A low growl rumbled up through Kent’s throat. He pulled back, the gun now out of Nick’s reach completely. Kent’s lip lifted in a snarl.
Bull’s-eye. Kent and Cookie had been planning for months. But Kent hadn’t liked that his lover was doing someone else.
“Wonder if she was making all that noise just for show?” Nick lifted his shoulder nonchalantly. “Nah. She was really enjoying herself.”
“Get up.”
Nick’s eyes ached to look down at his watch. How much time had he used up? “Fuck you.”
“I’ll kill you right here. Crouched on your knees.” Tension snapped through Kent’s voice.
“If that was part of your plan, you’d have done it already. I suspect you don’t want to kill me around here. You want a patsy. That’s what you’ve wanted all along. Otherwise you would have killed Jimbo yourself right out of the chute instead of having Cookie set up Warren Spivey to do it.”
He was damn sure about that part of their scheme, the failed part. But what did they plan for Bobbie?
“I said get the fuck up.” Kent stepped back, wrapping both hands around the gun and planting his feet apart.
Nick turned his head, glared into his one-time friend’s eyes. Kent’s gaze glittered, his jaw flexed. Nick didn’t make a move.
Kent lashed out, shoving Nick with his boot. “We’re going inside. I want you to watch her die.”
“You’ll die first.”
Kent’s laugh cut across his words. “Oh, I don’t think so.” He waved the gun. “I’ve got all the advantages.”
Seconds ticked by. Neither of them gave an inch. Then Kent whispered, “Guess I’ll have to kill you here since you’re so uncooperative.”
Where the fuck was Brax? Nick put his hands on his knees, snatching a quick look at his watch, and pushed to his feet. Fifteen minutes, how much more time did the freaking sheriff need?
“You win.” He leaned down to brush leaves and twigs from his jeans, then raked Kent with a look. “For now.”
Kent stepped in behind him, pushed him forward with a sharp jab in the back. “Move.”
He walked slowly, counting the seconds in his head. The porch steps creaked loudly beneath their combined weight, the wood of the decking groaned. With Kent behind him like a shadow and the gun gouging his back, Nick eased the door open.
He almost sagged with relief. Tied to a chair, hands behind her, Bobbie was alive. Thank you, God. She cried out his name when she saw him, then snapped her attention back to Cookie.
A gun wobbled in the widow’s hands.
Kent shoved him from behind, stepping over the threshold. Sliding his own weapon across Nick’s ribs, he rammed it hard against bone. “Keep your goddamn hands up.” Leaning in, he whispered, “Get ready for the show, buddy.”
“Kent,” Cookie blurted.
“What are you waiting for, baby? Do it.”
Cookie looked at her lover. Her chin trembled. “Kent. I think I’ve changed my mind.” Then she whipped the gun around and pulled it up, aiming right for Kent’s head. “I think you better put yours down. Bobbie’s going to tell Brax it was all you. And that I rescued her.”
* * * * *
“You fucking bitch.”
Oh Lord. Kent English was yelling at her, not Cookie. Her heart in her throat, Bobbie could only stare at Nick, at the gun in his side, and pray she hadn’t made a horrible mistake.
Livid lines blanched Kent’s face, Cookie’s hands wavered, tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, and there were two too many guns in the small room.
Cookie hadn’t followed the plan. Or rather, Kent had returned too soon and Cookie never made it behind the door.
Nick’s lips curved in a humorless smile. “Looks like she’s not as stupid as you thought, huh, old pal.”
“You shut the fuck up.”
Nick winced at the jab to his ribs. “I’ll back you up, too, Cookie.”
Kent snarled, an animal-like sound that shivered over Bobbie’s nerve endings. “Don’t forget who’s got the gun on you, asshole.” Then the man turned his angry gaze on Bobbie. “Maybe you want to change your mind about any stories you plan to tell Brax, Bobbie. Unless you want me to shoot Nick right here.”
A bubble of panic clogged her throat. She opened her mouth, ready to beg, plead, anything.
Cookie rendered entreaty unnecessary. “But I’ll still be able to shoot you.”
“You couldn’t hit Eugenia Meade’s fat ass, you stupid cow.”
