Dangerous To Love

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  Amber Quill Press

  www.amberquill.com

  Copyright ©2007 by Chevon Gael

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  DANGEROUS TO LOVE

  By

  CHEVON GAEL

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  ISBN 978-1-60272-090-9

  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  www.amberquill.com

  Also By Chevon Gael

  Highland Fling

  The Last Rising Of Lazarus

  Moonlight Serenade

  Scarlet Fever

  Weathering Storm

  CHAPTER 1

  Brett Sinclair saw the car first. Then he noticed the out-of-country plates.

  Then he remembered he was off-duty. Officially. Unofficially, he was still a highway cop, regardless of how he was dressed. Which is why he slowed the white Crown Victoria and pulled off to the shoulder of the highway instead of calling for a local unit.

  At ten P.M. the straight ribbon of Trans Canada Highway that cut through the flat Manitoba prairie made a perfect backdrop for a large object at the side of the road. He parked his cruiser behind the late model station wagon that had seen better days.

  He picked up his tan Stetson, so practical against the grueling summer sun, but tonight more of a nuisance in the wake of the late July heat wave. It was still the crowning mark of his uniform. He parked it firmly on what remained of his graying regulation cropped haircut. As if it weren't enough symbolism wearing his formal Red Serge wool jacket with its gold badge proudly declaring his status as an RCMP Constable, the yellow-striped, blue trousers and the high brown boots. Brett was the perfect advertisement of a Canadian Mountie and tonight he looked the part.

  Nevertheless, as hard as he worked to earn it and as proud as he was to wear it, he longed for nothing more than to get home and shed the wool jacket and pants and stand under a cool shower. As much as he detested formal political functions, he bore the formality with grace and gritted teeth.

  He called in the stop, for the record, and waited for confirmation before proceeding. When the CPIC computer cleared the car as not being stolen but recently purchased, he decided to investigate.

  "Roger that, Sinclair. Proceed with caution and report abandoned vehicle on TCH near Buffalo Plains Road. Ten minutes, Brett, then I send backup."

  "Roger that, Oglethorpe.” Brett turned up the volume on the radio scanner so he could hear any calls. He punched a button on the console, sending both front and rear strobe lights whirling dizzily against the blackness. He detached his white lanyard from the brown leather pistol holder and unsnapped the buckle. He hadn't achieved eighteen years of service without being careful.

  Flashlight in one hand, the other hand on the butt of his pistol, Brett approached the station wagon cautiously. Keeping his head in-line with the doors, he shone his flashlight on the protruding tailpipe. He knelt and briefly touched the rusted exhaust pipe. Cold and dry. This car had been here for a while—several hours at least.

  He jerked his head up as a muffled noise from inside the car caught his attention. Someone or something was inside and weighed enough to cause the back of the car to vibrate slightly.

  For a moment Brett wondered if it was nothing more than a couple of hormone-enraged teenagers grabbing a quickie at the side of the road. But Brett knew all the eligible-aged teens in the district. Besides, the Illinois plates roused his suspicion. And no startled heads or tangled, bare limbs popped up from the back seat when he hit the lights.

  With his eyes now adjusted to the dark, he could make out the shape of boxes piled in the flatbed usually reserved for extra passengers or the family dog. He shone his light on the boxes, trying to distinguish the large, dark print on the sides.

  "Ling ... lim ... ling-er ... ling-er-ie.” Lingerie? More likely there was a cross-border liquor smuggling operation in the area again. Better be extra careful. His fingers tightened around the butt of his pistol as he advanced farther toward the driver's side. Still no sign of anyone.

  "RCMP. Please step out of the car,” he called, loudly, clearly and with as much authority as he could muster.

  But nothing responded. Almost nothing.

  A thud sounded against the rear passenger door. Brett shone the light inside, trying to ignore the perspiration trickling down the back of his neck. Damn hat! At times like this, formality was a nuisance.

