Dangerous To Love Read online

  He carefully followed Tara's movements as she reached into the box and pulled out several pairs of women's underwear.

  "This is my Cassandra collection. Thongs and bikini briefs in this box. The matching bras are in the box marked C2 behind it. Those"—she pointed to several boxes lining the side windows—"are my satin push-me-ups. My hide-and-seeks are on the front seat."

  "Hide ... and ... seeks?” Brett felt the brim of his hat becoming warm and uncomfortable.

  "See-through lace,” she translated for him. “I have panties, bras and some matching teddies with satin strings that cross tie up the front and snaps at the..."

  Through the darkness Brett could have swore she was blushing.

  "At the ... what, Miss Morgan?"

  "Well, um ... you know. Down below. Between your...” She paused and pointed below the zipper of her shorts.

  "Crotch?” The word came easily to Brett. His experience and training turned him into a man of action and few words. He always prided himself on calling a spade a spade, vulgar or not. But somehow, this particular word seemed very out of place with her.

  "Uh huh.” She looked uncomfortable and sounded embarrassed. Between her trembling voice and her hands full of slinky underwear, Brett was all too aware of his own growing discomfort, which could result in some embarrassment if he didn't remove himself from the cause and soon.

  He loudly cleared his throat. “All right, Miss Morgan. I'm satisfied you're not smuggling any dangerous contraband into the country. I should probably tear a strip out of you a mile wide for being careless enough to get yourself lost, falling asleep in your car, and leaving yourself exposed to a potentially life-threatening situation. But I think you get the idea. Now get back in your car and follow me."

  The words came out harsher than intended, but then Brett was used to issuing commands and acknowledging orders. His social contacts limited him to polite public relations appearances, factual lectures on proper firearms maintenance, and speculative internal politics. The latter, usually discussed among his peers over a jug of beer and a plate of wings at Molly Malone's. Brett preferred his own kind. Civilians were outsiders. And women? They were a breed unto themselves, a mystery Brett was sure even the Commercial Crime Unit couldn't unravel. This one was no different. And yet...

  "How far is the motel?” She had moved closer, looking up at him expectantly. And she was doing that flippy thing with her hair again. Over one shoulder and then the other. Every time she tossed her wild mane, Brett caught a whiff of a subtle fragrance. Most women's perfume attacked his nose and caused him to sneeze. Whatever she was wearing settled on his lips, almost begging him to taste her. With his every breath, her delicious scent invaded his senses. Not only did she look good enough to eat, she smelled like it. Brett looked down at her, desperately fighting an urge he hadn't had since forever.

  Which was why he immediately brought himself back to a state of authoritative control. There was a certain logic, a mathematical sequence which dictated that if you took one testosterone enraged cop, minus frequent sexual encounters, add one desirable woman on a deserted highway, the result would be disastrous.

  His car radio chose that moment to balance the equation.

  "Brett? Brett!"

  Shit! Oglethorpe. “Stay here,” he barked at Tara and ran to the car. “Sinclair, go."

  "Christ, Brett. I expected you'd be long gone from Sylvia's by now. I called there to see if you'd shown up yet. When you didn't I nearly put out an APB on you. What's with your sleepy driver?"

  "Routine cargo search, Wolfy. Everything checks out. We're on our way."

  "Negative, Brett. Sylvia says no room at the inn. That's why I wanted to reach you. Your driver better proceed into Elkhorn, if he's able."

  Brett didn't bother to correct his staff sergeant on the gender of the driver, who at that moment stood leaning against her car, chewing her bottom lip and trying to keep her hair from falling across her face. What did him in was seeing her shiver. While he was suffering untold discomforts with the heat, she was obviously not used to the after-sundown chill that cooled the prairies. The starlit sky might be beautiful from an astronomer's view, but with no low cloud cover to keep the heat, the nights could be downright cold.

  Of course that subtle ripple of slender bare thighs and trembling red curls could also be the result of fatigue, or even fear. She wrapped her arms across her chest, effectively hiding headlight city through the cotton. Suddenly the equation acquired an unknown factor.

  "Roger that, Oglethorpe. I'll pass the message on, then I'm going ten-eight."