Cookie’s eyes narrowed, her shoulders straightening. “Jimbo taught me to shoot. I’ll have you know I’m an expert.”
Kent’s head tipped. Surprise furrowed his brow. “You never told me that.”
Cookie raised her nose. “I didn’t need to before.”
Nick’s gaze steadied on Bobbie, his jaw tilted toward Kent. Bobbie prayed he wouldn’t say a word or twitch a muscle.
Something in Kent’s eyes changed, a glint of craftiness. “Cookie, sweetheart, let’s not fight. That bitch told you a bunch of crap. We can make this work if we stick together.”
“It works better if you get all the blame.”
The sweet talk died on his curled lip. “Who do you think Brax is going to believe? Me or you? I’ve known him a helluva lot longer.”
“If you’re dead, then he gets to hear only my side of the story.” Cookie smiled. It was neither the cajoling smile she’d probably used to con Warren nor the spitfire smirk she’d blasted Bobbie with that day outside Bushman’s. This was the smile of a manipulator.
The flesh of Kent’s face drooped. “Cookie.”
“In fact, I’m so good I can get all three of you, starting with you. Then there’ll only be one story to tell. Mine.”
Bobbie immediately saw the flaws in the plan. But terror tightened her belly. Cookie just might figure out a way to fix her flaws.
Kent’s arm twitched.
Cookie saw everything. “Don’t even think about it.”
Bobbie met Nick’s eyes. One corner of his mouth rose. She wanted to scream at him not to do or say anything.
He ignored the plea in her eyes. “Guess she took you in hook, line, and sinker, didn’t she, sucker?”
“You’re dust one way or another,” Kent barked.
Cookie’s hand lost all trace of quiver. “Now. Which one shall I do first? Eenie-meenie-minie”—she chuckled—“mo.”
Bobbie’s heart stopped, the innocent rhyme wrapping around her. Her own words come back to haunt her.
“I guess that means you.” Cookie aimed at Kent’s forehead.
Kent’s eyes darted around the room. Bobbie could see his thoughts. Turn the gun, shoot Cookie. Dive and shoot Nick. Or run like hell.
Bobbie turned back to that oh-so-steady gun in Cookie’s hand and the gleam in her eyes.
“I’m so going to enjoy this, Kent.”
“Not as much as I’m gonna enjoy arresting you, Mrs. Beaumont.”
Sheriff Tyler Braxton’s voice sliced through the thick air, and the muzzle of a gun appeared over Kent’s right shoulder.
“I think you ought to set that gun down, Mrs. Beaumont, and get on the floor. Unless, of course, you prefer I drop you right where you stand.”
Cookie shrieked.
* * * * *
“Took you long enough,” Nick muttered, his blood roaring in his ears. Afraid of losing it completely, he couldn’t look at Bobbie. One almost down, one to go. His side ached and his legs had stiffened. It wasn’t over yet.
Brax busied himself watching Cookie drop her gun, kick it several feet behind, just like he told her to, and spread-eagle herself on the worn braid rug.
Nice picture, Nick decided, to keep in the back of his mind, for like, the rest of his life.
“Now it’s your turn, English.” Brax’s second weapon fit neatly to the top of Kent’s spine.
“Brax—”
“Don’t call me Brax, asshole. Not ever again.” The lazy drawl vanished, replaced by a deadly tone.
Sweat popped out along Kent’s upper lip. “I can shoot Nick, even on reflex. You don’t want to risk that.”
Behind him, Brax shifted. “What do you think, Nick?”
Nick’s gaze latched onto Bobbie. Her mouth sucked at air she couldn’t seem to drag in. Her eyes bulged. Nick prayed she wouldn’t have to watch him die. “Waste the fucker.”
“My pleasure.”
One second, two. Nick didn’t breathe. Kent panted sharp bursts of air. The gun quaked against Nick’s ribs. Three seconds, four.
Kent’s weapon clattered to the floor, he turned, then took two steps to the right. “It was all her idea. Right from the beginning.”
“Shut up, you idiot,” Cookie cried, her voice muffled against the rug.
“On the floor, asshole,” Brax growled.
