The Cop Who Stole Christmas (Tall, Hot & Texan)

by Christie Craig

  “What?” Jake laughed.

  “It’s a comparison. You know, like you don’t get your meat the same—”

  “Got it. Believe it or not, even without a master’s degree, I’ve heard of idioms, but what I don’t get is why you’re equating sex with shitting. No wonder you don’t get lucky very often. And when you do, they don’t hang around.”

  Mark stared up at his partner having a little more fun than he should. Not that it was a surprise. Giving each other hell was what they did. “Since when is my getting lucky any of your business?”

  “Since you get grumpy when you don’t get any.” Jake looked back at the screen. “So who’s Clint Edwards?”

  “Savanna’s ex.” Mark frowned. “She had her car repoed this morning. She said her ex used the title illegally to get a loan and he hasn’t been making payments.”

  “Sounds like a nice guy.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you and her . . .” He held out his hands. “Are you . . . you know?”

  “No, she just came over this morning hoping I’d save her car from Santa.”

  “Santa?”

  Mark frowned. “The wrecker driver was dressed up like Santa.”

  “Ouch. That would make it sting more.”

  “Yeah,” Mark said.

  “So you’re going to look into it for her?”

  “No, I was just . . .”

  “Looking into it.”

  “Yeah, but she admits that the title was still in her husband’s name. I can’t do crap.”

  Jake’s brow pinched. “Then why are you even checking?”

  “I don’t think she was pleased with me when I couldn’t stop it.”

  “Oh, hell, you gave her the Donaldson ’tude, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t have a ’tude.” But he knew it was a lie. His upbringing had left residuals on his outlook.

  “Yeah, you do. You act like a dick. Then you realize your rich brat persona is coming out, and you feel bad and you go overboard trying to be nice. It’s how you operate.” Jake crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll bet you’ve already apologized.”

  Mark frowned. “No.” He’d been planning to when he saw a car rental place pick her up. Then when she’d driven back home, he’d gone to get dressed, but she’d left before he’d stepped out.

  But there was always tonight.

  • • •

  The cold had Savanna pulling her coat closer around herself, but she continued to talk. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been here, an hour, two, long enough for her butt to go numb, but it felt right. Not the numb butt, but the talking.

  “I know it’s crazy, but it feels like if I use the money I’m saying that I’m okay with you dying. And it’s not okay. I don’t want your money, Mom. I want you. Fifty was too damn young.” Savanna brushed the tears back.

  She’d ended up hanging out the entire day and evening with Bethany and Jennifer. Then Mandy came over later and Savanna drove them to the airport.

  She’d started home after that, but she remembered Jennifer’s question. Have you been to her gravesite and talked to her like I told you to?

  She hadn’t. Hadn’t come back since the funeral . She blamed it on being busy at the flower shop, blamed it on having to deal with the divorce. Blamed it on the fact that the cemetery was an hour and a half away. But tonight the truth clawed at her conscience. She hadn’t come because it was easier to pretend it hadn’t happened. Sure, she missed her mom like the devil, but missing her wasn’t the same as accepting she’d never see her again, that they’d never spend an afternoon drinking tea and talking about their next mother/daughter vacation. She’d never spend an entire day shopping for the craziest Christmas mug, or look forward to seeing what kind of mug her mom would get her.

  This next year they were supposed to go to New Orleans, tour the old homes, hit a few casinos, drink café lattés and eat tons of beignets.

  There would be no beignets.

  So instead of going home, she’d driven to the cemetery. One of the gates had been locked but she found the side gate open. The moon provided just enough light for Savanna to see her way to the back of the tree-laden cemetery. It should have been scary, surrounded by graves and huge trees with Spanish moss dangling from them like in some scary movie. But it wasn’t. Maybe because she didn’t believe in ghosts, if so her mom would have come back, or maybe because Savanna really wanted to talk to her mom.

