Take Me Out (Crimson Romance)

by Elley Arden

  “Coach, do you know Miss Tolly?”

  “Oh, yeah, Seven. I know Miss Tolly.” Nathan employed the tactic they’d both used since his arrival in town last January. Though they often found themselves in social situations together, they never spoke one word directly to each other. They both liked it that way, so why wouldn’t he let go of her? She tried again, and failed, to break away. What the hell? Clearly, he didn’t want her to get away, but why? All they had done since landing in the same town was walk away from each other. Crap almighty, she should have never moved to Merritt after graduating law school, and she wouldn’t have if there had been any indication that Nathan would ever return to his hometown. But Missy was from here, and Harris had followed her. Four years later, she had followed Harris to practice with him. And here she was.

  No one ever noticed the iciness between her and Nathan because they spoke at and around each other and no one, not even Harris, had any idea they had ever met before Nathan moved back to Merritt. Last summer, when they’d been goaded into dancing together at Luke and Lanie Avery’s wedding, they’d brought down the house but they’d not broken the icy crystal silence. And that’s how Tolly liked it.

  Tolly drew Kirby into her gaze and smiled and nodded.

  “I’ll be at practice this afternoon, Coach,” Kirby said.

  “Yeah?” At least Nathan had the good grace to frown a little. “Is that what you want to do?”

  Kirby looked across the room to where his aunt had launched herself into the arms of one of the kitchen ladies.

  “Yes, sir. That’s what I want.”

  Nathan’s brown eyes followed the path that Kirby’s had blazed and then looked back at Kirby. “All right, then.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You need anything, Seven? Anything I can do for you? Short of committing murder, that is.” Nathan glanced at the aunt again.

  “No, sir.” A little smile played with Kirby’s mouth.

  “Then we are going to go now.” Nathan increased the pressure on Tolly’s arm, just in case she didn’t know what we meant.

  “Kirby, honey,” Tolly said, “call me if you need anything. Or if you just want to talk. I mean it. Call me at the office or at home.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I appreciate it.”

  “Bye, Seven.”

  And before Tolly could speak another word, Nathan propelled her in front of him and drove her through the crowd like she was a trolling motor on a bass boat.

  Once on the front porch, she spoke the first words she’d said to him in over a decade — thirteen years to be exact, almost to the day.

  “Nathan, let me go!”

  And for the first time in as many years, he answered her. “Townshend, you are coming with me.”

  Townshend. She’d almost forgotten that he used to call her by her real name, not the baby name that four-year-old Harris had christened her with because he couldn’t say Townshend. No one, not even teachers, had ever called her anything but Tolly — no one but Nathan. He had called her that because that was how she’d introduced herself that night so long ago when she’d wanted to be daring and do something unexpected, instead of being the eternal good girl.

  “Where do you think you’re taking me?” she demanded.

  “I don’t think anything. I know we’re going to sit in my truck and have a little chat.” He pulled her down the steps, none too slow and none too gently. She stumbled and he caught her.

  “Hey. Stilettos here,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “That’ll teach you to wear shoes that won’t take you where you need to go.”

  “I don’t need to go anywhere with you.”

  He stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk. “The day is done when I care what you need. What you are going to do is march yourself over to my pickup truck and climb in. I’ve got some things to say to you.” He pointed down the block to where his big black truck was parked.

  So, finally, after all this time. She had half expected this when he had first moved back here to replace the recently fired Merritt High head football coach. But he’d remained silent and she’d relaxed — apparently too soon.

  “My car is closer,” she offered.

  “So it is.” He made to move her toward his truck but she planted her feet.

  She could refuse. A carload of Methodists had just pulled up and were unloading casserole dishes. Dr. Carlyle was emerging from the house. They would save her, even though she was Episcopalian. She was sure of it.

  “Townshend,” Nathan said. It was only then that she noticed just how far beyond angry he was — he was shaking livid. “Get your butt down that street and into my truck or I will make a scene that will get me fired and land us both in jail. I swear I will do it.”

