Divorced, Desperate and Daring Page 3

  Danny swung open the door and called out for another officer. “Get a sketch artist in here.” He looked back at the lawyer. “I want to know what this guy looked like down to the size of his dick!” He rushed out, telling himself it wasn’t his Sheri.

  His Sheri?

  What a joke.

  She wasn’t his. Except for one night.

  One damn good night.

  • • •

  He dialed Cary before he was out of the county jail, but his friend wasn’t picking up. Shit!

  The line beeped to leave a message. “Hey . . . there’s a problem. Sheri is . . . Someone’s trying . . . Oh, hell. Sheri could be in danger. Call me!”

  He tried Sheri’s number. The fact that he hadn’t deleted it from his phone said something. The fact that he hadn’t added any new numbers since then said something more.

  Her phone rang twelve times before he reached his car. He knew because he counted each one. Then he phoned his friend, Paul Manning, who worked homicide and gave him a rundown on the other Sheri Thompsons.

  Leaving the parking lot, he put his siren on his dashboard and lit out to Forest Hill Condos. He spent the entire drive trying to calm down and convince himself she wasn’t in danger. But it wasn’t working.

  His car had barely stopped in her parking lot when he jumped out. The sooner he laid eyes on Sheri, the sooner he would be able think straight.

  Jogging to unit sixteen, he realized he didn’t have a clue how he was going to deal with this. Should he tell her? He had to, didn’t he? If he didn’t, she’d think he was here for . . . something else. For penitence.

  And damn, he knew if she’d give him another chance, he’d take it in a snap. But a man could only beg for so long.

  Arriving at her porch, he noticed her door wasn’t shut. His heart picked up pace. Surely Sheri was smart enough not to leave her front door open.

  Shit! He drew his gun. He debated calling out her name, but if someone had his finger on the trigger, that might jar him into doing something he shouldn’t.

  Instantly his mind replayed parts of their night together. Hands down, it had been the best sex he’d ever had. Add the hours they’d laid in bed talking and laughing and . . . and he’d panicked. But not until she’d gone to sleep and he’d just lain there, watching her. His damn heart had swelled so big he thought his chest would explode.

  Pushing open the door a bit, he listened for any signs of movement. He inched into the living room. He’d only come here once. He hadn’t even gotten inside. She’d opened her door and, with a few choice words, told him where he could plant his flowers and insisted he had to leave because her date was waiting inside.

  She hadn’t been bluffing, because he’d stayed around long enough to see them leaving together.

  Where are you now, Sheri? He heard a slight noise coming from the room in the back. The kitchen? Someone was here. Be okay. Please be okay.

  She could tell him to plant anything, anywhere. Just as long as she was alive and breathing. He lifted his gun and cut the corner into the kitchen.

  Chapter Two

  Sheri felt the cool wall behind her. Patrick’s mouth was on hers. He was a good kisser. Just a little too much tongue. She told herself to stop critiquing and enjoy it.

  His hand moved under her skirt, going for her panties. The red panties she’d worn for this very reason. She planned to let it happen. They’d been dating six weeks. He’d been patient. It was time, but . . . was she feeling it?

  A little.

  Maybe.

  He pushed his hips against hers, and the evidence of how much he was feeling it pressed against her.

  Oh, hell. She wasn’t feeling it that much. And if there was one thing she promised herself . . . not feeling it meant no sex. She’d learned that lesson with Mark. And the only reason she’d gone there with Mark was because she wanted . . . well, she thought she could re-create with him what she’d had with . . .

  “I want you so bad,” Patrick said.

  Nope. Not feeling it.

  She pulled her lips from his. His body still pressed her against the wall. “Did you say you want a beer?”

  “Police!” a dark voice rang out, giving her a lurch.

  Patrick’s hand yanked out from under her skirt. He bolted back so fast her knees nearly gave. She caught herself against the wall while his hands shot up above his head.

  The sight of the gun had air hitching in her throat.

  The sight of the man attached to the gun had that air releasing in a big gulp. She’d just thought about him. Was this a . . . dream?

