by Pennza, Amy
Like last night. If Dean hadn’t let Ashley go… The steering wheel groaned under Smith’s fingers. He loosened his grip and took a deep breath. It was best not to think about Dean Lacy—not until he’d accomplished what he set out to do this afternoon.
Keeping Ashley out of his thoughts was an altogether different story. When she’d stumbled into that streetlight last night, his heart had almost stopped. And when she’d thrown her arms around his neck, it had felt like the most natural thing in the world. After he’d closed the guest room door, he’d almost walked back in and declared his intention to stay the night. But that would have been inappropriate. He barely knew her. He’d done as much as possible to maintain the distance between them. And she’d just been attacked. The last thing she’d needed was a man in her space.
Still, he hadn’t been able to resist checking on her before he’d left for work this morning. She’d been fast asleep on her side facing the door, one hand curled under her cheek. Her long hair had streamed over the pillows. He’d stepped over a sleepy-eyed Deuce and tucked the blankets around her shoulders. Then he’d stood back and let his gaze roam over her face. He shouldn’t have. It was a violation, however mild. But if he was a thirsty man, she was a smooth lake. The temptation to drink her in had been too much.
The GPS interrupted his thoughts to tell him his destination was on his left in five hundred yards. Smith flicked his turn signal and pulled into a small office complex. The red brick building was trimmed in boxwoods that had turned brown for the winter, but someone had put bright artificial flowers in the holders under the windows that flanked either side of the door.
A bell chimed as he walked in. A young woman met his gaze over a tall reception desk and smiled, recognition in her eyes. Another benefit of working in a small town—the residents weren’t suspicious of law enforcement. “Hello, Officer,” she said. “How can I help you?”
“I’m here to see the boss. Is he in?”
“Yes. I’ll let him know you’re here.” She reached for a phone.
“No need. He’s expecting me.”
Smith didn’t wait for her to ask questions. He walked past her desk and headed down a short hallway. He’d never been in the office, but it didn’t take a detective to figure out where the boss worked. He passed a small conference room, an even smaller copy room, and a darkened half bath. The main office was a corner unit at the end of the hall. Even before he reached the doorway, he could tell the room was mostly windows. The afternoon sun spilled onto the beige carpet. He stopped on the threshold.
“Hello, Dean.”
Dean Lacy looked up from a computer screen. He sat at a large desk—one of those office supply store numbers made of particle board and veneer. Three floor-to-ceiling windows at his back bathed the room in light. Shock flashed across his face, followed by what might have been fear. Smith saw the moment he made a conscious decision to arrange his features into “polite, but mildly surprised.” The expression settled over his face like a mask. He half-rose from his chair.
“Chief Salvatierra. This is an honor. What can I do for you?”
Smith entered the office and approached the desk.
Dean stuck out his hand.
Smith ignored it, walked past the edge of the desk, and began closing the blinds on the window farthest from the desk.
The chair’s wheels caught the edge of the plastic floor mat as Dean stood and tried to maneuver out from behind his desk. The chair lurched—half on carpet, half on plastic. Dean jerked it out of the way and faced Smith.
“May I ask what you’re doing?” His tone was a mix of confusion and indignation, but he wasn’t alarmed. Not yet.
Smith moved to the middle window. Zip. The blinds crashed to the sill, slats bouncing. The sills were nice and deep, which meant the walls were thick.
“I said, excuse me?”
“No, you didn’t,” Smith murmured. He kept his back to Dean as he closed the third blind.
“What?”
Smith walked to the door and closed it. Locked it. He faced Dean. “You didn’t say ‘excuse me’ before.”
The flustered, incredulous look on Dean’s face was almost enough satisfaction to make Smith settle for taunting the son of a bitch and calling it a day.
Almost.
Dean recovered quickly. He drew himself up, indignation stamped all over his face. He was a tall man—almost as tall as Smith. Tall enough to make a woman fear for her safety.
Ah, no. Taunting him isn’t enough, after all.