  She believed him. And a scene was the last thing she wanted. Airing her dirty linen in public — especially this dirty linen — would be the worst thing in Bad City. If the people of Merritt found out what she’d done, what she had cost their hometown hero, life here would be over.

  But why the confrontation now? Until today, he’d seemed as eager as she to keep their past a secret. And why was he, all of a sudden, so mad? He’d been mad thirteen years ago, sure. But since, there had only been cold distance. Maybe it was the ham she’d brought that set him off. Maybe he thought pot roast was a more appropriate bereavement food. That made as much sense as anything.

  She let him guide her down the street. He slowed down, though whether it was in deference to her high heels or because of his bad knee, she couldn’t say.

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  A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance

  (From Unattainable by Leslie P. García)

  Jovani Treviño slipped from the pickup, his boots thudding dully on the dry soil as he looked around carefully but not with particular unease. A crescent moon climbed up over the far side of the interstate, but here darkness allowed considerable isolation. Cars speeding by on the freeway wouldn’t notice him, and if they did, hopefully they’d avert their eyes, assuming someone needed to take a leak.

  Only moments passed before a second, dark vehicle pulled in behind him. The driver switched off the headlights but left the parking lights on. Jovi reached into the cab and pulled the lever to open the hood then moved to the front of the truck. Seconds later the newcomer joined him, extending his hand briefly.

  “Jovi.”

  “Hey, Rick.” Almost immediately, both turned their attention to the engine.

  “So — you gonna apply for the job at Nueva Brisa?” the newcomer asked.

  “Tomorrow,” Jovi agreed, turning at a slight rustle in the weeds that framed the roadside clearing, then relaxing when he realized the noise couldn’t have come from anything large.

  “Still jumping at shadows?” Rick shook his head. “We leave the job, but the edge never leaves.”

  “You don’t let anyone leave,” Jovi retorted, slapping a mosquito seconds too late, and rubbing his arm. “Tell me why I said yes again.”

  “Cause you’re one of the good guys, we pay well, and you get to be close to your mom while she gets back on her feet. It’s win-win, Jovi.”

  “Cut the bull, friend. I left DEA because no one wins — the work’s important, but the war’s unwinnable, Rick.”

  Rick Ortega shrugged his thin shoulders. “Maybe.”

  “And this one smells.”

  “Why?” He nudged Jovi with an elbow. “Cause we’re looking at some honey the locals call untouchable?”

  “Unattainable.” Jovi motioned Ortega back and slammed the hood. “Your reasons for looking at this woman are shaky at best, and if I’m investigating her, I damn sure won’t be thinking about her looks.”

  “Touchier than ever,” the DEA agent muttered.

  “And in a week or two, when my plane lands in Florida — I’m done, Rick. No more arm-twisting, no favors. I’m serious.”

  “Look, I know you mostly came until your mom beats her pneumonia
— not so much to help us. But you’re perfect, Jovi — the border’s home to you, but you’ve been gone long enough you’re an outsider now.”

  “Hell, I was always an outsider. Everywhere.”

  “Whining isn’t your style, amigo,” Ortega chided. “You know how things are. No trust left — our side or theirs. The cartels are winning. For Christ’s sake, they’re slaughtering innocents on the streets a mile from here.” He jerked his head toward the tree-framed skyline. Behind those trees, the Rio Grande whispered its newly violent song to the night. “Check her out, that’s all. She worked for a major importer, but quit suddenly. Her father left her some money, but — “ He shook his head. “Something’s not right, buddy.”

  Jovi glanced at him. “Because her father left money?”

  “No. Because insurance aside, her father shouldn’t have had money to leave. The ranch is a joke — big property value, but no livestock except horses. On paper, he sold horses — horses we’re not real sure existed. Horses! No market for horses right now, going on back even before his death. The man went through a bitter divorce from the wife, yet got big bucks from the ex father-in-law, Lionel De Cordova.”

  “De Cordova? Man!” The name surprised him. “But for all his sins, I never heard he trafficked.”