  Brett replaced the radio mike and stood up. He removed his brown Stetson and wiped the sleeve of his Red Serge across his forehead. He walked toward her, arguing the wisdom of what he'd already decided.

  "Can we go now, Constable?” Her voice held an edge of impatience. Her slumped shoulders and heavy eyes provided minor justification for what he was about to say.

  "Yes and no. The motel in Buffalo Plains is full. You'll never make Winnipeg in the shape you're in. It's pretty clear you're exhausted and if I tried to give you directions now, I don't doubt you'd end up even more lost than you are. Besides, you look like you haven't shaken the effects of whatever you took. Under the circumstances, I can't let you drive. But we'll discuss that on the way."

  "We? Discuss what? On the way to where?” Her eyes suddenly seemed clearly focused for the first time since that night.

  Despite her sudden lucidity, she stumbled when she tried to take a step toward him. Brett caught both her arms to keep her from falling. She seemed as limp as a rag doll. Her skin was clammy, probably due to a combination of humidity and the night air. The sweet scent that tweaked his nose earlier was stronger now and radiated from her damp skin. From his position, Brett had a nice view of her plunging neckline in the open blouse. He quickly averted his gaze from the temptation.

  He concentrated instead on trying to read her expression. Her face close to his revealed a startling fragility. Her eyelids, still heavy with the effects of the narcotic couldn't hide the fear and confusion in her wide pupils. It was exactly the kind of panic reaction he expected from someone who slept with a crowbar within reach.

  She started to protest, but Brett ignored her. Instead, he led her to the rear of the station wagon and helped her unlock the cargo door.

  "My ... my samples?” she questioned.

  He answered her by pushing the boxes out of the way and handing down her battered suitcase.

  "Get in my car. You're coming with me."

  CHAPTER 2

  Tara Morgan's eyes snapped open. Ten days, her mind screamed. She opened her mouth to call her sister.

  "Rach.” Then her eyes focused on the unfamiliar surroundings. She wasn't in Rachel's spare bedroom of the bungalow in a Winnipeg suburb. Then it struck her that she didn't know where she was.

  Pale green paint, white ceiling fan spinning dizzily above her, several hardwood shelves lining the walls. Leaning at attention on those shelves were dozens and dozens of assorted stuffed teddy bears. Sewn into the shaggy faces of their owners were about a hundred pair of glassy button eyes, all staring back at her. Red felt tongues lolled lazily from under black satin triangle noses. She looked around in awe. Had she fallen asleep in Toys R Us? She thought she had until her gaze settled on one particularly plump teddy bear wearing a red plush Mountie uniform. Her mind worked on the memory.

  Oh, yeah! Him. The cop. Her worst case scenario. Where the hell was he?

  Her answer came in the form of a rattling snore from across the hall. She started to leave what had to be the largest bed she had ever slept in, then stopped. What if he heard her? She wasn't in any mood to answer any more questions than she already had. It was bad enough she woke up to Mr. Good Samaritan breaking her car window. Now she was in his house, in his bed. And wearing? Tara peeked under the comforter, relieved to find her remaining foundation garment intact. She spied her shorts and blouse neatly folded on a chair in the corner. And it
wasn't a Tara Morgan fold either. She worked in the clothing industry long enough not to fold her clothes inside out.

  A groan snapped her attention back to the man across the hall. Tara hastily slipped out of bed and into her clothes. Maybe she could sneak out while he was still asleep. She couldn't locate her running shoes, but somehow recalled stairs and cold tile under her bare feet. Maybe she left them at the door, wherever that was. As badly as she wanted to use the washroom, she feared waking him up. Maybe there was a donut shop not too far away. Damn! Why did she have to fall asleep in the car?

  Another thought assaulted her. Her car. He hadn't brought her here in her own car. Oh, no! The samples. Where had she left her car? She recalled only that she remembered to grab her suitcase, despite the cop's protest that he carry it for her.

  Rachel would be worried sick. She had to get to a phone. She tried to fight the rising panic and prioritize. Phone, bathroom, car. No, make that bathroom first, then call Rachel, then find her...