  She reached down and pinched her leg. It hurt.

  Not a dream.

  “What are you doing?” she snapped as she rubbed her leg.

  “This isn’t even my house,” Patrick said.

  What did that mean? She looked at Danny. He looked just as confused.

  “Oh yeah, throw the girl under the bus,” Danny spouted out. Then he dropped his arm, pointing the gun downward, and focused on her. “I . . . Your front door was open.”

  “So you rushed in with a gun? Did they teach you that in police training?”

  Sheri couldn’t tell if Danny was embarrassed or angry. Maybe a little of both. She kind of knew the feeling. The two emotions waged war inside her, too.

  “I . . . I didn’t mean to . . . interrupt.” His tone, along with the emphasis he put on that last word, pissed her off. Then he glanced at Patrick. Or rather at the tent in the man’s khakis, emphasized by the fact that his arms remained in the air.

  Oh yeah, embarrassed.

  “Do you know him?” Patrick asked in almost a whisper as if Danny couldn’t hear it.

  “What are you doing here?” she bit out at Danny.

  “Wait? Is he a cop or not?” Patrick asked, hands still in the air, looking guilty. What was he feeling guilty about?

  “Yes.” Danny pulled open his shirt, flashing the badge attached to his belt loop.

  Sheri looked at Patrick. “You can put your hands down.”

  “I can?” He directed the question to Danny as if he didn’t believe her.

  “Yeah.” Danny frowned. “Unless you’re a criminal?”

  “I’m . . . not.” Patrick, who didn’t sound too sure, dropped his hands and eyed Sheri as if this was her fault. “Would someone like to explain what’s going on?”

  “Yeah, explain.” She’d love to hear that answer and passed the question to Danny.

  “We need to talk.” Danny’s blue eyes met hers, and he put his gun in his shoulder holster.

  “So you do know him?” Patrick asked, now looking angry.

  “Yeah, he’s . . .” She paused, unsure what you called someone who screwed you and walked out. A one-timer? An ex? Or maybe an asshole jerk who added her to his conquests list.

  Patrick let out a deep gasp of air. “If you were seeing someone, you could have just—”

  “I’m not seeing him,” she said.

  “Funny, I’m seeing you,” Danny spit out, his tone not quite pissed off but close.

  Dumbfounded by what he implied, her mouth dropped open. “I’m not . . . We aren’t . . .” Suddenly too mad to talk, she just groaned.

  “I haven’t even slept with her,” Patrick said.

  “Could have fooled me,” Danny muttered, staring at Patrick as if to draw more information from him.

  “Seriously, you can have her.”

  What? “He can’t have me! And I’m not yours to . . . give away! How . . .” She tried to put words to her fury, but nothing came out except an incomprehensible sputter. “Yo . . . you . . . I . . .”

  “We need to talk,” Danny repeated as his gaze shifted back to her. “Privately.”

  “Yo . . . you . . .”

  “Can I leave?” Patrick asked.

  “That would be best,” Danny said, sounding like a cop.

  “You are an asshole,” she finally bellowed out.

  “Really,” Patrick snapped, swinging around to look at her. “W
e’ve been dating a month, you played hard to get and . . . all the while you were dating someone else. And I’m the asshole?”

  “I was calling him the asshole.” She pointed to Danny. “But maybe you are, too, because I’ve already told you, I’m not seeing him! And . . . and you just gave me to him!”

  “But he said . . .”

  “Hence the reason he’s an asshole,” she bellowed.

  “I didn’t say I was dating you. I said I was seeing you,” Danny added, as if she was gonna buy that.

  “We never dated!”

  “Well, that depends on how you define—”

  “Don’t. You. Dare!”

  Danny stopped talking but glanced at Patrick. “Leave.” He waved an arm toward the door.

  Sheri watched Patrick storm out of the kitchen. When her front door slammed with his exit, she turned her eyes on Danny. “I have a question,” she said. “It might not exactly be your forte, but . . .” She held out her shaking hands. “How much time will I get for killing a cop?”