  “We know some of the younger cousins do. Nobody’s tagged him, true. But the foreman you’re replacing? Arrested in Sinaloa several weeks ago. Arranging to drive a load to El Paso.”

  “So she has to know?”

  Ortega shrugged. “Hard to say. The man’s a Mexican national, and the story wasn’t broadcast here. We only found out through our sources. But if he worked out of her barn … ”

  “She either knows or she’s stupid?” he suggested.

  Again, Ortega made a slight gesture of denial. “She’d been in New York and Houston more than home until recently. She worked for an import firm with headquarters in Houston and branches all over Mexico, as well as in several border towns. The horses were more or less at the mercy of the foreman and the two grooms.”

  “Sketchy at best,” Jovi pointed out again. “This is my last call, though,” he repeated, walking to the driver’s side and pulling the door open. “This job’s too hard on the soul, Rick. Too much lying and too many half-truths — and to save what?”

  Ortega paused by the open door as his friend climbed back in. “Did I tell you that little four-year old girl — Lisa, remember her? She turned seven yesterday. They put her photo on one of those news lead-ins.”

  “Damn you,” Jovi snarled, thinking of the child he, Ortega, and others had found cowering in the corner of a crack house after a deal turned particularly violent. And her brothers, 5 and 8, lying broken on the floor in their own blood. His last official case — the last case he’d tried to stomach.

  “Sometimes we win,” Rick insisted, and slapped his arm. “Suerte,” he ended, walking away.

  Luck. Jovi shook his head, turned on the truck, and poked the radio button. He wouldn’t need luck if he kept his mind on work and on the stable full of thoroughbreds waiting for him in Florida. As he eased back onto the access road, blessed darkness and George Strait’s melodious voice surrounded him.

  To purchase this ebook and learn more about the author, click here.

  A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance

  (From Cupid’s Revenge by Bea Moon)

  When Maggie Tyler’s grandma left this earthly coil, she bequeathed Maggie two things: the proceeds of her life insurance policy and a seemingly endless list of maxims to live by. One of her favorites was “If you break a carton of eggs, just laugh and make an omelet.” And heeding grandma’s advice, Maggie was stirring up her own omelet. But laughing? Not a chance. Not after that evening when her high hopes had come crashing down, burying her dreams and plans for living happily ever after in the debris.

  It was hard to believe that an evening that started out with so much promise had ended so badly. All seemed right when Andy called, saying he needed to talk to her. She’d pulled out all the stops. If there was ever a time to look great, this was it. Her shoulder-length auburn hair, pulled back with tiny tendrils framing her face, pale blue eye shadow to bring out the sapphire blue of her eyes — she knew she looked good. At eighteen, she’d been her high school homecoming queen. At thirty-two, she hadn’t changed that much. If anything, the passing years had added the gloss of confidence and sophistication that no eighteen-year-old could achieve.

  She’d been widowed at twenty-two when her high school sweetheart died on a dusty Afghanistan road. It had taken her a long time to come out from under the cloud that enveloped her but come out she had. If something was lacking in her affair with Andy, she chalked it up to maturity. She knew she couldn’t duplicate the breathless longings and excitement of first love. Life with Andy would be an oasis of calm, and she decided that wasn’t so bad a substitute. Now, as she put the final touches on her hair and makeup, she was prepared to open the new chapter in her life. Mrs. Andy Wells. It had a nice ring to it.

  She walked into Le Maison, a place of soft lighting and modulated voices. He had already been seated. His troubled expression should have given her a clue, but she was too caught up in her own fantasy to notice. She crossed the room, pleasantly aware of the admiring glances that followed in her wake. As she drew abreast of the table, he stood up. She kissed him lightly on the cheek. Hey, no sense in getting all X-rated in a crowded restaurant. How would he propose? Had he planted a diamond in her cocktail? Ordered a dessert flying a little flag that said “Will you marry me?” She smiled across the table at him. They’d have beautiful children. Two would be nice, a boy with his curly, dark hair and dimples, a girl with her auburn hair and perfect smile. She was roused from her reverie when Andy waved the waiter away. “Maggie, I don’t know how to say this.”

