by Dana Marton
Lena, the rookie officer manning the scanner, held out a gray plastic tray for him.
Bree offered a smile. “We just upped our security. If you could hand over anything metal in your pockets and walk through, I’d appreciate it.”
She was in charge of the station until the new sheriff was elected. They’d had an incident recently with a drunk housewife who’d come in to file a complaint against her husband, then ended up shooting a full clip into the ceiling to make sure they believed her when she said she would shoot the bastard if he came into her new double-wide one more time with muddy boots.
She’d been a bundle of booze and wild emotions—the very opposite of Jamie Cassidy, who seemed the epitome of cold and measured.
He scowled as he dropped his cell phone, handful of change and car keys into the small plastic tray. “I’m going to set the alarm off.” He tapped his leg. “Prosthesis.”
That was it, then, Bree thought as she watched him. The reason why his walk had been off a smidgen. “Not a problem, Lena,” she told the rookie, who was staring at him with dreamy eyes. “I’ll pat him down.”
“No.” His face darkened as his gaze cut to hers.
They did a long moment of the staring-each-other-down thing. Then his lips narrowed as he fished around in his shirt pocket and pulled out a CBP badge.
Customs and Border Protection. And the plot thickens. She tilted her head as she considered him. Why not show the badge sooner?
Maybe it was a fake. She’d worked pretty closely with CBP for the past couple of years. She’d never seen him before. If she had, she would have definitely remembered him.
She widened her smile. Defusing tension in a bad situation always worked better than escalating it. “I need to check you just the same. New procedure. Sorry.”
For a second he looked like he might refuse and simply walk away from her. She kept her hand near her firearm at her back, ready to stop him. She preferred to do things the easy way, but she could do it the hard way if needed. Up to him.
But then he seemed to change his mind and held out his arms to the side. She wondered if he knew that his smoldering look of resentment only made him look sexier.
“It’ll only take a second.” She ran her fingers along his arms first, lightly. Plenty of muscle. If he did change his mind and began causing trouble, she would definitely need her service weapon.
She moved her hands to his torso and found more impressive muscles there. She could feel the heat of his body through his shirt and went faster when her fingertips began to tingle again, a first for her during pat down. What on earth was wrong with her today? She tried to focus on what she was doing. Okay, no shoulder holster, no sidearm here.
“Almost done.” She squatted as she moved down his legs, pausing at the sharp transition where the living flesh gave way to rigid metal. Both of his legs were missing. Her gaze flew up to his.
He looked back down at her with something close to hate—a proud man who didn’t like his weaknesses seen.
“Enough.” He stepped back.
But she stepped after him. “One more second.”
Awareness tingled down her spine as she pulled up and reached around his waist, almost as if she were hugging him. And there, tucked behind his belt, she found a small, concealed weapon.
She removed the firearm carefully, pointing it down, making sure her fingers didn’t come near the trigger. “When were you going to tell me about this?” She checked the safety. On. Okay.
“I’m so used to carrying, I forgot,” he lied to her face.
Which ticked her off a little.
She dropped the weapon into the gray plastic tray Lena was holding. “You can claim these on your way out.” If she let him leave. “This way.”
They went through the detector, which did go off, as he’d promised. Curiosity, wariness and even some unwanted attraction warred inside her as she led him into interview room A at the end of the hallway. He was not your average Joe. This man had a story. She wanted to know what it was.
“How about I get us something cold to drink?”
He didn’t look impressed with her hospitality as he scanned the small white room. “I’m in a hurry.”
She left him anyway, and swung by Lena on her way to the vending machine. “Let me see that.” She took his weapon, grabbed two sodas then stopped by her office and ran the gun.
Unregistered firearm. On a hunch, she called her friend Gina at the local CBP office. “Hey, you got someone over there by the name of Jamie Cassidy?”
“Not that I know off the top of my head. Why? Anything to do with the counterfeiting thing you’re working?”
“Don’t know yet. Might be nothing. I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up and walked by Lena again, looking at Jamie Cassidy’s car keys in the plastic tray.
“You’ll need a warrant to look in his car,” Lena remarked, now sitting by her computer, answering citizen queries.
“Or his permission. Least I can do is try,” Bree said as she walked away.
Mike was coming from the evidence room. “What you up to?”
“Picked up someone with a fake twenty.”
“Need help?” He was a few weeks from retirement, but not the type to sit back and count off the days. He was always first to offer help and never said a word if he had to work late.
“Thanks. But I think I can handle him.” She hoped. She was ready to roll up the counterfeiting thing.
She was sick of the recent crime wave in her town lately: a rash of burglaries, several acts of unusual vandalism and sabotage, arson even, and then the counterfeit bills showing up suddenly. Whatever she had to do, she was going to put an end to it.
She grabbed her shoulder holster from the back of her chair, shrugged into the leather harness and stuck her weapon into the holster to keep it within easier reach. Time to figure out who Jamie Cassidy was and if he’d come to town to cause trouble.
