Divorced, Desperate and Dangerous Page 6

  “I’ve spoken with the cops. I think I’m okay.” Turner didn’t want Danny or Cary here—the No Ball and Chain Gang. He didn’t need them reminding him of all the reasons he shouldn’t let himself keep trying to win Reese’s trust back.

  His gaze shifted to her again, smiling at something Frank had said. Turner wanted her to smile at him like that again. He wanted to find a way to get her back in his bed. To get her naked and willing. To hear that sweet noise she made when she came.

  “If they’re really after her, they aren’t going to back down,” Danny said.

  “I know. But if I need you, I’ll call.”

  “Okay, but remember the rule still stands. Watch your heart.”

  Turner continued to stare at Reese who reached down to pick up the orange cat that had plopped down in his lap while he’d been watching her sleep. The cat went limp in her arms, but Turner didn’t blame him. If Reese pulled him up to her breasts and was running her fingers over him, he’d go limp, too.

  Well, that wasn’t true. Limp would be the last thing he’d be.

  “Don’t let her get too close,” Danny warned. “They have tentacles like octopuses that can cut through skin and can wrap around your heart and suck the joy out of your life, buddy. You’ve been there once, but we forget when a pretty one gets too close.”

  She was already too close, Turner thought. And what scared him, was he only wanted to bring her closer.

  • • •

  He wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong, but he’d obviously done something to deteriorate Reese’s mood. After she’d said ‘thank you,’ she’d hardly spoken to him. Hell, she avoided eye contact with him. And that hurt.

  The few hours Casey hung out, he hadn’t noticed Reese’s lack of attention. Casey had kept the conversation going by talking about the diner and some of the crazy situations that had happened there over the years. She even told them about a movie being filmed here, produced by Taylor Jefferies, a beautiful and award-winning actress who was engaged to a famous football player. Casey went on to tell a few folktales about the town’s werewolves.

  Turner ducked outside during the talks of supernatural beings to call Luke about getting someone to watch Reese’s grandmother. He’d accidentally dialed Luke’s office instead of his cell because Joey, who worked with Luke, answered the call.

  When Turner explained the situation, Joey assured him he’d make sure the grandmother was okay for a few days.

  He sure as hell hoped so. He’d given Reese enough reason to hate him, he didn’t need to give her more.

  • • •

  The following hours after Casey left had been awkward. He and Frank chatted about Frank’s FBI career and some of his travels. But Reese had been quiet. Too quiet.

  They’d sat in front of the television, and Reese worked on a crossword puzzle. Twice, she’d asked Frank for some help figuring out a word, but, as if she was pretending he wasn’t there, she never directed a question to Turner. And he knew one of the answers, too.

  Reese mentioned to Frank about her things being at the hotel, and Turner jumped at the chance to get out of the house for a second. “I’ll run and get them,” he said.

  “I could do it,” Frank offered.

  “Nah, I got this,” Turner said, and asked Reese for her room number and key.

  She looked like it was going to kill her to look at him. But damn, he preferred her angry than in denial of his existence. What would it take for her to forgive him?

  Frank followed him to the door. “Why don’t you pick her up some chocolate?”

  “Chocolate?” Turner asked. “She’s pretending I’m not here, I don’t think candy is going to help.”

  Frank shook his head. “You young guys don’t know diddlysquat about women.”

  Turner just rolled his eyes and left. Hell, he’d love it if a candy bar would solve his problems.

  He hadn’t gotten to his car when his phone rang. Luke.

  “Hey,” Turner said, slightly worried it might have something to do with Joey and Reese’s grandmother. “Everything okay?”

  “I was about to ask you the same question. I spoke to Joey earlier and then Danny called and said you were in Georgia, too. Where are you at in Georgia?” Luke asked.

  “Hung Island.” Turner pulled out his keys. “Did Joey tell you I asked him to watch over Ricky Morris’s grandmother?”

  “Yeah, he told me. You think they’ll go after her?”