  • • •

  Danny needed to explain. But he was mid-process of trying to explain something to himself. Why, even after assessing that the man with Sheri hadn’t been a hit man, did he still want to chase the guy into the parking lot and shoot the bastard?

  Oh, he knew it had to do with jealousy. Bastard had his hand up her skirt.

  So yeah, he’d sort of accepted that the whole Sheri issue had left him a little broken. That’s why he hadn’t seen any other women since. But he’d tried to convince himself it hadn’t been all her. Life had become a little simpler without dating, and he’d concluded that he’d started to like simple.

  He thought he’d moved past her.

  He hated being wrong. But now he knew. He’d been lying to himself. Because the thought of this guy making love to his Sheri had acid working its way through his second layer of stomach lining.

  Then he suddenly remembered something the guy said.

  He smiled. “You’ve been dating him a month and haven’t slept with him?”

  “Is your gun loaded?” she asked, her eyes tight and bright. Beautiful.

  He didn’t laugh, but he wanted to. Damn, she was cute when mad. “Always loaded.”

  “Can I borrow it?”

  A sudden, loud thump came from the back of the house.

  She whipped her head around. “Coming.”

  “Who’s that?” Had he lowered his guard too soon? She started hotfooting down the hall. “Sheri, stop!”

  She didn’t. He bolted down the hall after her, but before he got to her, she opened the door. When he saw what came out, his hand went back to his holster.

  He didn’t draw his weapon. But he backed up, really fast, and stopped only when his ass hit the kitchen island. “What is that?”

  “Taco,” Sheri replied, petting the dog as he stopped beside her.

  “That’s one big . . . Taco.” The dog, black and tan and the size of a large lion, kept coming. He finally stopped right in front of Danny, then yawned. The dog’s nose actually came to Danny’s chest. He displayed a nice set of choppers and a mouth so big Danny’s head would have easily fit inside.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t his head the dog was after. The beast lowered his nose and pressed it right in Danny’s crotch. Then he growled.

  Feeling the vibration all the way in his boys, Danny didn’t dare move. “Uh . . . Can you call off your dog?”

  Sheri smirked. And damn if it wasn’t kind of adorable. He’d forgotten how pretty she was. Not so much beautiful, like a stunning model. She was dimples-when-she-smiles kind of pretty. Touch-me kind of pretty. Treat-me-bad-and-you’ll-regret-it kind of pretty. He knew that one for certain. The monster of a dog growled again, as if to remind Danny he held his package under dire threat. Slowly, Danny put his hand on the dog’s head and gently nudged him away.

  Taco let out another low rumble, lifted his neck, sniffed at the air, and stared Danny right in the eyes. When the animal barked, Danny flinched.

  But that wasn’t the worst part. It was the drool. It started oozing out of the dog’s mouth. Only it didn’t really ooze out. It hung there. A long stream of it. He barked again. The drool gathered momentum and finally plopped to the floor. But then another long string appeared.

  “What . . . does he want?” Danny asked, sidestepping, trying to avoid being slimed.

  “His food. It’s on the island. Now start talking.”

  Danny looked at the huge bowl of dog food beside the open fifty-pound bag. The animal growled again. Or maybe it wasn’t so much a growl as a moan. But any noise that came out of a super-sized animal sounded threatening.

  “You want to feed him?” he asked.

  “I want an explanation!” she fumed.

  “Yeah, and Taco Grande here wants his dinner. So feed him and we’ll talk.”

  “You’re standing right beside his food.”

  Not by choice. He eyed the beast.

  “Coward.” She shot forward, snagged the food and placed it at Danny’s feet. He got a whiff of her scent, and it took him back to their night together so fast that he ran a hand over his face. He’d smelled it on a couple of women since, and each time he’d been hit with regrets and reminded of what a fool he’d been.

  “I’m not scared of him.” He watched the animal scarf down the kibble while crunching noises filled the kitchen. A mixture of drool and food oozed out of the animal’s mouth. “That’s disgusting.”