  Tara snapped her head toward the sound of a mattress creaking. A cough. A low mumble. All she had to do was tiptoe past the bedroom and she was free. She took a deep breath. One ... two ... three.

  "Ouch! Damn!” Tara found herself flat on the floor, her top half sprawled in the hallway, her legs scrambling to gain a foothold on the polished hardwood bedroom floor. Whipping her hair out of her eyes, she turned around to find she'd been tackled by either a very short cop or ... a large battered teddy bear wearing a “WPD Kicks Ass” T-shirt. The sight of the raggedy toy tore at her heart as nothing else had these last few weeks. Her chest threatened to close up and force a lump into her throat. She fought back the ever-present tears that lay just under the surface. As she had so often, she blinked away another of a thousand memories she'd had to leave behind in Chicago.

  She was about to toss the stuffed obstacle across the room when the groan of mattress springs stopped her. She looked up in time to see the Mountie roll over onto his stomach. To her dismay, Tara discovered, he had kicked off his top sheet and was bare-assed naked.

  "Jumpin’ Christopher!” she gasped and froze, expecting him to bolt out of bed any second.

  When his breathing returned to a rhythmic rumbling snore, Tara breathed a silent sigh of relief and got to her hands and knees. If he slept through her crashing to the floor, then maybe she could get away with a hasty trip to the bathroom. She decided not to tempt fate again. Instead, she stayed on her hands and knees and crawled past the room where he slept. Finally, she spotted an open door at the end of the hall where she could make out the length of a bathtub. Pay dirt! Now, if she could only continue undetected, she could do what she had to do and then leave. Closer and closer she inched. Almost there.... Almost...

  "It's faster if you get up and walk.” The male voice was loud and groggy. A series of loud, extenuated yawns followed his next words. “And my name's not Christopher. It's Brett."

  Tara shut her eyes and cursed. Patience, girl. Tell him what he wants to hear then exit gracefully.

  "There's fresh towels in the bathroom for a shower. I'll make coffee while I'm waiting for you. Then we'll talk.” The first two suggestions were agreeable to Tara. The last one wasn't.

  It took all her control to answer. Even then she could only manage a quick, “Thank you,” before bolting into the bathroom and locking the door behind her. Once inside, she quickly stripped down. She found herself actually looking forward to a hot shower. No matter how much she longed for a two hour soak in a tub full of bubbles, this would have to do. And after nearly twenty-four straight hours on the road, this was just as welcoming. A sharp rap on the door made her jump. She grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her body.

  "Sorry to disturb you, Tara. But I seem to have left my magazine in there. On the back of the toilet maybe?"

  Tara quickly scanned the toilet. No magazine. Not even a newspaper. Nothing behind the porcelain. No Soldier of Fortune or Sports Illustrated lay sprawled on the floor. Just the typical toilet seat in the up position, indicative of a single man's domain.

  "I'm sorry, Mr., const ... Brett. I don't see any reading material."

  There was silence on the other side. Then a muffled sound that could have been a snicker of laughter. “No, I mean my gun magazine."

  Tara looked around again, not entirely convinced they were having the same conversation. But she humored him. She checked the medicine cabinet, the vanity cupboard and the small closet which held nothing but spare towels and the usual male toiletries.

  "Sorry, no gun magazine. No books. Not even a pamphlet.” She could barely discern what she thought was a loud sigh from behind the door.

  Then Tara spotted something on the back of the toilet. A shiny metal cylinder about six inches long lay beside an imitation flowering cactus. Peeking out of the top of the cylinder a brass bullet with its deadly black tip sat poised and ready for action. Tara's pulse accelerated at the sight. Bullets. She'd prayed she'd left those behind in Chicago, too.

  Despite the fear that threatened to all but consume her, she managed a shaky reply. “If you mean the bullets, you left them on the back of the toilet."

  "Oh. Okay. Well, don't touch it. I'll get it when you're finished.” He didn't sound the least bit concerned that he'd misplaced his gun parts. In fact, he sounded like he habitually stashed ammunition on the back of the throne.

  "Don't worry, I won't.” He could be damn sure of that.