Kent’s knees hit the planks, and he went voluntarily face first into the wood.
“You moron,” Cookie screamed. “You said he’d never call Brax.”
“Shut up.”
Brax rolled his eyes and shoved a gun in Nick’s hand. “Blow her head off if she so much as moves.” Then he yanked out a pair of handcuffs, rammed his knee into Kent’s back, and secured his wrists.
“Where’s your team?”
Brax rose and cocked his head. “There they are.”
The sound of sirens suddenly split the night, and Brax stepped over Kent’s prone body to repeat the procedure with Cookie. An especially malicious glint transformed his eyes.
Nick looked at Bobbie. She stared at the gun in his hand. He set it on the nearest table. In the span of a breath, he was on his knees beside her, yanking at the ropes chafing her wrists. She’d worn her skin off, raw, bleeding flesh that turned his stomach.
“You saved me,” she whispered.
“It was Brax.” He worked the rope off her waist.
“But you brought him.”
Pulling back, still on his knees beside her, he smoothed her hair back from her forehead. Dried blood matted at the back of her head. His gut twisted. “You all right?”
Her green eyes sparkled. “You rescued me. My hero.”
“Jesus, I’m so sorry.” Then he pulled her off the chair and into his arms, sinking his face in the crook of her neck. The beat of feet hit the wooden porch, voices and bright lights erupted around them. He shuddered in her arms. God, if he’d lost her... “You know, that was pretty stupid going out by yourself. You said you were seeing Brax.”
“I had to do something,” she whispered against his ear. “They were going to lynch you.”
Jesus. And this woman was all his. What more could a sorry ass like himself ask for? He squeezed her until she squeaked.
He opened his eyes to the sight of boots standing two feet behind Bobbie.
“Well, Ms. Jones,” Brax drawled, “we’ll just have that head of yours checked out. Then, if you’d like, we can go down to the jail and release your husband.”
Christ. Her husband. Nick had almost forgotten about him. What would Bobbie do, now that her husband no longer had a lover?
Chapter Twenty
Sheriff Braxton sat in his big leather chair, feet propped on the desk. Warren had faced the sheriff like this too many times in the past two days, and despite the changed circumstances, acid ate at his stomach lining. Roberta’s elbows, one almost touching his, rested on the arms of her chair. The warmth of her skin arced across the small space separating them. Warren didn’t reach for her. A patch of radiant red hair had been chopped away where a white bandage covered the bump on her head.
The injury was Warren’s fault. Everything was. He didn’t know how he’d make any of it up to her, helplessness adding to the roiling in his belly.
“They’re turning on each other like women at a clearance sale.” Braxton laced his fingers across his chest and settled deeper into his chair. “Neither of them wanted to get caught doing the actual deed. Which is where you came into it, Spivey.”
Steel-blue eyes bored into him. Warren’s gut twisted. The woman he’d spent over twenty years dreaming about had simply used him. Then, and now.
“As for the original plan,” the sheriff continued, “Cookie says it was all Kent’s idea because he hated being under Jimbo’s thumb, and he says she came slinking down to his office to seduce him. The he-said-she-said shit flying around is enough to drive a good cop to murder.” Brax shot Nick Angel a look, as if to ask which one he believed.
The man lounged against a steel filing cabinet, saying nothing. Warren still wasn’t sure how he fit into the picture, except that he’d been told Cookie had tried the same battered-woman routine on him almost a year ago.
Angel hadn’t fallen for it. So, what did that make Warren? An idiot or a misguided fool? He’d given up everything trying to recapture the past, only to find that the past was as he’d feared. Cookie hadn’t loved him then, she’d used him. Just as she’d used him this time around.
And Sheriff Braxton had known.
“You never did believe my confession, did you, Sheriff?”
“Shit, Spivey, it was the most ridiculous thing I ever heard.”
Warren let the corner of his mouth rise, though he didn’t feel an ounce of humor. “That’s what Roberta said.”
Braxton shifted his gaze to Bobbie. “And of course, there was the way your ex-wife reacted to Cookie Beaumont.”
Roberta raised a brow as if to say, Who me? then picked at a hole in the armrest. Warren winced at the easy way she reacted to being called his ex-wife. To him, the term sounded unfamiliar. Inaccurate.
