by Nancy Warren
Shotgun Nanny by Nancy Warren
Contents
Chapter
1
Chapter
2
Chapter
3
Chapter
4
Chapter
5
Chapter
6
Chapter
7
Chapter
8
Chapter
9
Chapter
10
Chapter
11
Chapter
12
Chapter
13
1
HELP, Annie Mathers scrawled in big black letters. Then she outlined the word in ballpoint until she’d almost carved through to the picture side of the postcard.
She paused, took a sip of cappuccino, then tapped the pen on the blank space on the postcard. Underneath Help she wrote Matter of life and death! Follow me. She underlined Follow me with a dramatic slash of black ink. And, just like that, started to feel better. Action and movement always made her feel better, and as soon as her best friend, Bobbie, received the card, they’d be on their way.
She flipped the card over and discovered the aerial view of Vancouver harbor was marred by the thick ridges her pen had carved. With a sigh, she tossed the card onto the table—Bobbie would think she’d completely lost it. Which might be true.
She picked up a second postcard and made a more conventional start.
Dear Bobbie. Follow me to Vancouver. I need a vacation! Fly up TODAY. Matter of life and death—Gertrude’s.
And if that doesn’t get you, nothing will, she thought smugly. Bobbie loved Gertrude—she’d fly up from LA to save her, or at least save her alter ego’s sanity. Of course she would. Gertrude had paid the rent several times when Annie and Bobbie had been financially strapped roomies.
Annie glanced up from the table and let the sun settle on her face. Sailboats bobbed beside the dock, rows of white hulls gleaming proudly in the early summer sun. She glimpsed a couple of kayaks scooting behind the brightly colored Aquabus. A soft breeze blowing across False Creek carried the briny ocean smells to mix with the restaurant scents—garlic, freshly cooked seafood, coffee.
The tables on the dock-cum-bistro were filling up with tired tourists and afterwork yuppies. Much as she would have enjoyed swapping her empty coffee mug for a glass of wine and some of that mouthwatering seafood for dinner, she really needed to save her cash for the authentic sushi, Szechwan and Thai food she’d be eating once she and Bobbie got to Asia.
Annie signed the card with a flourish, addressed it, licked a stamp and pressed it to the corner of the postcard. She jumped up, obeying an overwhelming impulse to get Bobbie’s postcard in the mail, as though she could conjure up her best friend just by popping the card in a bright red mailbox.
She reached down and deposited the backpacking guide to the Orient she’d been reading in her leather backpack, then dropped a tip on the table. Rising and turning in one motion, she collided with a brick wall. At least it felt like one. It was covered in a jean shirt and breathing but was still as hard and immovable as a brick wall.
She glanced into a pair of cool blue eyes set in a face of stone. He looked like a cop or private eye from one of the old movies she loved so much.
Maybe that was why this complete stranger struck her for an instant with an intense sense of familiarity. Even her body acted as if it knew him intimately. A sizzle of awareness zinged through her as she stared at the hard-planed cheeks, square jaw and a nose that would have been classical had it not sported the telltale crookedness of a break sometime in its owner’s past. For an insane second, she wanted to lean into him as though he were a safe refuge.
Whoa! She’d definitely been working too hard. She must be nuts to go all gooey over a stranger. A big, handsome, tough-guy stranger who reminded her of her fantasy men—but she knew better. That kind of man only existed in black and white, on a movie screen.
Unpeeling herself from his warmth, she mumbled, “sorry,” with a faint smile and made her way as quickly as she could away from the crowded patio.
MARK S AUNDERS’S eyes followed the woman, her spicy fragrance still in his nostrils. She was dressed in some kind of flowing thing in every color of the rainbow, and as she walked a shaft of sunlight shimmered through the fabric, outlining long slender legs and nicely rounded hips. Not even a superhero’s X-ray vision could have caught a better view of the little triangle of fabric that seemed to be her entire contingent of underwear.
On her head was a floppy hat—maybe to keep off the sun, but more likely she was one of those New Age types who always wore floppy hats.
Cute, though. And there’d been a nanosecond when she’d seemed more than cute, when he’d felt an electrifying sense of connection with her. He’d had to quash a bizarre impulse to invite her to join him in a drink.
But he was a sensible man. In his experience, spontaneous acts always led to trouble. Still, it didn’t hurt to look. He smiled and turned to take the newly vacated table. And
froze.
Help, he read. Matter of life and death. Follow me.
The woman was sending him a desperate message, and he’d wasted valuable time watching her rear end.
Damn it to hell.
All his training slammed a lid on his emotions. Adrenaline pumped through his system, but he acted casual. Palming the card, he scanned the crowd to see who might be watching or following the girl. In the few seconds he’d wasted, she had disappeared, and so, it seemed, had anyone who was tracking her.