  She smiled encouragingly.

  “I never meant for it to happen. I swear to you, Maggie. But Jennifer and I … ”

  For a moment, the smile was frozen on her face. Jennifer? The young blond who’d come to work in condo sales just a few months before? She stared at him, shocked.

  “I never expected it,” he went on. “But we worked together on that big Weatherly sale, you remember? The one that sold for four point two million? And it got so complicated. We had to work nights and weekends.” He hesitated, avoiding her eyes. “Maggie, it wasn’t something I planned … ” but she had tuned him out.

  Her imagination conjured up a picture. Jennifer and Andy bent over appraisals, blueprints, title documents, while Cupid, like a diaper-clad stalker, crouched behind the file cabinet at Barnett & Holmes Real Estate, bow drawn tight, letting fly an arrow that lodged not in Andy’s heart, but a bit lower — right smack in the center of his lying, cheating, lowdown butt.

  Maggie was a highly efficient, well-educated executive assistant. She should have taken the blow with dignity and walked out with her head held high. But unknown to her, beneath her calm, well-ordered persona there lurked a crazy woman, itching for an opportunity to burst out. In that moment, Maggie’s rational, ladylike behavior gave way and crazy lady took over.

  “You and Jennifer? After I wasted two years? Two damned years?” Her voice had risen.

  “Maggie, please,” he cautioned her. “Everybody’s looking.”

  “Let ‘em look,” she yelled. She pushed back her chair, sending it flying backward as she stood up. “I want everybody to know what a rotten, lying, sneaking, cheating … ” she had run out of adjectives. She wished now that she’d ordered a cocktail so she could throw it in his face. But she had to settle for the folded napkin that she hurled at him. It fluttered harmlessly to the table.

  The maitre d’ hurried toward them.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Don’t ma’am me,” she shouted, running out of the restaurant before she could embarrass herself further.

  The crazy lady, once she’d been set free, refused to go back into whatever dark corner of Maggie’s psyche she’d formerly occupied. Within two
weeks of her debut at Le Maison, she followed up with a truly outstanding performance. Maggie had climbed the corporate ladder by means of ambition, ability, and personal charm. She was now the executive assistant to the company vice president in charge of media relations — a position that required extreme tact and the ability to deal with harried, sometimes temperamental account executives. Her warmth and calm demeanor had on more than one occasion defused a potentially explosive situation. Her job required numerous interpersonal skills, but nothing in her arsenal had prepared her for the daily challenge of walking past the Condo Sales Division, where both Andy and Jennifer sat. For the first week after Andy’s bombshell, Maggie contented herself with hurling icy glares at both of them as she strode past their desks. This proved unsatisfactory as neither Andy nor Jennifer would meet her enraged eyes. It was then that the “crazy lady” re-emerged, pen in hand.

  Maggie discovered a previously untapped talent. She began to create poison pen notes, complete with stick figures depicting both Jennifer and Andy. She posted them on the company bulletin board while asking herself if she was truly insane. She knew she was on a collision course with unemployment. Sooner or later, she’d be found out. But try as she might, it was a compulsion that she couldn’t control. Maybe it just went to prove another of Grandma’s maxims: hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

  Most of the staff found her artwork entertaining. Management apparently had no sense of humor because within a week a nanny-cam was installed, Maggie was caught red-handed and canned.

  As for romance, the only male to warm her bed was Doc, a mangy cat that wandered into her life right after Andy wandered out. She’d spotted him crouched beneath a bush outside her condominium, wet and frightened. Where he came from was anyone’s guess, but he’d obviously done some very hard time in the cat world. He looked like he’d been the loser in a kitty brawl, with chunks of his orange fur torn off and one eye missing. He was skinny and covered with fleas. Her heart went out to the poor, half-starved creature and she’d taken him in, fleas and all. After two months of gentle care, he was flea-free and plump, but that was as good as it would get. Poor Doc was born ugly and his subsequent troubled life had done nothing to improve his looks.