Smith walked right up to the edge of the desk. He was so close, he could see the striations in Dean’s irises. With slow, deliberate movements, Smith pulled his badge from his back pocket and set it on the corner of the desk. He pointed to it. “Just so we’re clear, I’m not here in my official capacity.”
Dean let out a snort of laughter. “What the hell does that mean?”
A person unaccustomed to listening carefully might have missed the nervous edge under Dean’s laugh, but Smith knew how important it was to listen carefully. Like most bullies, Dean Lacy was secretly a coward. It was there in the slight hunching of his shoulders, and in the way his gaze darted to the door.
Smith let the silent, focused calm slip over him. He held his hands loosely at his sides, his body ready for what it needed to do next.
Dean finally seemed to scrounge up courage from somewhere because he puffed out his chest and said, “Look, I don’t know what this is about, but—”
“Quiet.”
To his credit, Dean recognized mortal danger when he saw it. A less intelligent man would have kept talking. But he snapped his mouth shut, and the glimmer of fear Smith had seen earlier reappeared.
Smith nodded. “Good thinking. Now, you should know I’m not a patient man.” He glanced at the computer. “And I’m sure you’re probably busy, so I’ll spare us both the trouble of explaining why I’m here.” He permitted himself a deep sigh. Then he lunged across the desk, seized Dean by the shoulders, and slammed him face first onto the surface. A sharp crack, followed by the metallic scent of blood, let him know he’d broken Dean’s nose.
“Fuck!” Dean writhed under Smith’s grip, his upper body flat on the desk. “You fucking asshole! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Smith gripped Dean’s hair and forced his head to the side so their gazes met. Blood streamed from both of Dean’s nostrils. He let out a harsh breath, and red droplets spattered across the faux wood surface. He pressed his palms flat against the desk and tried to heave himself up.
“No, no.” Smith angled his hand like a blade and struck the back of Dean’s elbow.
Dean’s arm collapsed. His fingers spasmed on the desk. He sucked in a breath. “What the fu—”
Smith tightened his grip on Dean’s hair and leaned down. “You assaulted Ashley Scobel last night.”
Guilt, brief but unmistakable, flared in Dean’s eyes. Then he narrowed his gaze. His features were still handsome, even with the swelling nose, but now they twisted into something ugly. He grimaced, showing blood-stained teeth. “Assaulted her? Is that the tale she’s telling? Trust me, Chief, that little slut wanted it. She’s a whore, just like her mother. Trashley Scobel.”
Faster than most people could track, Smith pinched the skin where Dean’s shoulder met his neck.
Dean jerked. For a second, his entire body stiffened. Then he let out a low, animalistic groan and went limp.
Smith put his mouth next to Dean’s ear and tsked. “That was unwise, Lacy. Now, I know you can hear me, even if you can’t move. Actually, you won’t be able to move for about fifteen minutes. But your ears still work, which is all we need. So hear this: If you touch Ashley Scobel again, you’re a dead man.”
Dean’s pupils dilated. It was the only sign that he’d gotten the message. Perhaps if he’d had control of his facial muscles—or any muscles—his eyes might have widened. As it was, his mouth gaped. Drool slid from the corner of his lips and dripped to the desk.
; “If you come near her,” Smith continued, “if you think of coming near her, I will pinch just a little bit harder”—he touched Dean’s neck—“here. And you’ll be dead.”
More blood droplets spattered against the desk.
Smith released him and retrieved his badge from the desk. He moved into Dean’s line of sight. “Anything you’d like to say?”
Dean stared straight ahead.
“Suit yourself.” Smith patted Dean’s head. “Good talk.”
On his way out, the receptionist pulled the phone from her ear and put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Is everything okay, Chief? I thought I heard a bump.”
Smith turned, one hand on the door. “Right as rain.” He jerked a thumb toward Dean’s office. “I’d give it about a half hour before you disturb him, though. He said he wanted to get through some paperwork without any interruptions.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s him, all right. Have a good afternoon, Chief!”
Smith smiled. “Thank you, I will.”