She had a sudden premonition that prying that out of him wasn’t going to be easy. She’d been a cop long enough to know when somebody was lying, and the man waiting for her in interview room A definitely had his share of secrets.
* * *
HE WAS SITTING in an interrogation room, fully aroused. That was a first, Jamie thought wryly. Because, of course, she’d had to put her hands on him. At least she hadn’t noticed his condition; she’d been too focused on his weapon.
He leaned back in the uncomfortable metal chair. The place was small, the cement brick walls freshly painted white, the old tile floor scuffed.
The metal door stood open, but the station was full of uniforms. He wouldn’t get far if he tried to walk out, not without violence, and he wanted to avoid that if possible. He watched as the deputy sheriff reappeared at the end of the hallway, her gaze immediately seeking out his.
And there it came again, that punch of heat in the gut.
“Stupid,” he said under his breath, to snap himself out of it.
He’d never been like this. Back when he’d been whole, he’d enjoyed the fairer sex as much as the next guy. Since he’d been crippled, he kept to himself. He was half machine, half human. Who the hell would want to touch that?
Yet she’d touched him and hadn’t flinched away. She’d felt his prosthetics and her face had registered surprise, but not pity. He pushed that thought aside. What would Miss Perfection know about physical deformity?
He watched as a uniformed cop, dragging a loud-mouthed drunk, headed her off halfway down the hall.
“No needles,” the drunk protested, then swore a blue streak, struggling against the man who held him, trying for a good swing, the movement nearly knocking him off his unsteady feet.
Brianna Tridle smiled sweetly.
Yeah, that was going to work. The man needed someone to put the fear of God into him. Jamie could have gotten the job done in three seconds flat. Possibly two. He relaxed and got ready to enjoy watching the deputy sheriff fail.
“Come on now, Pete.” She kept up the al
l-is-well-with-the-world, we’re-all-friends routine. “Big, tough guy like you. Remember when you had that wire snap at work and cut your leg open? You didn’t make a sound all the way to the hospital when I took you in. Pretty impressive.”
The drunk pulled himself together a little and gave her a sheepish look. “It’s just the needles. You know I can’t stand them, darlin’.”
“Tell you what. You do the blood test, I’ll drive you home. You won’t have to wait here until Linda gets off shift.”
“Can’t give no blood.” He shook his head stubbornly. “I’m dizzy. Haven’t even eaten all day.”
“I bet Officer Roberts hasn’t had lunch yet, either. How about you swing by the drive-through and grab a couple of hamburgers? On me.”
The drunk went all googly-eyed. “You’ll always be a queen to me, darlin’,” he promised, and this time followed Officer Roberts obediently as he was led away.
Jamie stared. Enforcing the law with sweet talk.
What kind of monkey-circus police station was this? And then he stilled as he realized he was even now sitting in an interrogation room, where he’d had no intention of being. Hell, the woman had done it to him!
He glared at her with all the resentment he felt as she came in with a couple of drinks. He was out of here.
“Got the money out of the ATM at the bank across the street five minutes ago. You can check their security video.” He rose. “That’s all I know.”
She put a can of soda in front of him with that smile that seemed to have the ability to addle everyone’s brain around her. She sat, folding her long legs under her seat. “Just a few minutes. Please?” she asked very nicely. “As a favor from one law enforcement drone to another.”
Establishing common ground in thirty seconds flat. Nice work, he had to admit. He sat, but only because he was beginning to be intrigued.
“What do you do, exactly, at CBP?” She fitted her supremely kissable lips to the can as she drank, keeping an eye on him.
“I’m on a special team,” he said, more than a little distracted.
“Dealing with?”
“Special stuff.”
She laughed, the sound rippling right through him. He resented that thoroughly.
“Why do you carry an unregistered firearm instead of your service weapon?” she asked as pleasantly as if she was inquiring about his health.
She got that already, did she? A part of him was impressed, a little. Maybe she wasn’t just surface beauty.
“Took it off someone this morning. Haven’t had a chance yet to turn it in,” he lied through his teeth. He was in town as part of an undercover commando team. What they did and how they did it was none of her business.
She smiled as if she believed his every word. “All right, that’s it, then,” she said brightly. “I better clear you out of here so you can get back to work. I know you guys are busy beyond belief.”
She stood, taking her drink with her. “Just to make sure I have all my Ts crossed and Is dotted, would you mind if I took a quick glance at your car?” she added, as if it was an afterthought. “With all this counterfeit stuff I’m struggling with...” She gave a little shrug that another man would have found endearing. “It’s really helpful to be able to cross people completely off the list.”
“Go ahead,” he said, regretting it the next second. But part of him wanted to test her. No way in hell she was going to find the secret compartment that he himself built. “It’s a black SUV in front of the bank.” He gave her his plate number. “You already have the keys.”
She walked out, ensuring him of her gratitude and sincere appreciation. And this time, she closed the door behind her. Which locked automatically.
And just like that, he was in custody.
His mouth nearly gaped at her effortless efficiency.
He had to admit, if he was normal, if he was the type who believed in love, she would be the exact woman he might be tempted to fall in love with.
