then, the gunfire had ceased.
Nash didn’t feel confident it wouldn’t start up again, so he remained on the ground, his body a shield protecting Phoebe.
Within the next three minutes, every sheriff’s deputy on duty arrived in the parking lot, their vehicles surrounding Nash and Phoebe. The men on duty spread out on foot, searching in the direction Nash indicated from which the shots had been fired.
Nash rose to his haunches and pulled Phoebe up to hers. “Let’s get inside the building.”
“What’s happening?” Phoebe’s body trembled against his.
“I don’t
know, but it’s not safe to remain outside in the open.” He led her into the diner where they were surrounded by the staff.
Chance arrived, wearing his paramedic uniform and carrying what appeared to be his medical tool box. Within minutes, he’d cleaned and bandaged Phoebe’s wound and Nash’s. “You should have a doctor check them out, just in case. But from what I could tell, they are only flesh wounds. You’re lucky. I saw your truck.” His lips thinned into a straight line. “It could have been worse.”
“Why would someone shoot at us?” Phoebe asked.
Nash shook his head. “Sweetheart, does your father have bodyguards?”
She nodded. “He does.”
“Did he hire them for you?”
“I suppose.”
“You don’t have bodyguards here. You’re exposed, and someone knows who you are. They might be targeting you because of your father.” Nash frowned. “Or whoever killed your fiancé might be after you as well.”
Phoebe’s eyes rounded. “You could have been killed. I can’t stay here.” She pushed to her feet and swayed. “I can’t stay in Hellfire. If I do, people could end up as collateral damage. I couldn’t live with myself if you or Audrey or Lola were killed by bullets meant for me.”
Nash pulled her against him. “The problem isn’t you. It’s the crazy people shooting at you.”
“But they’re shooting at me. I can’t let anyone else be hurt because of me.” She pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes widening. “Do you think they killed Ryan trying to get to me?”
“I don’t know.” His arm firmly around her waist, he shook his head. “Until we catch them, we just have to play it safe.”
Phoebe’s shoulders drooped. “I have to call my father.”
“Why?” Nash asked.
“He has the bodyguards, the gated estate and the money to spend tracking down the culprits.”
“Or you can let the sheriff’s department here in Hellfire handle this,” Sheriff Olson said. “We don’t like it when our citizens are threatened.”
