Dangerous To Love Read online

  Pulling herself back to reality, Tara firmly tucked the towel around her and began to untangle her wet hair as best she could. Inasmuch as she smiled at the twisted images in her remembered dream, another image succeeded in crowding her memory, eventually pushing everything else to the wayside. It was the sight of Brett Sinclair stretched out butt naked on the bed. Brett with the elegant touch of gray threading his hairline and the seductive tongue which he probably knew how to use to drive a woman to...

  "How do you like it?"

  Distraction. He was too much distraction right now. Tara stared at the closed door, grateful for the barrier between her and the man on the other side. She chastised herself for letting her wayward imagination get the best of her. Instead, she peered at the steamy image in the mirror.

  "Focus,” she murmured. “You have to stay focused."

  "Your coffee, Tara. I have cream and sugar. No milk. Sorry. I keep forgetting to read the expiry dates. I have a milk rule. If it lumps, it's bad."

  Tara grimaced at the thought. “Regular is fine, thanks. I'll be out of here in a minute.” And out of your life forever. And then she made good on her promise by sliding her clothes onto her still-damp body. She dragged her shorts over her hips, and tucked her white cotton blouse into the waist-band. She looked in the mirror and gasped. The blouse might as well have been sheer, it hid that much of her. Why hadn't she thought to bring a bra? God knows, she had dozens in the car. Maybe he wouldn't notice. Another thought struck her. Had he noticed last night?

  She wasn't sure how long she had been sleeping in the back seat of the car, or how long he might have been outside, looking at her. Shame on you, Tara! Hadn't she taken the same voyeuristic pleasure an hour ago? Was it a pleasure to see Brett naked? Now that she thought about it, yes it was. The memory warmed her cheeks and she pressed the damp bath towel against her face. But, it was morning now and things were different. She wasn't asleep and it wasn't dark. She arranged her hair forward over her shoulders in an attempt to curtain some modesty. She satisfied herself that she was only as good as the moment.

  Two coffees later, life looked a little more promising. She inquired about her car and Brett, wearing a faded sweatsuit bearing the RCMP buffalo head logo, said nothing except to lead her into the living room and push back the drapes. Out of habit, Tara jumped out of sight of the open window.

  "Sorry,” she quickly apologized. “No make-up. Wouldn't want to scare your neighbors with my ... my car!” she exclaimed, joyously relieved to see that both car and cargo appeared to be intact.

  Brett stood by, sipping on his coffee. “I had it towed here last night after you went to bed. I practically had to carry you inside. You dropped off so fast and didn't want to wake up. In fact, sleeping beauty, you're downright miserable when you don't get your zees.” He winked at her then, proving that he wasn't annoyed with her. Tara stepped forward to thank him and immediately darted back into the shadows.

  "That truck,” she pointed at a black pickup that had pulled up in front of Brett's house, trying not to sound as alarmed as she felt.

  Brett stood at the open window and waved. “Hey, Super Mario,” he called to a short, bald man now inspecting Tara's car window. Brett turned to Tara. “Mario Zolla. We call him Super Mario because he does all the glazing in the cruisers. Stone chips, cracks, bullet holes, full replacements. He goes anywhere, anytime. He'll have you glassed up and ready to go in no time."

  Tara stood well back from the window. “Great. How long do you think it will be before I can leave?"

  "In that much of a hurry? What's the matter, my coffee that bad?” He was leaning against the living room wall, smiling and joking with her. With every move, every gesture, he seemed to be closing the space between them until his nearness became uncomfortably close. Tara stiffened, feeling trapped by his lazy composure and alert sparkle in his eye, as if he already knew her reason for being here was nothing but a lie. Tara wanted to hit him. No, she didn't. She wanted desperately to tell him the truth, even if it was just to one person, this one time.

  "My sister. I promised her I'd be there yesterday. I told you that last night. I'm sure I did. She'll be sick with worry."

  She tried not to fidget, but the urgency to call Rachel seemed to be her only way to escape his presence. Her hard-won composure threatened to slip. Her lower lip slid over her bottom teeth. She raked her fingers through her nearly dry hair and swept it back over her shoulders, disregarding her earlier attempts to hide her transparent blouse. Her nervous fingers clutched each other. How could she have been so thoughtless?