12
Ashley woke to the smell of food cooking. She sat up and stretched her arms above her head. Several vertebrae in her back cracked like popcorn in a microwave. The sky outside the window was dark. Panic shot through her. How long had she slept? The clock read seven thirty. There was no sign of Deuce. The bedroom door was closed.
Had Smith seen her sleeping? Ugh. She tossed back the covers and headed for the bathroom. She used the toilet, then studied her reflection in the mirror. Her hair had dried curly like it always did when she couldn’t tame it into submission with a hairdryer and round brush. She finger-combed it over her shoulders. Not bad. If she squinted and angled her head sideways, the style could pass for “beachy waves.” At least her color was less corpse-like. Even better, the dizziness was gone. She felt the back of her head. The knot was smaller but still tender around the edges.
More food smells wafted through the closed bathroom door. Her stomach growled.
She looked at the offending organ in the mirror, then lifted her gaze to her chest.
Her braless chest. The t-shirt Smith had given her was thick, but there was no hiding her curves. Her jeans and tube top still sat on the sink. She touched the tube top. It would give her a little support…
“You showed up with your tits falling out of your top.” Dean’s voice in her head was loud and ugly.
She lifted the tube top. The smell of garlic drifted over her, and she dropped it back onto the counter.
No way. No way could she stand having a reminder of Dean next to her skin.
The muffled clink of pots and pans sounded from somewhere downstairs.
She gazed into the mirror and lifted her chin. Fuck you, Dean Lacy. She’d march down the street topless if it suited her. “Asshole,” she told the mirror, then she hitched her borrowed sweats higher on her hips and left the bathroom.
It wasn’t hard to find the kitchen. Whatever Smith was cooking, it smelled amazing. She followed the scent downstairs, past the sitting room, and down a long hallway that opened into a spacious kitchen with white cabinets and stainless-steel appliances. Smith stood at the stove with his back to her. A large island topped by a thick slab of veined granite separated them. The stove’s hood was one of those fancy wall-mounted units that looked like the awning over a French bakery. There was also a retractable pot filler. In a breakfast nook off to the right, a gleaming black farmhouse table made a sharp contrast to the otherwise all-white kitchen. She’d attended enough Hollywood parties to know the kitchen was top of the line.
As if he’d sensed her presence, Smith turned around, a wooden spoon in his hand. He wore jeans, a tight, gray t-shirt, and a white bistro apron tied around his waist.
Dear Lord. She opened her mouth. Or maybe it fell open.
He set the spoon down and rounded the island, concern stamped all over his face. “Hey. How do you feel?”
She snapped her jaw shut. He stopped in front of her, one big hand on the island. His t-shirt molded against his chest, revealing hard pecs and a flat stomach. Officer, I need to report a crime.
“Ashley? You okay?” He reached out like he might touch her hair, then let his hand drop back to his side.
Focus, idiot. She gave him what she hoped was a bright smile. “Yes! Sorry…I, um, didn’t mean to sleep so long.”
“No, don’t be sorry. Your body obviously needed it.”
Her cheeks heated. Even though he’d meant it in a clinical sense, his reference to her body made warmth pool low in her stomach.
His hazel gaze searched her face. “Any headaches? Dizziness? You probably have a concussion.”
“A little earlier, but nothing now. I feel pretty great.” More heat rose in her cheeks. “Actually, I think I might have just been drunk. I felt a little hungover this morning.”
“Are you sure?” His gaze flicked over her hair. “That was a decent-sized knot.”
She lifted a shoulder. “It’s mostly gone now. My head must be as hard as my grandma always said.”
A smile shone from his eyes. “That sounds like my abuela.”
Abuela? Her Spanish was rudimentary, but you didn’t live in Los Angeles without picking up the basics. And he’d used a couple other Spanish words around her. If Dean was right about Smith’s heritage, was he also right about his family’s drug connections? Nothing about the tall, devastatingly handsome chief of police standing in front of her indicated a tawdry past. Dean was probably just jealous. Or racist. A shiver of disgust rippled through her.
“What are you thinking about?” Smith asked, his voice soft.
