He knew he owed her an apology, for jumping on her—the victim—because the asshole who deserved his temper had outrun him, but what came out of his mouth instead was, “It could have gotten serious tonight, if I hadn’t been here.”
She rolled her eyes, which lit another charge under his already volatile temper, but then she gingerly touched her fingers to the sore spot on her chin, and the small gesture immediately defused his anger.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was walking.”
Those keen green eyes found their way back to him. “Walking?” She looked around at the closed businesses along the street. “Walking where?”
Heat crawled up his neck. Busted. “Nowhere. I was just walking, and… Look, it doesn’t matter. What matters is somebody was out here tonight, and he jumped you, and it might not have ended there—”
“He didn’t jump me.” She put air quotes around the phrase. “He bumped into me. I surprised him when I came out the door. He ran, knocked me over, and kept on running. What I’d really like to know is what the hell he was doing hanging around outside my salon.”
With the question hanging in the air, they both looked in the direction he’d come. There, on the whitewashed brick exterior wall, someone had written the word “firecrotch” in red spray-paint.
She marched over, touched the paint with a fingertip, and then kicked the wall with the toe of her boot. “Lovely. Just what I needed.” Shoulders sagging, palm to her forehead, she stood there looking so uncharacteristically small and forlorn, he actually fought a rogue impulse to wrap his arms around her and…comfort her. As if he could comfort anybody.
He could do something, though. “Come on.” He took her arm and tugged her through the door of the salon, and over to one of the two guest chairs set up in the waiting area—one of the few pieces of furniture in the entire place that didn’t hold some memory of him buried deep inside her, letting her body exorcise every ragged frustration, every gnawing anxiety eating at him, hungrily absorbing everything she had to give. And if he kept thinking about last night, he’d never… “Sit.”
“You are all kinds of bossy,” she snapped, but she sat. That’s when he noticed she’d skinned her knee, too, and had a red patch on her arm.
“First aid kit?”
“It’s in the cabinet under the sink in the bathroom. In back. I’ll get it—”
“Stay.” Hands on her shoulders, he re-planted her in the chair.
“This may come as a shock to you, but I’m not a dog,” she called after him.
Jesus, Buchanan, get your shit under control. He caught his reflection in the mirror above the sink and almost groaned. Try to look a little less like you’re on a suicide mission. Kit in hand, he relaxed his jaw, took a deep breath, and then walked back into the salon. After a quick stop at the shampoo sink to wet a hand towel, he made his way to where she sat, watching him.
He snagged the other chair, positioned it in front of hers, and sat down facing her.
“Dr. Feelgood, I presume?”
“Something like that. You have a phone in your bag?” He gestured to the purse she’d placed beside her chair.
“Yes.”
He opened the first aid kit. “Call the sheriff’s department. Ask them to send someone out to take a report.”
“Nothing will come of it. I didn’t see the guy, and neither did you, so they won’t do anything.”
“They’ll take the report. Maybe our wall artist gets caught next time he’s out expressing himself, and the sheriff can charge him with vandalism and battery for tonight, too.”
She eyed him skeptically, but dug her phone out of her bag, did a search, and dialed. “You give the county sheriffs more credit than they deserve—Hello? Yes, I’d like to report a crime.”
He cleaned her knee as carefully as possible while she spoke to the sheriff’s department. The scrape was superficial, but he dabbed antibacterial cream on and covered it with a Band-Aid.
She ended the call and dropped her phone back into her bag, then looked at her leg. “I don’t think I’ve worn a Band-Aid on my knee since I was seven.” As she spoke she absently fiddled with the front of his hair. She probably didn’t even realize it, but he registered her touch immediately, and knew he’d nursed his way back into her good graces.
“It will help keep the cut clean until a scab forms. You can take it off in a little while.”
“Speaking of a little while, county dispatch said there’s a car in the area. A deputy should be here in a few minutes.” Her hand fell away from his hair, rested on his shoulder for a moment, and then withdrew altogether. “I can take it from here. Don’t feel like you have to stick around.”