If only he’d acted on his impulse and invited her to sit down with him, he could have protected her. Damn it, maybe when she’d leaned into him and her green eyes had sparkled into his, she’d been trying to send him a silent message. Which he’d misinterpreted—totally.
Mark reached automatically for the radio at his side and groaned. No radio. He wasn’t a cop anymore. When was he going to stop acting like one? He was on his own, no backup.
On the road he paused, eyes narrowed against the sun, allowing his gaze to scan the vicinity. Granville Island on a sunny day in June. What could be worse? Crowds of tourists ambled along enjoying the sunshine, browsing the shops, snapping pictures.
While one lone, sweet-looking woman was facing a life-and-death dilemma.
A hundred women looked like the one he’d bumped into, but his trained eye soon picked her out. It was as though a camera in his head had clicked a picture—he could have given her height, weight, eye and hair color and a reasonable description of her clothing to anyone who asked.
She strode forward with purpose, unlike most of the strolling crowd, and her head moved from side to side as though searching for someone.
Mark watched the people behind her. Many moved in the same direction. It was impossible to tell who might be following her. He pushed away from the protective wall and started walking, careful not to follow too closely or watch her too intently. Instead, he did his best to act like a guy enjoying the island, maybe on his way to buy fresh vegetables at the market.
He tried to formulate a plan as he walked. He had no sidearm, no weapon of any kind except his fists. No backup unless he passed a phone, and even then he didn’t know if he’d dare stop—he might lose her in the crowd. If they passed anywhere near his vehicle, he had a whole arsenal of security stuff, but she was headed in the opposite direction. He’d even left his cell phone in the car. Whenever he met his buddy Brodie he came unarmed, just to save himself the grief. In future, he’d take the teasing. But for now, he had to make do with what he had. Nothing.
His mind rapidly sorted possibilities. Drugs? Prostitution? Stalker? She looked pretty Haight-Ashbury, but his instincts told him
it wasn’t drugs—at least she didn’t show any of the signs of a user or a pusher.
Prostitution? She appeared too fresh. He remembered the way she’d smiled at him, her green eyes frank and as assessing in their way as his were trained to be. In fact, her face was as clear in his mind as in that time-stalled moment they’d stood staring at each other.
Her lips, open in surprise, had been soft and pink without the aid of cosmetics. She had a pert little nose with a cinnamon sprinkle of freckles across the bridge and high cheekbones. Under the hat bits of reddish-brown hair stuck out helter-skelter, and there were three silver earrings piercing her left ear, four crawling up the right. But it was her eyes that had captured his fancy. Uptilted and sparkling with life, they’d made him feel momentarily reckless. And he was never reckless.
Had she made someone else feel reckless? A stalker? That was the most likely possibility. She was a good-looking woman, and he’d seen some pretty scary guys go after women who’d dumped them. But, if there was a stalker following the woman, he hadn’t shown himself yet.
Abruptly she turned down a side street, speeding like a horse anxious to get to its stable. He picked up his pace, breaking into a run, knocking shoulders and dodging pedestrians as he raced to protect her. One more possibility occurred to him as he rushed forward—this could be a trap.
He halted, confused, as he rounded the corner and scanned the narrow street.
It was quiet, lined on both sides by little arty workshops and small businesses. But she didn’t head for one of the doors. Her destination was the mailbox at the dead end of the alley.
She appeared to be alone.
Mark hated blind alleys. Sweat broke out on his brow as he glanced over his shoulder, then perused the surrounding area, focusing especially on the doors and windows. He detected no suspicious movement. It was just a quiet sun-filled alley.
As he watched the woman deposit something in the mailbox, his mind clicked through new possibilities. A ransom? With a deep breath, he plunged into the lane, senses super alert.
She turned from the mailbox and paused as Mark approached her, a half-smile on her face and a gleam of recognition sparkling in those eyes.
“Are you making a drop?” he whispered, putting as much of his body in front of her as possible in an instinctive protective gesture.
She moved closer, and once more that spicy fragrance teased his senses. In a heavy Bronx accent she whispered, “Let’s hope Duey don’t see us together!” She rolled emotion-filled eyes, her whole body expressing fear and dread.
He was keyed up for action, hating the vulnerability of this lane and not knowing who or where the enemy was. “Who’s Duey?”
She laughed, a soft, rich sound that reverberated against his chest. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple. If she went hysterical on him it could place both of them in greater danger.
“No, no,” she said, chiding. “Your line is, ‘Let’s shake the heat, sister, and blow.”’
His line? What? “Ma’am, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what this is about.”
She took a step backward and glanced around, amusement changing to wariness.
“You tell me what it’s about!”
