The Junkyard Cowboy (Tall, Hot & Texan Book 3)
Page 24
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. He 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.
About the Author
New York Times bestselling author Christie Craig grew up in Alabama, where she caught lightning bugs, ran barefoot, and regularly rescued potential princes, in the form of bullfrogs, from her brothers. Today, she’s still fascinated with lightning bugs, mostly wears shoes, but has turned her focus to rescuing mammals and hasn’t kissed a frog in years. She now lives in Texas with her four rescued cats, one dog—who has a bad habit of eating furniture, a son, and a prince of a husband who swears he’s not, and never was, a frog.
If Christie isn’t writing, she’s reading, sipping wine, or just enjoying laughter with her friends and family. As a freelance writer, Christie has over 3,000 national credits, as well as three works of non-fiction, including the humorous self-help/relationship book, Wild, Wicked & Wanton: 101 Ways to Love Like You’re in a Romance Novel. Christie writes humorous romances novels for Grand Central, as well as the New York Times-bestselling Shadow Falls series, under the pen name C.C. Hunter. Contact Christie—she loves hearing from readers—or learn more about her and her work through her website: www.christie-craig.com.
Contents
Rave Reviews for Christie Craig!
Cowboy Up
Title Page
Copyright
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Books by Christie Craig
Excerpt from Gotcha!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Excerpt from the Cop Who Stole Christmas
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
About the Author