“But there wasn’t a whiff of a rumor about you and Mrs. Beaumont. Still, I couldn’t shake loose the feeling that you were covering for her. I did a little checking, and lo and behold, what did I find? You two went to the same high school. So I kept hammering at you.”
“And told everyone there was evidence that didn’t really exist.” Nick Angel finally spoke, a current of anger running below the words and in the glare he pinned the sheriff with. “I didn’t think cops were supposed to lie. Isn’t that entrapment or something?”
“No law against feeding false information.” Braxton turned once again to Warren. “The shoe print,” he explained. “I had no idea what story Mrs. Beaumont told you, but I figured it probably didn’t involve another man being there when Jimbo died.”
“Didn’t you ever think I might actually have done it?”
“Nope.” He pointed a finger at Roberta and smiled. “Your wife can be very convincing. She said you weren’t capable of murder.”
Warren found the word wife without the ex in front of it strangely comforting.
Angel shifted, his elbow slamming down on the filing cabinet. The man breathed with a low-throated growl.
What Roberta had said was that he didn’t have the courage to commit murder, even to save the woman he loved. She was right. It was the only time his lack of courage had served him well.
“But Spivey, you’re not off the hook yet. I expect you realize we could charge you with a shitload of stuff here, like hindering an investigation, lying in a sworn statement...” The sheriff waved his hand in the air, indicating several et ceteras.
Warren blinked, his eyes gritty. Still wearing the same clothes he’d been arrested in, his skin itched. He hadn’t slept more than a nod in over two days, and it would soon be morning. He was too damn tired to care if Braxton was yanking his chain.
“But you won’t charge him, will you,” Roberta answered for him, her words like a warm blanket draped across his shoulders. Until he realized she looked at Angel as she spoke.
“It’s not up to me. The District Attorney will decide.”
Suddenly uninterested in the threat of future jail time, Warren stopped listening. Instead he watched the way Angel’s eyes traveled the planes of Roberta’s face. There was something in that look, something...intimate.
He recalled everything the sheriff had told him earlier. Kent English kidnapped Roberta. Unarmed, Angel braved the lion’s den to rescue her. What th
e sheriff hadn’t clarified was why Angel would bother.
Warren’s blood turned to sludge in his veins. Light-headed, his head spun. “Roberta, I have to talk to you. Outside.”
“Her name’s Bobbie.” Voice low, harsh, Angel impaled him with a dark gaze. That look implied a host of crimes left unmentioned, as if he knew Warren had emotionally deserted Roberta years before he’d left her for Cookie.
“I don’t think we’re done with the sheriff yet, Warren,” Roberta said, always the peacemaker.
Braxton regarded him with an unreadable expression. “We can finish this in the morning. You’re free to go.” Then, after an intentional pause, he finished, “For now.” The last implication being the proverbial Don’t leave town.
Warren had no intention of leaving Cottonmouth. All he wanted was to lay down, sleep, perhaps never to wake up. After he learned what right Nick Angel had to study Roberta with that disturbingly possessive gaze. And to tell him what her name actually was.
He stood. Roberta rose slowly beside him, steadying herself a moment on the back of the chair. Angel pushed himself off the filing cabinet, wrapped a big hand around her forearm, his fingers dark yet protective against her pale flesh. Over her head, he flashed Warren an irritated scowl.
“You need to go home and rest, Bobbie,” Angel said softly.
“I’ll only be a minute.”
Warren needed more than a minute. He felt frighteningly superfluous as Roberta looked up at the man. Why did her statement sound as if she intended to go home with Angel?
The room seemed to whirl around him, and he feared that with Roberta, the balance sheet lay heavily in the other man’s favor.
He made it out into the hall without stumbling. Seeming as loud as the clang of his cell door, the latch clicked as Roberta closed the door behind them. The hall outside the sheriff’s office was empty, though out in the main room, phones rang, computers buzzed, insults flew, and the department dealt with the aftermath of Cookie’s arrest.
“What do you need, Warren?”
She's Gotta Be Mine (A sexy, funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 1) (Cottonmouth Series) Page 28