Mark also backed up a step, putting more distance between them and forcing a deep breath into his lungs. How had he missed the signs? The woman was a lunatic. He tried to recall if a full moon was expected tonight, but couldn’t. He remembered how they’d all dreaded a full moon on the force. It was always a busy couple of days.
Keeping his voice calm, he spoke slowly. “Where do you live?”
Her brows rose, the green eyes dancing once more. “If that’s your idea of a pickup routine, you were doing better before. Old movies may be corny, but they have the best lines.”
She made to walk past him.
Old movies? Mark stepped in front of her, confusion turning to frustration. “Don’t play games with me. I’m an RCMP officer—uh, ex-officer. I saw you drop something in that mailbox.” Realizing he sounded accusing, he softened his tone. “I’m here to help.”
She glanced at the mailbox, then at him, then raised her eyebrows. “Before you arrest me for mail fraud, Mr. Ex, I put a stamp on that postcard.”
“A postcard like this?” He pulled the card out of his back pocket and held it in front of her nose.
She stared at the postcard, raised her gaze to his face, looked at the message she’d written, bit her lip. “You followed me because of that?” Her voice wavered.
Damn if he could make head or tail of this crazy woman. Was she in danger or wasn’t she? “Yes!”
“Oh,
I’m
so sorry—” It was as far as she got. She gave a snort and burst into gales of laughter that seemed to go on forever, echoing off the buildings. “Ow, my stomach hurts,” she gasped after an eon of one-sided hilarity. “Bobbie is just going to die!”
He was getting the feeling that this woman talked about death and dying in a different way than he did. “Is Bobbie the one in a life-and-death situation?”
“What? Oh. No. That’s Gertrude. She isn’t really dying. She’s just tired from working too hard.”
“So, you personally are not in any kind of danger at all?” He wanted to be absolutely clear on this point.
She touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip and glanced at him from under her lashes. “Not unless you arrest me for writing postcards in bad taste. What would that charge be, anyway?”
She was so cute he couldn’t stay mad at her, especially now he knew she wasn’t in danger and his heart rate had slowed to normal. He rubbed his chin, thinking. “We could go with public mischief.”
“Public mischief. Sounds serious. And the penalty would be…?”
He did his best to look stern. “They’d throw away the key.”
Rich and earthy, her chuckle resonated in his chest. She started walking back the way they’d come, and he fell into step with her.
“I’m really sorry. I figured that postcard would get tossed. I never thought how it might look.” Her voice wasn’t the broad Bronx she’d first used. She must, he realized, have been mimicking some ancient movie he’d never seen. Her voice was softer, more West Coast. California, maybe.
“No harm done.”
“You used to be a Mountie, huh?”
“Yes,
ma’am.”
“My grandmother just loved Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald. I grew up hearing them sing, ‘When I’m calling you-oo-oo, will you answer toooo-oo.”’ She leaned into him and sang into his face, pursing her lips and puckering her eyebrows until she could have passed for an old-fashioned movie star.
She trilled the words in a high, clear soprano, and he was so caught up in the feel of her slight body leaning against him and the sweetness of her face that he forgot they’d rejoined the milling crowds. Until he heard a stranger’s voice saying, “Yeah. You tell him, girl.”
She broke away from Mark with a quick laugh. “Then there’s the Musical Ride. I used to think the Mounties was a singing group. Kind of like the Monkees only Canadian. And with horses.”
“That’s us. Other cops get weapons training. We get voice lessons.”
“I learned the truth when I started watching a TV show about a Mountie. The guy was like a real cop, only in that awesome uniform. I just loved that red jacket and those killer jodhpur things. Ooh, and that hat was dead hip.”
“That is the RCMP dress uniform. No real officer would wear his dress uniform to work.”
Her face fell. She appeared so ludicrously disappointed he wished he hadn’t told her. “But then they’re just like any other cops.”
“Pretty much. Except for the singing.”
“Well. First you try and arrest me for mail fraud, now you destroy one of my cherished illusions about the Mounties. I’m just going to have to say goodbye.” She smiled and extended her hand. “My car’s over there.”
He gazed at her hand for a moment. Long, sle
nder white fingers, a couple of silver rings, although nothing on the wedding ring finger, green nail polish. He grasped the hand in his, not at all eager to let it go, wishing he could prolong their acquaintance.
Briefly, he considered asking her out, then remembered what a total fool he’d made of himself. She’d probably laugh in his face if he asked her for a date. Besides, his life was complicated enough these days.
She shook his hand purposefully. Then turned and walked toward a parking lot jammed with cars, her skirt swaying and drifting.
He glanced at his watch and cursed silently. He’d forgotten all about Brodie. Reluctantly, he turned toward the restaurant.