“I’m a witness.” He used the towel to clean the raw spot on her arm. She sucked in a breath and he immediately lightened his touch. “Sorry.” His thumb caressed the skin on the inside of her arm, and inadvertently brushed the outer swell of her breast. The room shrank and got about a thousand degrees hotter.
Her eyes darted to his and then, just as quickly, bounced away, and even though he couldn’t read minds, he knew she was thinking about last night. “I’m okay.”
What part of last night was she thinking of? “You are way better than okay.” He put antibacterial cream on the wound and covered it with another Band-Aid, then tipped her head up and turned his attention to the scrape on her chin.
“Was that a line, Shaun? You’re going to make me think you weren’t serious about last night being a mistake.”
Don’t. “Were you?” He leaned in closer…to tend to the scrape, and inhaled her lemon and honey scent.
“I was, at the time, yes. I have really good reasons for wanting to avoid any, um, mistakes right now. But…”
Don’t do it. “But”—he waited until she lowered her chin and looked at him—“some mistakes are worth repeating?”
A pulse hammered at the base of her throat. “If we could keep things on the down lo—”
“County Sheriff!” A knock rattled the door at the same time the deputy announced himself. Ginny jumped about a mile.
“Good God.” She closed her eyes and rested her palm on her heart, as if to calm it, then opened them and smiled up at him in a way that made him want to calm his heart. “Who said there’s never a cop around when you need one?”
Chapter Six
Ginny’s stomach sank a bit when she saw the tall, lanky, crew-cut blond with ice-chip blue eyes staring back at her through the door of the salon. Another deputy—a forty-something bald guy with a beer gut overhanging his utility belt—stood there as well, but thankfully she didn’t recognize him. She unlocked and held the door open for them. “Hey, Trent.” She gave him a quick hug.
“Hey Ginny.” Trent Sullivan returned the hug and then pulled back and flashed the orthodontist-perfected smile that had made him the most popular lifeguard at the Bluelick municipal pool when they’d been teenagers. He’d gotten taller and filled out some since then, but he’d changed very little in the year or so since she’d last hooked up with him on a Saturday night at Rawley’s after one too many white wines.
Hoping to avoid an ill-timed trip down memory lane, she jumped on the first safe topic that sprang to mind and tapped the badge on his chest. “You joined the sheriff’s department?”
Trent squared his shoulders and struck a pose. “Chicks dig the uniform.” His smile deepened as he looked her over, issuing a not-so-subtle invitation. And why wouldn’t he? It had worked for him in the past.
“You look very official.” She glanced over at Shaun, who was doing his silent observer thing. Was he feeling jealous? Territorial?
He raised one dark eyebrow at her, and she caught the faintest trace of a grin on his unfairly irresistible lips. Completely unfazed. That’s what he was. As if he knew damn well he’d wrung responses out of her body last night that nobody else had come close to achieving…including her. The arrogant so-and-so. If he dared call her sweet Virginia right now, she’d strangle him w
ith her bare hands.
Jebus, you’ve had sex with two-thirds of the men in this room. Was this fate’s way of reminding her why she’d instituted the sex hiatus in the first place? If so, it might be too little, too late, because the cocky thing totally worked on her…no white wine needed. It worked so well, she took a minute to realize Trent was still talking.
“…so then I got on board with the sheriff’s department earlier this year, completed my eighteen weeks at the Department of Criminal Justice in Rochester a few months ago. I’ve been riding shotgun with Deputy Crocker here since then.”
Ginny stuck out her hand. “Deputy Crocker.”
“Virginia Boca,” Trent provided, while the older man chewed on a toothpick and shook her hand.
“Miz Boca.”
“And this,” she turned to Shaun, and realized she was about to learn his last name, “is my…um…my friend—”
“Hey Shaun,” Trent said and stepped forward. “Long time no see.” The two men shook hands.