  His light fell on a form reclining across the back seat. It took only a second to realize the form belonged to a woman. Her long hair glinted copper in the dull hazy beam of his flashlight. One arm lay across her bare stomach so that her delicate fingers were splayed across her midriff, just covering the slight indentation of her navel. Her fingernails, well kept and highly polished he noticed, reflected some of the light through the window. Her other arm was flung across her head, the tiny fingers of her hand curled into a soft fist.

  Her face was turned toward the back of the seat so he couldn't see her features, but he saw all he needed to see. Especially with her blouse buttons loosened and the flimsy material threatening to fall away with no encouragement. He noticed the top of her shorts were undone. The blue denim folding back like a warm invitation, an invitation trimmed with white lace that peeped hesitantly behind the zipper.

  He shone the light across her again. Yep. She was breathing, all right. Every breath she took threatened to move some man's dream closer to reality. Maybe. He took note of the crowbar on the floor beside her.

  Brett was trained in the best tradition of the RCMP, six months of basic in Regina, another six months of being slowly tortured by an overbearing field training officer with a sick sense of humor. A few years drifting through provincial highway detachments, the diplomatic corps, under cover, airport security and two years on the Ride. But nothing in the manual covered how to wake up a half-dressed woman on a deserted highway.

  Due to the heat he supposed, the windows weren't sealed all the way. Brett could hear a soft moan from her as she shifted one long, slender leg so it bent slightly at the knee. He licked his lips then as her legs gently parted and the hand on her stomach drifted farther down her abdomen. She moved her head slightly and licked her lips in sleepy mimic.

  If he had been any other man ... in any other uniform...

  Brett swallowed and cleared his throat loudly before tapping on the glass.

  "Uh, ma'am. Ma'am.” When she didn't respond, he tried the door latch, feeling slightly relieved when he couldn't open it. At least she had the sense to lock the door before dozing off.

  "HEY LADY, WAKE UP!” he yelled and knocked on the glass again, this time a lot harder and with the butt of his flashlight. “Shit!” he swore as a staggered crack appeared across the glass. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” He discharged the word like a bullet spray. Paperwork up the wazoo for breaking the car window of a civilian. But, no worse than some serial rapist who wanted to get to her. Sitting here on the shoulder of a deserted highway was an invitation for trouble. And no strange, beautiful woman was going to get raped in his zone.

  For her own sake, she should either move on or get to a motel in town. If he could wake her up. This time he was determined to get her attention. He began knocking on the door, the sound of gloved fist against metal echoing into the naked prairie around him.

  Sleeping beauty stirred. She turned her face toward him. Her sleep-soft expression merged into a frown. Then she did somethin
g that scared Brett Sinclair half to death.

  Sleeping beauty woke up screaming. Brett's reflexes kicked in and he ducked just as he heard an object impact with the glass. Not just impact. There was a sharp crack and a shower of glass rained on his Stetson. It took him only a fraction of a second to un-holster his side arm and take an offensive stance.

  "Exit the car with your hands up,” he instructed. “Now or I will be forced to fire!"

  All motion in the car stopped abruptly. Brett could barely make out the shaky squeak of the woman's voice.

  "P-please don't hurt them. I won't let you hurt them."

  Them? Who or what was she talking about? The cargo? Why did he get the feeling it was going to be a long night?

  "RCMP, ma'am. Please step out of the car."

  He heard her exclaim sharply. “Cops!"

  Seconds later, Brett saw two sets of manicured fingers appear through the broken window.

  "C-could you open the door, please?” begged the voice inside while one of the fingers pointed down toward the handle.

  "Step out of the car,” he reiterated. There was a short pause before she spoke again.

  "How can I open the door if my hands are up?"

  Brett observed her position and pulled his lips closed over his teeth to keep from smiling at her situation. He had yet to see her face. She had cowered below the open window, her hands still in shaky motion out the window, her rounded bottom sticking straight up. He lowered his gun only slightly, aware of the crowbar now on the seat beside her.