  “I don’t think so, but I didn’t think it would be a bad idea to have her watched over for a few days.”

  “Yeah. So Hung Island, huh? Isn’t that a tiny little island off of Katyville?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Danny said the Morris girl is there and there’s trouble. Are things okay?”

  “Yeah. But a woman driving the same make and color car was killed in a suspicious car accident. She happens to be blond like Reese Morris.”

  “Shit. Well, if you need us, Jason, and Chase and I are just a couple hours away.”

  “Thanks,” Turner said and stood outside his car. Then, feeling a bit nervous about leaving Reese, he looked up and down the street. Nothing suspicious.

  Frank had parked Reese’s Volkswagen inside his garage, but who knew who could have seen him pull it in there. “If I need you, I’ll call,” Turner said, wanting to get back as soon as possible.

  The hotel was less than four blocks from Frank’s beach house. He parked out front and went straight to Reese’s room to collect her things. The room looked aged and worn like the rest of town. But being on the beach, and the only one in town, they didn’t have to worry about competition. Shutting the door, leaving the smell of the beach outside, he caught hints of Reese. Strawberries.

  Picking up the small suitcase beside the closet, he set it on the bed and looked around. On the dresser was a pair of shorty women pajamas—soft pink cotton with hearts on them. He envisioned what she would look like in them. His gaze shifted back to the bed, and he envisioned what she’d look like without them.

  He picked the two items up, and giving in, he brought them to his nose. God, they smelled soft and feminine. The scent took him back to when she’d crawled in bed with him.

  He remembered in detail how sexy she’d looked taking off the nightshirt, but what hit his gut right then, was the look she’d had in her eyes that night. Complete and utter trust. She’d trusted him enough to walk into that room and take her clothes off for him. He wanted that trust back.

  “What’s it going to take, Reese?” he muttered. Then he buried his face in the soft cotton again. Suddenly realizing his actions bordered on being perverted, he dropped the clothing in the suitcase.

  In the bathroom, he found a travel bag filled with makeup and women stuff—lotions and soaps for all parts of the body. On the edge of the tub was a container of shampoo. The scent of strawberries clung to the open bottle.

  Getting all her things packed, he did one last walkthrough to make sure he wasn’t leaving anything. After putting her things in his trunk, he went to pay the hotel clerk a little visit.

  A young guy, nineteen or twenty, with a ponytail and earrings, sat at a desk behind the counter. “We’re booked,” he said, and didn’t even look up from his phone.

  “I’m here to check someone out.”

  “Just leave the key on the counter,” he said, still not looking up.

  “Hey,” Turner said, and held up his badge. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

  The guy’s eyes got wide. “Is something wrong?” He stood up, but he looked about ready to make a run out the back instead of moving to the counter.

  “Nothing’s wrong, I’m here to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “I’m checking Reese Morris out, but she’s a witness in a case, and I’m afraid someone might come looking for her. If they do, you say you never saw her, make sure you can give me a description of the person, and then I want you to call me . . . ASAP.”

  The kid tilted his head. �
�I saw you in the diner this morning, didn’t I?”

  He ignored the kid’s question and pulled out his wallet and put his card on the counter, then dropped a twenty on top. “ASAP. You got that?”

  “I can do that.” The kid grabbed the money and card as if afraid Turner would pull it back.

  On the way home, he stopped by a convenience store and bought three candy bars.

  • • •

  That night a little after midnight, Turner tried to find a comfortable position on Frank’s sofa and stared up at the living room ceiling. The air conditioner was on, but not as cool as he was used to. He removed his shirt, but didn’t feel comfortable enough to slip off his jeans.

  He recalled the pajama outfit he’d stuffed in Reese’s suitcase and wondered if she was wearing it. Was she a little warm, too?

  Frank had offered him the third bedroom, it was actually the master bedroom. But when he’d walked in and saw the room, it had felt like a personal space. There was even a woman’s fluffy pink robe tossed over a bedroom chair.