Deputy Crocker lifted his chin in greeting. “Shaun.”
“Crocker.”
So much for learning his last name. She didn’t know whether to be intrigued or worried by the fact he seemed to be on a first-name basis with the deputies, but she didn’t have a chance to give the issue much thought because Crocker sent Trent outside to take pictures of the graffiti and canvass the area for any additional evidence. Then the older deputy produced a clipboard and a form, and starting peppering her with questions. He took her statement, interrupting several times to “clarify” facts she’d been perfectly clear about. She didn’t consider herself an especially short-tempered person, but getting run over by some asshole after he painted a rude name on her wall and putting up with the skeptical third-degree from Crocker worked her last nerve.
Then he took Shaun’s statement, and her hackles rose even more. Crocker accepted Shaun’s version of events—which corresponded perfectly with hers—without hesitation or a single second-guess. As if a penis automatically made him a reliable witness, while her lack of one made her some kind of hysterical drama queen. If Shaun hadn’t been there, Crocker wouldn’t have listened to a word she said.
Or maybe good ole boy sexism didn’t explain why Crocker treated her like a second class citizen? Maybe the news of her running for mayor had reached the sheriff’s department? If so, Crocker’s attitude offered a strong indication they endorsed her opponent. Big surprise.
“Okay, Miz Boca.” Crocker turned back to her. “Let’s run through this again. Can you describe the person who spray-painted your wall and pushed you down?”
“Deputy, I’ve already told you I didn’t see him. I was locking up, and then I was doing my impersonation of a tackle dummy, and then I was on the sidewalk, seeing stars.”
The man gave a long-suffering sigh. “Short? Tall?”
“I don’t know. Shaun said—”
“I heard what he said. I’m asking you.”
She closed her eyes to block out the red hazing her vision and slowly counted to ten. “I didn’t see.”
“Dark coloring? Light? Any tattoos or distinguishing marks?”
“I. Don’t. Know.”
“Crocker,” Shaun started, and the realization he felt the need to take control of the situation stretched the ragged leash she had on her temper. She hadn’t wanted to call the sheriff in the first place, but she sure as hell didn’t need Shaun rescuing her from this jerk.
“Let’s just take the gloves off, okay? I know who it was. You know who it was. We both know you’re not going to do a damn thing about it.”
Trent slammed back into the salon, and stopped short at the tension in the room. He looked questioningly between her and Crocker.
“Miz Boca,” Crocker replied, “I can assure you, based on the statements provided to us tonight we have no suspects at this time. Now, if you have additional information you’d like to add to your statement—”
“Justin Buchanan.” She spat the name at him. From the corner of her eye, she saw Shaun’s head swivel her way, but she was too intent on watching Crocker’s reaction to abide by any cautions Shaun might have been attempting to convey.
“You think it was Justin Buchanan?”
“I know it was. I just can’t prove it. Put that in your report.”
Crocker looked at Shaun. “Was it Justin?”
As if Shaun’s word was gospel and hers, garbage.
“I told you—”
“I can’t say,” Shaun cut her off. “I didn’t get a clear look. Size-wise, he’s a possibility, but going strictly by size, a lot of people fit the description.”
Crocker gave her a “there you go” look.
And Shaun’s answer was the reasonable one. Deep down, she knew it. Too bad she’d lost her grip on reasonable around the time Crocker had shown up and treated her like the girl who cried wolf. “I’ve lived here my whole life, Deputy. Shaun’s been in town a matter of months. I’d love to know why in God’s name you’d place more weight on his opinion than mine.”
“Because I think Shaun here might recognize his own brother.”
“His own…” What? Crocker’s sentence sank in. A cold sensation spread from her chest to her stomach. She turned and stared at Shaun.
“Your brother?” Though it came out as a question, she already knew the answer. She could see the Buchanan on him clear as day now—hair, eyes, jawline. He’d been a grade ahead of her in elementary school. A tall, long-limbed pre-teen who’d transferred schools after his dad had remarried.