  So sitting in the cold, dark graveyard, the moon’s silvery glow the only light, she told her mom she’d been right about Clint not being the right guy for her. Though she wasn’t sure he was anyone’s right guy. She told her about Santa stealing her car, and for some reason she told her about the rude, shirtless, great-abs neighbor. As time slid by, she finally told her mom goodbye . . . for the first time. It hurt like hell, she cried. Well, more like she wept. But it was cathartic.

  As she got up to call it a night, the moon suddenly got lost behind a cloud. The dark got darker. The wind whispered through the graveyard. And then she heard it. A shuffling noise right behind her. Her heart stopped and she swung around.

  Chapter Three

  Mark stayed up late catching up on his Netflix. After he showered, he’d headed to bed when he heard a car crank its engine. Wearing nothing but a towel, he went to his bedroom window. His eyes went straight to Savanna Edward’s driveway. A pair of taillights rolled past Savanna’s house as if they might have just pulled away from her curb, but it wasn’t the rental car he’d seen her drive away in earlier.

  He went to bed, but for some reason instantly recalled the peek he’d gotten beneath Savanna’s housecoat. But damn, he had to stop obsessing over her. He owed her an apology and planned to give her a number to a lawyer he knew accepted pro bono cases. Obviously, if her car being impounded was a big deal, she couldn’t afford a lawyer. But after that, he’d retreat back into his cave, and secretly have his fantasies about her.

  He didn’t need to shit in his own . . . dropping back into bed, he raked a hand over his face. Jake was right. That was a bad comparison, but the point remained. He didn’t need to start a relationship with a neighbor. It could get messy. He didn’t do messy.

  He just walked away. Or they did.

  I don’t want to be married to a cop. Robyn’s words whispered through his head.

  He hadn’t been thrilled with her career choice of political advisor. It reminded him too much of his parents, whom he’d wanted to escape, but he’d accepted it because he loved her. Who knew the love hadn’t been a two-way street?

  Your dad told me he’s cutting you off if you don’t take the bar exam.

  His dad always made threats. His mom wouldn’t let him carry through with them. But it wouldn’t have mattered. Most of the family money didn’t come to him through his dad. It was a trust fund from his grandfather, but Robyn hadn’t known that. And he hadn’t known or realized his money had been so important to her.

  Grow up, Mark, stop playing cops and robbers, and do as your dad says. Or . . . I walk away.

  Ultimatums, he hated them. So he’d opened the door and gave her directions out of his life. He was better off without her. He knew that. His biggest issue wasn’t getting over her. It was getting over feeling like an idiot. Feeling used. They had dated for two years, lived together for six months. He’d loved her. Thought she’d loved him. Thought she was marrying him for himself and not for the family’s money or prestige.

  After that, every relationship he was in, with the exception of his relationships at work, had him second-guessing people’s motives. Even if it wasn’t about his money. His last almost girlfriend, who didn’t know about his bank account, whom he’d dated for only a couple of weeks, had handed him a stack of parking tickets.

  I thought this was one of the perks of dating a cop.

  Turning on the television to chase away his thoughts, he watched a reality show about pawn shops. At the commercial, he heard another car pull up. He glanced at the clock, midnight. H
e shot up to the window. It was her. Alone. What had kept her out all night? A man? Did his neighbor have a lover she’d run to after her bad day? Lucky guy.

  He watched her hurry to her front door. He’d bet she was all warm and soft under that jacket. His hands itched to slip under that black cloth and find that warmth, to touch what had peeked out under the housecoat this morning. What kind of lover would Savanna be? A little wild and crazy? Slow and sensual? Right now, both appealed to him.

  But damn, he needed to get that woman out of his head.

  • • •

  As Savanna unlocked her door, the hair stood up on the back of her neck. She’d been jumpy since the skunk startled her at the cemetery. The thing had stood there with yellow beedy eyes and just stared at her. She’d been lucky he hadn’t turned around and skunked her.

  When her hair continued to dance on her neck, she looked over her shoulder, her gaze ending up at the house across the street. She could swear she saw the blinds shimmy. Was he watching her?