  “Danny!” she snapped, demanding his attention away from the beast, but it was like a car wreck, hard to look away from.

  “What kind of dog is he?”

  “He’s an English mastiff. What are you doing here?” She lifted one hand and Velcroed that sucker to her hip like an angry teacher.

  “Let’s sit down.” He motioned to the entrance of the living room.

  She shot out of the room, and he followed. His gaze took in the pissed-off swish of her ass as she moved. His mind recalled her naked. Her happy. Her laughing.

  Oh, hell, he wanted a rewind button to go back to that night.

  When she dropped down on the sofa, he went to the chair on the other side of the coffee table. Her light red blouse had a scooped neckline. The hint of cleavage gave him flashbacks.

  She slapped her palms on her legs. “If this is about Chloe finding out, well, it’s not my fault. She figured it out all on her own. And it sure as hell doesn’t warrant you showing up here!”

  “It’s not about that.” Where to start? “We did a drug bust last week. Today, one of the guys we picked up wanted to swap some info for a lighter sentence. It was about a hired hit. I—”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  His phone rang. He pulled it out to see the number. Cary. He almost didn’t answer it but then he remembered he’d left a somewhat alarming message on the guy’s phone.

  He glanced back up at her. Struck again by how pretty she was, even when she was unhappy. On the tip of his tongue was another apology. But what number would this be? Thirty? Thirty-five?

  “It’s Cary. I called him about this. Let me tell him I’ll call him back.”

  “Called him about what?”

  “One second.” Danny took the call. “Hey . . .”

  “What the hell’s happening?” Cary asked.

  Danny looked up at Sheri. His gut tightened at her ticked-off expression. “Uh, I . . .” Why couldn’t she understand he’d made a mistake? “Can I call you right back?”

  “No!” Cary’s voice rose. “Answer me. Chloe’s freaking out.”

  “Look, I’m here at Sheri’s now. She’s safe. I’ll call you right back.”

  “No. Danny, what’s—”

  Danny had been about to hang up, but Sheri shot up, jerked the phone from his hands and did it for him.

  She handed the phone back with a stern glare. “What the hell is going on?”

  He had to just tell her. “Someone approached this guy to do a hit.”

  “What in
God’s name does that have to do with me?”

  Everything. “It was a hit on a Sheri Thompson.”

  • • •

  A what? Sheri sank into her tan leather sofa. As Danny watched her, a frown pulled at his expression. She blinked and was tempted to pinch herself again.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  Her mind couldn’t wrap around it. Didn’t want to wrap around it.

  “Who?” She finally spit out the one-word question. “Who wants to kill me?”

  “We don’t know.”

  Her brain grasped for straws and found one. Someone hired a hit on . . . “A Sheri Thompson?” That’s what he’d said. “Not . . .,” she touched her chest, “necessarily me, right?”

  “Right.”

  “There are several other Sheri Thompsons here in Glencoe and the Hoke’s Bluff area,” she said, sitting up as she thought out loud.

  “I know,” he said. “But until—”

  “One of them never pays her bills. Another, or maybe even the same one, I don’t know for sure, is having an affair with a married man. Oh, and a redheaded Sheri Thompson skipped out on bail. I don’t know what she was arrested for, but it couldn’t be good.”

  His eyes tightened. “How do you know this?”

  “First, because that’s the reason I got rid of my landline. I got calls all the time looking for Sheri Thompson. The bill collectors. The angry wife. You wouldn’t believe the names she called me.” She leaned back on her sofa. Taco came strolling in with long strings of drool hanging from his jowls.

  “Towel!” she said. The dog turned and walked back in the kitchen.

  “Second, a bail bondsman showed up at my door. If that Sheri Thompson hadn’t been forty, redheaded and only five feet tall, I probably would’ve been carted off to jail.”

  “Okay.” He nodded. “So maybe a few of the Sheris are better candidates, but—” He stopped talking when Taco came in with a towel in his mouth.

  She rubbed the dog’s face with the dangling ends of the towel to collect his drool. Then she chucked the towel to the corner.