It was on the tip of her tongue to say nothing, but something in his face made her think he already knew the answer to his question. “Someone I’d like to forget.”
“He won’t hurt you again.”
“I know.” His gaze was so steady, so pure, she had to lower her head. “I was stupid to go out with him.”
“Not stupid.” A warm hand lifted her chin. “I don’t ever want to hear you blame yourself for his actions. What happened was not your fault.”
His touch was so gentle—so altogether different from Dean’s bruising grip—that her breath caught in her chest. And deep in her core, heat bloomed. She swallowed. “O-okay.”
Was that scratchy whisper her voice?
“Good,” he said. He released her, moved to the table, and pulled out a chair. “Here, sit. I’ll grab you a bowl.”
His touch still buzzed against her chin as she walked over. As she sat down, he pushed the chair in for her. More heat surged to her cheeks. Apparently, chivalry wasn’t quite dead. At least not in South Central Texas. Had she found a bona fide dream man? Wait until Pia heard about the apron.
He returned to the stove and lifted the lid on a large pot. “I hope you’re hungry. I made stew.” He gave her a mischievous look over his shoulder. “I also hope you’re not a vegetarian.”
Her mouth almost fell open again. Smith Salvatierra—taciturn police chief and upstanding Boy Scout—was teasing her? Maybe she was still upstairs in bed, and this was all a dream. She pinched the fleshy part of her thumb. Nope, she was definitely awake. And he was waiting for an answer. She tucked her hair behind her ear.
“Ah, no. I’m fully carnivorous.”
His look of approval was enough to make her swear off vegetables for the rest of her life. Then he winked and turned back to the stove. His voice drifted over his shoulder. “You can take the girl out of Texas…”
Her stomach did a flip. The apron didn’t cover his ass, which was… She took a deep breath. Even the hottest guys tended to struggle in the backside department. Smith was not among those ranks. The jeans hugged his hips and rounded cheeks before tapering into lean legs. The man had to do squats like his life depended on it. There was no other explanation for such perfection.
He ladled stew into a bowl and turned.
She tore her gaze away from his hips.
He walked to the table and set the bowl and a spoon in front of her. Ste
am rose from the bowl, which was filled with chunks of potato, carrots, and beef. Her stomach growled.
He smiled down at her. “You should eat while it’s hot.”
That smile was more dangerous than his gun. The stern police chief disappeared. A devastating rogue took his place. His teeth were as straight and white as any in a toothpaste commercial, but that wasn’t what drew her. The smile lit up his features and made his eyes crinkle at the corners. Distraction… She needed a distraction. She pushed back from the table. “I can’t let you serve me like this. Let me help—”
“Not tonight. My kitchen, my rules.” He pointed to her chair. “Sit right there and eat before it gets cold. That’s an order.”
A little thrill shot down her spine. His tone held an edge of humor and…something else. She lifted a spoonful of stew and blew on it. “Where’s Deuce? I didn’t see him upstairs.”
“Outside.” Smith returned to the kitchen. “He likes to putter around the yard in the evenings.”
“Thanks for leaving him with me today. It…helped.”
He turned from the stove. “You never need to worry about your safety, you know. Lacy won’t bother you again.”
He sounded so confident. It was probably easy to feel that way when you had a badge and a gun—and two hundred pounds of muscle to back it up. She cleared her throat. “I hope you understand my reasons for not filing a report.”
“I understand them, even if I don’t necessarily agree with them. But justice has a way of catching up with people who deserve it.” He turned back to the stew, but his words still reached her. “I’m confident he’ll get what’s coming to him.”
Smith made several more trips from the kitchen to the table. Eventually, it held a stack of napkins, two tumblers filled with sweet tea, and a plate of cornbread stacked like mini bales of hay. When he was finished, he sat across from her with his own bowl and raised his eyebrows. “How is it?”
She ate her now-cooled bite—a mix of soft, savory carrots and celery. After twenty-four hours without food, it was ambrosia. She swallowed. “It’s amazing. Thank you.”