  He’d overheard that Frank’s wife had died a little over a year ago. Turner’s dad had never slept in the master bedroom again after his mom died. For some reason, Turner thought Frank was handling it better. Then again, the fact that his wife’s things were still strewn about as if she’d never died, told him Frank couldn’t be doing all that well.

  He turned his head and saw the candy bars he’d bought her lying untouched on the coffee table. When he’d handed them to her, she’d made a face and said, “I’m allergic.”

  He’d cut Frank a look across the room, and the man just shrugged.

  Closing his eyes, trying to sleep, Turner could hear the ocean in the distance. Was Reese still awake, listening to the waves as well?

  Rearranging his pillow, he let out a deep sigh. He should be content that she was accepting his help at all, but damn it, he wanted more. He wanted Reese Morris.

  The thought ran through his body like fire chasing kerosene. But the loud bang that came next hadn’t come from within.

  His mind flashed to an image of the large window facing the beach in the room Reese was sleeping in. The air in his lungs felt trapped. He jackknifed up, shot across the living room to the hall, and flung open her bedroom door.

  Reese, wearing the PJs with hearts on them, stood by the bed, staring at the window as if she’d seen something.

  Right then, he saw a shadowy figure moving across the beach, not right by the window, but closer to Frank’s house than he should be.

  Another blast filled the night. He wasn’t sure it was a gunshot, but instinct took over.

  “Down,” he screamed and dove across the room, caught her around her waist, and they landed on the bed.

  Chapter Six

  Reese had been almost asleep when the loud bang brought her to her feet. Then she heard the sound of footsteps running inside the house. Turner screamed something at her and the next thing she knew she was flat on her back on the bed, with him, shirtless, on top of her.

  Solid male weight pressed down on her body. In all the right places, too. His chest against her chest. His pelvis against her pelvis. One of his thighs had slipped between her legs.

  She wasn’t finished mentally cataloging body parts against body parts when she felt his arms slide under her, pulling her against him before he started rolling. Rolling her right off the mattress and onto the floor.

  This time, the fall had her catching her breath. Not that she was hurt, she got the feeling he’d made sure he hit first. She landed on top of him this time. Her knee, now firmly pressed between his.

  “Stay with her,” Frank called from the hallway. “I’ll go outside and check.”

  She lifted her head just enough to see Frank standing there, holding a gun.

  “No,” Turner snapped. “You stay with her.”

  Frank either didn’t hear Turner or decided he didn’t care, because he shot down the hall.

  Turner quickly but gently moved her off of him. Rolling on his stomach, he got on his hands and knees and glanced up over the bed, then back at her. “On the count of three, I want you to bolt for the door. Got it?”

  “Yeah,” she muttered, her heart pounding in her chest. He started counting and got to two when she grabbed his arm. “Was someone shooting at us?”

  “I don’t know,” he said as if confused. “You ready to run?”

  She nodded.

  He looked up one more time as if to make sure no one was right outside. “Let’s go.”

  She made a mad dash for the door, Turner right behind her. She started for the living room, but he grabbed her around the middle, his arm right below her breasts, pulling her against him.

  “Too many windows,” he said. “Stay right here in the hall.”

  “Frank!” Turner called out again. “I’m going outside.” The sound of a door opening and slamming shut filled the house.

  Another loud pop rang out.

  “Shit!” Turner snapped and looked back at her. “Stay right here! Right here.” He darted off.

  From her position, she could see Turner move into the living room, grab something that looked like a gun from the coffee table, and run out the door.

  Another loud bang sounded. This one took her back to seeing the boy, not any older than Ricky, getting shot. Seeing him falling to the ground, blood spewing from his chest.

  He’d died right in front of her eyes.

  Feeling her knees shake, she slid down the wall, hugged her bent legs, and prayed.

  She stayed like that one second, maybe two, when she realized someone needed to call the police. And that someone was her.

  She wasn’t going to just sit here this time.