He looked back at her, his patented mask of stoicism in place. “Half brother.”
“You’re Shaun-freaking-Buchanan? I can’t believe you held back your last name. Didn’t you think that minor detail would be material to me?” Then a darker, meaner thought slithered into her mind. She hissed out a breath and narrowed her eyes. “Or were you playing me the whole time you were”—remembering they had an audience, she fumbled for some not-too-compromising way to reference last night—“in my chair?”
“I’m not playing anyone. I didn’t tell you my last name because I’d just as soon keep a low profile while I’m here, and avoid the small town soap opera. I didn’t consider it material to anyone but me.”
Yeah, right. She folded her arms across her chest and told herself to drop it. Now wasn’t the time to dig into the matter, because she didn’t need the deputies suspecting she’d done the deed with her opponent’s son. Neither Trent nor Crocker would keep a tidbit like that to themselves, and once the rumor started circulating her mayoral campaign would be over. But even so, she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “I don’t believe you.”
“Virginia, I haven’t spent time in Bluelick since I was twelve. I have no fucking clue who’s feuding with whom, or who’s got an ax to grind with my family. All I know about the local situation is”—he broke off and visibly racked his brain for an example—“some bimbo is running for mayor.”
Trent had the good grace to feign a cough, but Crocker burst out laughing.
She glared at Shaun. “I’m the bimbo.”
…
Told you you’re a fucking idiot. Shaun pressed the gas pedal to the floor and steered the Wrangler up Riverview Road, but no matter how hard he pushed the engine, he couldn’t outrun the voice in his head. The woman he’d developed an unwilling fascination for, the one with whom he’d spent the most consuming, mind-blowing night in God-only-knew-how-long, wanted to oust his father from office, send his half-brother to juvie, and, about now, tear his balls off.
Irony lifted the corners of his mouth into a tight smile. Last night she’d warned him they were making a mistake, but neither of them had appreciated what an understatement the prediction would turn out to be.
Not much he could do about that particular situation, but he could try to address tonight’s first unpleasant surprise. Unlike the deputies, he didn’t need probable cause to question Justin about his whereabouts this evening. He turned into the circular driveway and
parked by the front door, frowning as he noted the house lit up like a stadium, but no other cars in the drive.
The home boasted a three-car garage, so the lack of a red mustang in the driveway didn’t mean Justin wasn’t around. Ingrained training had him leveraging the element of surprise. He twisted the front door handle. It gave. He walked into the empty entryway in time to see Brandi pause on the way down the big, central staircase and press a hand to her gravity-defying chest. A chest nearly on full display thanks to the thin, white robe she wore.
“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”
Yeah, he got that a lot. Years spent moving quietly made the habit hard to break. “Sorry. Is Justin home?”
She shook her head, sending her white-blonde hair behind her shoulders, and continued down the stairs. “No.”
“Do you happen to know where he is?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.” Her light brown eyes turned calculating and she smiled as she closed in on him.
Nice. “How about my father?” He held his ground, but deliberately stressed the word father.
She shook her head again. “Nope. He’s in some cow-seal thingie tonight. Won’t be home for another hour at least.” She dragged her finger down the center of his chest.
He backed up and swallowed the bitter lump of disgust rising in his throat. “A cow-seal thingie?”
She shrugged a shoulder, utterly careless of the effect the move had on the front of her robe. “That’s what he said.”
“That doesn’t make any… Wait a minute…a council meeting?”
“Um…” Her brows knitted. “Yeah. Maybe that’s what he said.” Her expression cleared and she sidled nearer. “Anyway, I’m bored and”—she threw a pout his way—“lonely. Come watch TV with me. There’s a big, comfy sofa downstairs.”
Not in this lifetime. He backed toward the door. “Sorry, Brandi. I’ve got stuff to take care of. You’ll have to entertain yourself. Tell Tom I need to talk to him.”
Falling for the Enemy Page 5