Of course, with everything she had going for her, chances were she was already married. No wedding ring—he couldn’t believe he’d looked—but people in law enforcement often skipped that. No reason to advertise to the bad guys that you had a weakness, a point where you could be hurt.
Married. There. He found the thought comforting. He liked the idea of her completely out of his reach. Otherwise, the thought of her would drive him crazy during those long nights when he couldn’t sleep.
He waited.
Looked around the small room.
Looked at the locked door.
It’d been a while since he’d been locked up and tortured, but the more he sat in the interrogation room, the more uneasy he felt. It’s not like that. He swallowed back the memories. Rubbed his knees.
But a cold darkness seemed to fill the room around him little by little, pushing him to his feet. Think about something else. Think about work.
Plenty there to figure out. His six-man team was putting the brakes on a serious smuggling operation that planned on bringing terrorists, along with their weapons of mass destruction, into the country, information that had been gained on an unrelated South American op.
To stop the terrorists, his team had to work their way up the chain of command in a multinational criminal organization. They’d gotten the three low-level bosses who ran the smugglers on the United States side of the border. What they needed now was the identity of the Coyote, the big boss who ran things on the other side.
He paced the room, forcing himself to focus on what they knew so far. But too soon his thoughts returned to Brianna Tridle. He moved to the door to look out the small window through the wire-reinforced glass. What he saw didn’t make him happy.
She was coming back in with a uniformed cop, carrying his arsenal, down to his night-vision goggles that had been hidden in a separate secret compartment from the rest. She called out to the handful of people in the office as she deposited the weaponry on a desk.
He couldn’t hear her, but he could read her sexy lips. He was pretty sure she’d just said terror suspect.
Oh, hell. That definitely didn’t bode well for him.
Chapter Two
“Officer Delancy here is going to take your fingerprints,” Bree informed Jamie Cassidy, if that was his real name, once she was back in the interview room with him, feeling a lot more cautious suddenly than the first time around.
“I noticed earlier that you had a wallet in your pocket. I’d appreciate it if you handed that over, please.” She kept as pleasant an expression on her face as possible, even if she felt far from smiling.
The kind of weapons he had in his SUV were definitely not standard government issue that CBP would use. And they were far too heavy duty for the kind of criminals she usually saw around these parts. He didn’t just have weapons—he had an arsenal with him. For what purpose?
“I need to make a phone call,” he demanded, instead of complying.
“Maybe later.” If he was a domestic terrorist, he could set off a bomb with a phone call. She wasn’t going to take chances until she knew more about him. “Let’s do those prints first and have a little talk. Then we’ll see about the phone.”
He scowled at her, looking unhappier by the second. An accomplishment, since he’d been in a pretty sour mood even when she’d first laid eyes on him.
“How about we talk about your weapons first?”
He held her gaze. “How did you find them?”
He clearly hadn’t thought she would. At the beginning of her career, it had annoyed her that men tended to underestimate her. Then she’d realized that it was an advantage.
“Just came back from special training with the CBP. They spent three entire days on tips and tricks for spotting secret compartments. Same training you received, I assume? Since you claim you work for them?”
Smuggling had been getting out of hand in the area until a sudden recent drop she didn’t think would last. And now with the counterfeit money nonsense... She needed skills that w
ould help her put an end to that. As she watched him, she wondered if he was a CBP agent gone bad. It happened.
“You’re making a mistake here.”
“Oh, Lord,” she said easily. “I make at least ten a day, for sure.” She smiled. “Why are you in Pebble Creek, Jamie?”
“I told you. I consult for CBP,” he said morosely, but sat back down and let Delancy take his fingerprints.
Consulting now, was it? His story was subtly changing. There was more here, something he wasn’t telling her.
“And you needed those guns for...”
“I spend a lot of time on the border.”
“Doing what?”
“Monitoring smuggling.”
Or helping it along, most likely.
Sheriff Davis was dead, the new sheriff elections mere weeks away. She’d been away for training and out of the loop, way too much dropping on her lap the day she’d come back. Like counterfeit twenties showing up.
She’d notified the CIA as soon as she’d caught the first. They were sending an agent before the end of the week to investigate. Acid bubbled in her stomach every time she thought of that. She wasn’t a big fan of outsiders messing around in her town.
And if that wasn’t enough, now she had Jamie Cassidy to deal with. She was starting to feel the beginnings of a headache.
He was watching her, his eyes hard, his face closed, his masculine mouth pressed into a line—not exactly a picture of cooperation. If this went the way she thought it would, she’d be here all day and then some. Which meant she’d have to call her sister and let her know she’d be late. Not a good thing with Katie being so bad with even the slightest change in her routine.
“How long have you been in town?” she asked as Delancy left with the fingerprint kit, closing the door behind her.
“A couple of weeks.”
Which coincided with the counterfeit money showing up.
He rubbed the heels of his hands over his knees, drawing her attention there. How much did she know about what was really under his jeans, anyway? She’d felt metal. But was all of that his prosthetics?