  "Just, come out. Please."

  The car door creaked open. As it did, the tiny dome light flickered to life. She was about to place one bare foot on the ground when Brett stopped her.

  "Wait a minute. Better get something on your feet. There's broken glass all over the place."

  "Whose fault is that?” The trembling voice from the dim interior was clearly disgruntled. “You scared me half to death. How was I supposed to know you're a cop?"

  "Lady, you're lucky that's all I am. Please get your shoes on and exit the vehicle. Now!"

  There was an audible sigh of impatience before she answered him. “Um, my runners are in the back in one of those boxes."

  "Why aren't they on your feet?” he snapped impatiently.

  "You ever try sleeping in your shoes?"

  She was sassing him? In the middle of the fucking night? If he wasn't careful, his own impatience with her was going to cause more trouble than she was probably worth.

  "All right. Toss out the crowbar. Then we'll talk.” To his surprise, she gently set the crowbar on the ground in front of the open door. One small, delicate hand pushed it as far from the door as she could reach.

  "Can I have my shoes now?"

  "All right, stay inside while I get them. By the way, what's in those boxes?” He kept a sharp eye on her while she spoke. The dome light in the station wagon provided little light, so he anchored the flashlight under one arm while he took a notepad from his belt. For the first time, he could see her face clearly. It was a cute, freckled little face with a turned up nose and small chin. She had a tiny dimple in one cheek and wide set eyes. Right now there were big dark circles under them and her skin looked unusually pale, as if she hadn't slept in days. Her copper hair was a tossed salad of corkscrew curls that settled anywhere it wanted to, across her forehead, down her cheek, over her shoulder.

  His interrogative training took over and he watched her carefully as she answered his questions. Then he checked her identification and car registration.

  "Tara Morgan, age twenty-eight. Born in Wilmette, Chicago. No children. My sister lives in Winnipeg. The boxes are full of lingerie. Really. We're opening a boutique. I'd like to call my sister and tell her where I am. Uh, by the way ... where am I?"

  Brett fought the urge to rub his eyes to prove to himself that this night was really happening. On top of everything else, she was lost. So much for a routine check. While he was deciding how to explain that she was exactly between the border and hell's half acre, he was treated to an angst-ridden explanation of how she got there.

  "I was supposed to be in Winnipeg this afternoon, but I got lost just after sunset. I felt like I was driving around in circles for hours. I pulled over to look at my road map and I suddenly felt so tired. I thought it wouldn't do any harm if I had a little nap. But I couldn't get comfortable in the back seat so I took a pill. Oh, don't worry. It's a prescription from my doctor. I have the bottle and everything. I guess it knocked me right out. I didn't mean to sleep so long. And I only took half a tablet."

  She was telling the truth. At least he observed all the right signals. True, he couldn't smell alcohol on her breath and her eyes still looked a trifle out of focus, but there was no hesitation when she answered his questions. He checked the car's paperwork. Driver's license specs matched. And yet, his instincts warned him that she was hiding something. He checked the registration.

  "Who's Elmo Bullard of Dog Leg, Saskatchewan? This says the car belongs to him."

  "Mr. Bullard is dead. At least that's what his son told me. I bought the car from him day before yesterday. I have a transfer of ownership in the glove compartment if you want to see it."

  He did, but the radio on his belt squawked before he could ask for it.

  "Oglethorpe, Sinclair."

  He kept a watchful eye on Tara Morgan while he pressed the microphone. “Sinclair, go."

  "What's the word?"

  "Roger, Oglethorpe. The driver just pulled off to take a nap. I'm going to escort the vehicle into Buffalo Plains. I'll call Sylvia and tell her to expect a late-night guest.” Sylvia Tripp owned and ran the Buffalo Plains Inn. Every cop in the district knew Sylvia since she was open twenty-four hours and always had free coffee in exchange for a nightly security tour of her parking lot. The immediate silence told Brett that Sergeant Wolfson “Wolfy” Oglethorpe was considering Brett's decision for safety's sake.