  The steamy shower felt wonderful. Tara opened her mouth under the stream of water, rinsed and then spat. She closed her eyes and willed the images of her endless nightmare to be washed down the drain, along with the bitter suds of the chamomile shampoo. The bottle she'd found under the cupboard was almost full, so she hoped he wouldn't mind. She scrubbed her long hair, which now hung in wiry tangles down her back. She lathered her body with the same shampoo, wishing she'd thought to grab her own concoction of vanilla-peach parfait from her suitcase. If everything went according to plan, she intended to make and sell her own line of custom blended toiletries along with her lingerie designs. Another dream she'd managed to snatch from the grasp of Roman DeMarco. Another link forged in the fence she intended to erect around herself.

  Tara shut off the water and started to wring out her hair. Her mind began to process her present situation and readjust itself to her plan. Today was Friday. She'd be in Winnipeg with Rachel this afternoon. That still gave them ten days to work with. Ten days before she either got her life back again or lost the most important part of it forever, and maybe her own, permanently. She refused to dwell on what would surely happen to her if she failed.

  "Coffee's ready."

  Brett's voice brought her back to the possibility of failure. Correction, failure was not an option. What she was doing was a crime only in Roman's eyes. Well, maybe with the exception of the judge he'd blackmailed. And the private detective on his payroll. Or any one of a dozen so-called law enforcement personnel in the state of Illinois bribed to do his bidding. Roman's reach was long and lethal. Maybe it could even reach this far. If not, then neither herself nor this Brett had anything to lose. If so, then an innocent cop was in danger of being caught in the backlash of the infamous DeMarco fury. When Roman discovered she'd snatched her most important dream of all, and his most precious possession, from under his nose, she knew he would stop at nothing to get it back.

  "Over my dead body,” she mumbled and winced when she squeezed a handful of hair too hard. And she knew it could very well happen. Thank goodness Rachel's husband, her brother-in-law, Carter O'Conner had contacts who could help her. Tara fervently hoped so. Rachel and Carter were the only people left she could trust.

  Her thoughts drifted to the problem of Brett Sinclair. Last night when he'd scared her to death, she'd been too distracted to concentrate on anything except getting away from him. She'd had a few minutes to contemplate him before she'd fallen asleep in the passenger side of his car. Her weary eyes focused briefly on the man behind the wheel of the RCMP cruiser.

/>   He'd stared at the road ahead of him, almost oblivious to her. His large hands firmly gripping the wheel of the car, re-enforcing his air of control. And until she left him and his house behind, he was. Maybe it was the brilliant red of the wool jacket which made his shoulders appear wider than Tara thought they really were. Her designer's eye noted there wasn't a lot of play or padding in the shoulder area. Her gaze followed the line of the jacket and the accouterments, the crossed pistols badge beneath three gold-embroidered stars on the sleeve, the white lanyard draped across his mid-section. The striped blue wool trousers ran the length of his muscular thighs before disappearing into the tops of his spit-polished, knee-high brown boots.

  He was suddenly too much man crowding into her jealously guarded and preciously cultivated space. In another place and another time, she wondered if he might not be the kind of man a woman could turn to in a crisis. But not this woman. And not this crisis.

  He removed his hat and tossed it in the back seat. His short salt and pepper hair capped a strong profile—square jawed and tough. A river of tiny creases etched the corners of his eyes. Pronounced worry lines had carved themselves into his prominent forehead. Once in a while, he would wet his full even lips under the tidy graying moustache which framed his mouth. Tara found herself both distracted and fascinated by the action. His tongue would slowly appear and tentatively touch his top lip, then his bottom. Then he ran his tongue around both lips in one careful motion. It may have been a nervous habit, she saw him do it so frequently. But she never tired of watching his active tongue. Just before she dozed off, she allowed herself the luxury of wondering exactly how proficient his tongue could be if they were two different people in another circumstance.

  She recalled dozing for a while, then waking in-between parts of a dream and an obscure reality. She imagined herself as her favorite childhood character, the curious Alice who'd fallen into the rabbit hole and landed, not in an endless hallway of locked doors, but instead on the flat Canadian prairie. A glistening black stallion greeted her, not a Cheshire cat. The white rabbit wore a scarlet tunic, not a pocket watch. And Roman DeMarco shouted, “Off with her head!"