  She lingered in the bathroom, fantasizing about Mr. Naked Butt and his magic tongue when she should have been trying to contact Rachel. She felt Brett's eyes on her.

  "Phone's over there on the wall.” He inclined his head toward the kitchen, just a few feet from where they were standing.

  Tara's gaze slid to the telephone. Too public. He would be able to hear every word. She hesitated to move.

  "Or there's one in my bedroom. It's more private."

  Instantly her heartbeat slowed. A wave of relief washed over her. Tara pointed to down the hall. “Your room. Thanks, I'll be right back.” Once inside, she closed the door, which she noted had no lock nor did it close flush. She'd have to keep her voice down.

  Brett's room was nothing if not austere. One queen-size bed, a dresser, and a night stand with an alarm clock and the phone. No feminine touches anywhere.

  Tara sat down on the edge of the bed. Brett had simply thrown the blue cotton sheet to one side. A matching blue comforter lay in a rumpled heap on the floor at the foot of the bed. Beside her was one of two large pillows. It looked like it had gone ten rounds and lost. The other pillow was thrown carelessly to one side. She grabbed the pillow closest to her so she could get comfortable while she talked to Rachel.

  She dialed the number and waited. A repetitive buzz signaled the line was busy. On one hand there was the satisfaction that someone, a real person, was still at the house and on the line. At the same time, impatience fueled a mild frustration. Tara wanted nothing more than to be on her way and for this to be over. She decided to wait a few moments before trying again.

  She leaned back on Brett's pillow. Her hand brushed over a few short, gray hairs. From what she had seen earlier this morning, Brett slept in the middle of the bed on one pillow only.

  There was a clean, comforting smell all around her. What kind of fabric softener did he use in his laundry? She turned and buried her nose in the pillow case. A tingling warmth spread through her. This wasn't anything from the rinse cycle, unless someone had finally bottled “eau de naked man.” The curious female in her didn't see any other hairs on the sheets. No blondes or brunettes. No long, silky strands to indicate that a partner was here or had been recently.

  It made sense in a way. No male cop in his right mind would bring a strange woman into his home if there were a Mrs. Cop in residence. But maybe there had been. If so, then she left nothing behind that Tara could see. No soft face smiling out at him from a framed photograph. Unlike the fenced, guarded mansion she once shared with Roman where every available inch of wall-space was dedicated to photos of Tara in her past life. And now that she thought about it, no feminine products of any kind were stashed in the back of the vanity cabinet. Like herself, anyone bunking in for the evening was on their own.

  Tara picked up the telephone receiver again. For only a moment, she let her attention stray to the only two pictures in the room. On the wall over his bed, hung a framed color photo of Brett in uniform atop a huge black horse. Beside it a smaller picture, this time of Brett, another Mountie, and a handsome German Shepherd that stood between them. The animals brought back reminders of Patrick. How he loved horses. And dogs. Roman had taken all that away from him.

  She dialed Rachel's number again and waited. Her pulse quickened at the sound. One ring. Two rings. Tara jumped as she bit her bottom lip. Three rings. Then a woman's voice answered.

  "Rachel? Rach, it's
me.” She raised her voice slightly, hoping to dissuade Constable Brett of any idea that she was calling anyone else but Rachel. “Listen, Rach. I had a small accident with my car. Nothing to worry about. I'm okay. I'll tell you about it later..."

  * * * *

  Brett stood at the front window and watched Tara disappear into his bedroom and close the door. That same feeling of unease had returned the moment he peeked through half-closed eyes and watched Tara Morgan on the floor wrestling with Mel-From-Hell, the bear, so appropriately named after Brett's drill instructor in Regina. Tara-no-bra under her peek-a-boo blouse on her hands and knees, trying to sneak out of his house. Yes, sometime during the night, a questionable thought did find its way into Brett's consciousness. Redheaded Tara was on her hands and knees all right, but she wasn't crawling down his hallway.

  If there was a fantasy to be had, it was himself starting down the soft, rounded backside of a redheaded bed partner. His hands reaching around and gently kneading those very full, very natural breasts. How he'd love to watch her unruly hair tossing a fiery tempest across her back while be banged her from behind. Just the mere hint of temptation was enough to make his balls ache.

  Brett shut his eyes against the idea. It should be the furthest thing from his mind. Standards. Protocol. Duty first. Maintain le droit. The Mountie creed. “Maintain The Right,” not, “maintain a hard-on for the great piece of ass in his bedroom."