  "Roger that, Sinclair. Radio me when you're ready to ten-seven, Brett. I'll be waiting. And tell Sylvia hi."

  "Ten-four. Will do. Sinclair out."

  "Are-are you going to arrest me, Mr., er, Officer Sinclair?” The frightened, whispery voice brought Brett back to his subject.

  "We're called Constables north of the border and no, Miss Morgan, I'm not. I'm going to escort you to the nearest motel, see you get settled and then go back to my office and fill out a ton of paperwork for your broken window."

  "That's not necessary,” she replied quickly.

  "Oh, believe me, Miss Morgan. It is very necessary. Your insurance company and the Canadian government will insist on it.” He couldn't help the dread that crept into his voice. How he hated paperwork.

  "Oh, but I don't have any ... I mean ... a toothbrush. I can't go to a motel without a toothbrush."

  Brett just stared at her. Women! She could have been murdered in her sleep and all she was worried about was her oral hygiene. Besides, between her lip-chewing, darting eyes and hand wringing, her body language alerted his instincts that all was not well with Tara Morgan.

  "I'm sure Sylvia has some complementary ones,” he said carefully. “She does a great drive-thru business with truckers."

  "I-I'd rather keep on driving. There's no law that says I have to be off the road at a certain time, is there?"

  Brett felt the back of his neck begin to tingle. “No. But you shouldn't be driving if you're tired. It impairs your judgment. I can take you to Sylvia's myself, if you'd rather not drive.” Brett observed how her eyes blinked several times while she considered the offer. A slight nod of her head told Brett she had made up her mind, one way or another.

  "You're right. It's late and I'm tired. I'll follow you to the motel,” she said finally. “I don't want to leave my samples on the side of the road. Then you can go home and not worry about me."

  Brett carefully weighed each word. Despite what she said, he got the impression that some poor sucker would someday end up doing a lot of worrying about her.


  "I'll send someone around to the motel to fix that window. You can't drive with it like that. It's a temptation for someone to help themselves to your...” He glanced at the cardboard boxes in the back of the station wagon. “Samples? You don't mind opening one of those boxes for me, do you? Just routine."

  She barely squeaked out an answer. “N-no. But let me get something on my feet.” With that, she climbed over the backseat and began to rifle through the boxes. She seemed totally unaware that her shorts were still undone and riding dangerously low across her hips. Brett's gaze was drawn to the thin straps now visible above her waistband. Bikini or thong? He couldn't imagine reporting that little detail on her arrest record if he had to. A moment later, she held up a running shoe high enough for him to see her intentions. A second later she dug out the mate and was slipping them on her feet. When she finally got out of the car, Brett was pleasantly surprised to discover that he towered over her. She brushed her tangle of red curls over her shoulders, so he had a pretty detailed view of her figure for the first time. His initial observation hadn't disappointed him. She had no bra under the white blouse she now hastily tucked into her shorts.

  The cool night breeze piqued more than his interest! For a few seconds his gaze lingered on the sight of those two tiny round points straining against the cotton fabric. A pleasant moment's distraction. Then he remembered he was in uniform and discreetly focused his attention on the boxes. He could just imagine trying to describe this in his notes. The suspect wore interesting white lace undies over her nice, round derriere, has a killer pair of gams I wouldn't mind having wrapped around me, possesses a cute, puckered navel requiring lint inspection and owns a great looking pair of...

  "Keys.” She dangled them for his inspection and he motioned her to proceed while he followed her to the back of the wagon. She opened the cargo door, pushed a battered suitcase out of the way and dragged a box forward. She pulled up the flaps and tilted the box for his inspection. His flashlight beam caught a shimmering rainbow of satiny material.