  Her mind recreated an image of Mr. Hottie without his shirt—a dusting of light brown hair across his chest, then a treasure trail disappearing into his boxers. Remembering his I-could-care-less demeanor this morning, she shook off the image.

  Boots meowed behind the door and Savanna walked in. The darkness enveloped her, reminding her that, besides her mom’s cat, she was alone. Completely and totally alone. Her chest suddenly felt hollow.

  The heater kicked on and her relatively new one-story house, in a semi-nice neighborhood, groaned. She felt the darkness again. Obviously she’d been so upset in leaving today that she’d forgotten to leave the entryway light on. Had she even fed Boots this morning? She recalled setting out a dish. Okay, she wasn’t a totally bad pet owner. “Kitty, Kitty.”

  She dropped her purse on the small bench seat in her entryway. Boots did a figure eight around her ankles. Savanna knelt to give the cat a scratch behind the ear, her loneliness fading. “Sometimes I wonder if Mom didn’t get you for me.” Another sting of tears hit her eyes. Her mom had gotten the cat after she’d been diagnosed with cancer and only two months before she died.

  “You hungry? Let me change clothes and I’ll feed you.”

  Savanna darted into her bedroom, hit the lamp switch, stripped off all her clothes and donned a white silk nightshirt. The warm slinky fabric caressed her body. In some distant part of her brain, she longed for something other than silk to touch her. Maybe Bethany was right, it was time to start dipping her toe into the dating pool. Her mind went to Juan, then pushed the thought away. Not him. The image of the neighbor’s naked torso filled her head.

  “Not him either,” she muttered, but her skin went super-sensitive again.

  She tossed her clothes in the hamper. Boots called her from the other room. “Coming, sweetie.”

  She walked through the dark living area and into the darker kitchen and headed for the stove to switch on the oven light.

  “You hungry? Mama’s—” Her foot caught on something and she went down.

  “Shit,” she muttered, her knees taking the brunt of her fall. Unsure of what had tripped her, she went to stand, and instantly became aware of something sticky on her palms.

  Standing up, she rubbed her right knee, and felt more moisture there. Boots meowed again. Savanna looked up, her vision still adjusting to the darkness, only allowed her to make out shapes. Her breath caught when she realized exactly what the shape looked like. She turned and hit the light switch. Light splashed across the room. From that second on everything seemed to happen in slow motion.

  She blinked. Her lids fluttered closed, then open.

  She saw the dark sticky red substance on her palms—and on her knees. She drew a mouthful of air into her lungs. The metallic smell filled her nose. Not believing her eyes, she swiped her hands on her night shirt. The smear of red on white had her choking on another gulp of air.

  She raised her eyes. She saw . . . him.

  Clint.

  Clint naked on her kitchen floor.

  A naked Clint lying too still.

  A naked Clint with his eyes open, but with no life.

  She saw Clint’s throat . . . slashed.

  Saw Clint . . . dead.

  Blood pooled around his body.

  A ribbon tied around. . .

  She saw Boots’ bloody paws swatting at the ribbon.

  She screamed, but nothing came out.

  She turned and ran.

  Ran for the door.

  Ran out the door. Without her keys.

  Ran without a thought of where she was going. Or that she didn’t have on any underwear.

  Then she remembered. If you had a dead body, I’d be your man. Her neighbor’s words echoed in her head like a dream. The scream locked in her throat finally escaped.

  The dark night seemed to swallow it.

  She bolted across the street into his yard. She continued to scream. Her mind felt numb as if someone had just given it a shot of Novocain. Clint’s image kept flashing in her head.

  Black dots filled her vision. She pounded on her neighbor’s door, her knees wobbled, the numbness in her mind spreading to her arms and legs.

  • • •

  Mark had barely got in bed when the scream had him jackknifing up. The pounding at his front door had him grabbing for his gun.

  He got almost to his front door when he realized he was naked. Bolting back to the bedroom, the screams had him foregoing get dressed. He snagged his towel and darted back out.

  The cry for help grew louder. He ran to the window to see what awaited him on his porch. His neighbor. Just his neighbor—screaming in a frenzy.