  It didn’t matter that Turner was police and Frank was retired FBI, they might need backup. They might need medical assistance if one of them took a bullet. But Turner had told her to stay there.

  But all she could think about was Turner out there without a shirt on. It didn’t make sense that a shirt would keep him from getting shot, that’s where her addled, scared brain took her. Seeing all that perfect skin with a hole in his chest, blood oozing out.

  Another loud pop sounded.

  A moan left her throat. Yup, she had to call the police.

  Her phone was back in the bedroom on the bedside table. On the side by the window.

  Remembering how warm and alive Turner had felt on top of her, and how Frank was kind enough to let practical strangers into his home, she shot up and made a run for it. She bolted into the bedroom. Cutting the corner around the bed, she snagged her phone. Hands shaking, too afraid to look out the window, she shot out of the bedroom and slammed right into Turner’s arms. The warmth of his bare chest felt like sun on a cold winter day.

  “It’s okay,” he said, his arms circling around her. “It’s just the pirates. Popping firecrackers.”

  “Damn fortune hunters,” Frank muttered somewhere in the near distance. “Firecrackers at midnight. I should’ve shot ‘em. I’d just be following the Darwin theory.”

  Reese didn’t remember wrapping her arms around Turner, or pressing her cheek against the warm bare skin of his chest. But that’s where she realized she was. Completely, wonderfully, submersed in his arms. And in just a second, when she was able to catch her breath, she was going to pull away. Okay, maybe ten seconds. Or twenty.

  She felt his face lean into her hair and could swear she heard him inhale. “It’s okay,” he repeated softly.

  And for the time being, she believed him. He was alive. Frank was alive. Nobody was going to get shot tonight.

  • • •

  Frank poured them all a brandy. With only one lamp on in the living room, the moon’s glow shined through the French doors leading out to his patio.

  Reese sat on the sofa, sipping the warm gold liquid, staring at the large stone carved turtle on the coffee table.

  Finally, the warmth sliding down her throat seemed to flow to all her other body parts, and the tension she�
�d felt earlier melted. She listened to the two men talk about some of the crazy firecracker stunts they’d pulled when they were young and dumb.

  Frank sat in the chair, Turner sat beside her. He was wearing his shirt again, but hadn’t buttoned it. And he sat close enough that she had to be careful not to shift, or her leg would brush against him.

  “Okay,” Frank said. “I’m off to bed again.”

  Wearing pajama pants and a navy t-shirt, the man stood and then glanced at her. “Pour yourselves another drink if you want.” He winked at her and left.

  Reese stared down at her empty glass and suddenly realized how short her pajama bottoms were. Not that she was indecent, but suddenly aware of how much skin she had showing, she felt self-conscious. Probably because she kept noting Turner’s bare abs beneath his unbuttoned shirt. She could recall in detail how they’d felt, too, warm skin with hard ripples.

  “I should probably go—”

  “Don’t,” he said. “Have one more.” He leaned forward and grabbed the bottle. He held it beside the glass she held, but he didn’t pour until she nodded. “How was Ricky the last time he called?” he asked.

  “He’s fine,” she said. “Granny called me when she got home from the hospital. Said he was griping about the hospital food, so she knows he’s better now.” She paused. “Oh, and she’s complaining that there was a big Italian-looking Yankee waiting outside Ricky’s hospital room to see she got home okay.”

  “That would be Joey,” Turner said and smiled. “He and Luke, another friend of mine, run a Private Detective business. Joey’s a big guy. Scary looking, but a really good guy.” He chuckled. “Then again, I’m talking about your grandmother. I’m sure Joey’s the one who’s scared.”

  She grinned. “Granny can come on a little strong when she feels it’s called for.” She paused and realized what he’d said. “Do I need to pay him for doing this?”

  “No. Luke owes me so many favors. This is nothing.”

  It was something, Reese realized. Turner was being nice. She brought her drink to her lips and took a big, burn-down-the-throat sip.