  He knotted the towel around his waist and opened the door. “What is it?”

  His kept his gun down, but his gaze shifted around, seeking a threat.

  Nothing. No threat.

  He focused back on her.

  She’d stopped screaming, her whole body working to bring the oxygen in and out. Shaking. Uncontrollable shaking. Eyes wide. White face.

  Panic. He’d seen it numerous times on the job.

  But it was what was on her nightshirt that had his breath catching. Blood?

  “What happened?” he demanded.

  “Body.” One word slipped out. She slumped forward, falling into a dead faint.

  “Shit!” He barely managed to catch her.

  Chapter Four

  With his neighbor in his in arms, Mark slammed the door shut with his foot, carried her to his sofa, dropped her down, and hit the light.

  His gaze traveled up and down her still body. Blood covered her white nightshirt. His heart raced. He crouched down between the sofa and the coffee table. Unsure how badly she was hurt, he feared the worst.

  He pulled up her nightshirt, expecting to find wounds, but found a pale whole body. No bullet holes or knife wounds. Just a . . . he swallowed . . . a perfect, naked, beautiful body.

  Remembering how badly head wounds bled, he gently ran a hand over her scalp searching for a wound. Her soft blond hair stirred through his fingers. No wound.

  “Savanna?” he called her name. “Wake up.”

  She didn’t stir. Dropping his gun by his feet, he raised her by her shoulders and rolled her over, still searching for the source of blood. The back side of her was as perfect as the front. And just as bare. His gaze lingered a second longer than needed on her shapely butt before he caught himself.

  He rolled her back over and pulled her gown over the triangle of light brown hair between her thighs. “Savanna?” He patted her face. “Wake up. Hey! Wake up.”

  Damn! Was she even breathing? He pressed his hand to her neck, her skin felt clammy but soft. Thankfully, her pulse fluttered against his fingers.

  He shot up and went to the window. Her front door was open. Not a soul in sight. He recalled her one and only spoken word. Body.

  Fuck! He ran to his bedroom for his phone and rushed back. He cut his eyes to her again, hesitating about who he should call. He went to hi
s contacts and hit Jake’s name.

  “Yeah?” his partner answered, sounding groggy. Of course he was groggy, it was late.

  “Got a situation. Neighbor showed up at my house, bloody, passed out. But there’s no wound. Something must have happened in her house.”

  “Shit! Have you reported it?”

  “I’d like to know what I’m reporting first.”

  “No, you need to . . . I’ll call ’em. I’m on my way. Don’t go in the house until I get there.” He hung up.

  Savanna started stirring. He crouched down again. “Savanna?”

  Her eyes popped open. Her breath caught.

  “It’s okay,” He touched her shoulder. “You’re safe.”

  She gasped air in but didn’t exhale.

  “Breathe.”

  She did. She sat up. The couch sighed with her shift. “My . . . he’s . . . Clint . . .”

  Clint? “Something happen to your ex-husband?” A bad feeling hit. He sat down on his coffee table. Were they talking murder? Had she . . . Fuck! Her husband could be dying at this very moment.

  “Do I need to call an ambulance?” he asked, sounding more like a cop than a worried neighbor.

  She nodded and then the nod turned into a shake. “He’s . . . dead. Oh, god!” Glancing at her hands, she suddenly lurched forward and puked. Right on his bare feet.

  He stood up as it began to ooze between his toes.

  She raised her face, swiping her forearm over her mouth. Her eyes widened.

  “Did you two have a fight?” His own stomach turned as he moved.

  She shook her head. “No. He . . .” She stopped talking. “You don’t . . . ?” She dropped her head in her hands. “You don’t have any clothes on.” She caught her breath. “I’m gonna puke again.”

  Normally, his lack of clothes got a better reaction. He snagged his towel from the coffee table, where it had fallen off. He was torn between using it to clean his feet, offering it to her, or covering himself. He went with the covering himself option.

  He tied it around his waist. “I was in bed.” He darted into his kitchen, grabbed a dish towel, then snatched some paper towels.