  He fully intended to let her go this morning, no strings attached, and nothing but a handshake to remember her pleading eyes and luscious little bod. That was before he logged on to his email last night after putting her to bed and found a nice red flag waiting for him. CPIC had an addendum to the station wagon. The car had changed owners a mere forty-eight hours ago. A woman giving her name for the registration and insurance as Rachel O'Conner paid cash for it in Red River, Saskatchewan. First red flag.

  However, the Illinois plates didn't match the VIN number. Second red flag. They came off a rental reported stolen nearly a week ago, then picked up by Illinois state police. If it hadn't been for the U.S. computer's delay in taking the rental off the stolen list, Brett would never have known. He immediately called Wolfy.

  "It's in your lap, Brett. If you pick up a stray redhead by the side of the road and want to keep her until you find out what she's up to then go for it. We'll sit on the plates for a couple of days. Find out why she switched them. You could haul her in for that alone, but I tend to agree with your theory that there's more here than meets the eye. Especially with the increased smuggling along the border. But if you dig and don't find anything, we'll have to charge her with a misdemeanor."

  Wolfy had a point. They had neither the time nor the extra manpower available to devote to some redhead who suffered from severe high anxiety and whose only crime so far was switching license plates. Then again, she might be up to something else. The obvious question was, up to what?

  He knew she was feeding him bits and pieces of the truth, only as much as he suspected she wanted him to know. Until she played out her hand, it was better to keep a low profile. If she wasn't an official suspect of anything, then he wasn't officially investigating. Which was why he was going to let Tara Morgan lead him into whatever it was she was involved in.

  He turned to find Mario peeking expectantly through the front screen door.

  "You don't know how to knock, Mario?"

  "I did, boss. You didn't hear me."

  Brett stepped out on the porch. He reached into his pocket and handed the man a hundred dollar bill. Mario held up his hand. “Like you say, boss. I was never here."

  Brett bristled. “It's for the glass."

  "What glass,” the man snorted. “I got lotsa spare glass. Glad to get rid of it. I go now. Lucia, she say you come for supper sometime again. She say you not eat enough.” Mario turned to leave, but then stopped and looked back at Brett.

  "I only got one question, boss. Why you say fix the glass but take out the..."

  Brett cut him off. “Tell Lucy she's making me fat.” Then he shook Mario's hand.

  "Whatever you say, boss. Like you say, I was never here.” He shrugged and made his way to the black pickup.

  From all appearances, Tara was ready to leave. If his conscience bothered him about what else he'd done, he didn't receive any signs. He had a game he played with himself while on duty. If he had to do something out of the norm in order to nail down a suspect, he always asked his conscience if he was doing the right thing. If no voice answered to the contrary, he plunged in. This morning, like all the other times, no voice reared up to stop him.

  He jogged up the stairs and down the hallway to tell Tara her car was ready to roll. He stopped short before knocking on the closed bedroom door. Ominous words from inside stayed him.

  "Tell Patrick I love him, too, Rachel, more than anything and we'll be together soon. Ten days, no more. I promise. He's my whole life right now. I'd die for him. Someday, he'll understand why I'm doing this. I only hope he can forgive me for being a fugitive."

  CHAPTER 3

  Ten days to do what? Brett paced the driveway, his shoulder hugging his cell phone to his ear as he hung on Corporal Dennison's next words.

  "Sorry, Brett. Nothing. No criminal record. No outstanding warrants. No extraditions. Not even a parking ticket. It's like Tara Morgan doesn't exist, let alone is considered a fugitive."

  Frustrated, Brett slammed his fist into his hand. “What about the car?” He lived through another moment of silence before Dennison's voice broke through the static of Brett's cell phone.

  "Just like I emailed you. Paid for in cash, under the name of Rachel O'Conner in Winnipeg. Oh, wait a minute. There's something else here. There was a credit card guarantee under a Carter O'Conner. Oh, hey, Brett. I know this guy. He's ex-Winnipeg PD."

  A cop? Tara's brother-in-law is a cop? This was no ordinary situation. It was turning into a mystery, possibly even a conspiracy. “Anything else, Denny? The name Patrick come up anywhere? Hurry up, I might have to drop this line real quick."

  "Hold your horses, Sherlock. This woman's trail is a crossword puzzle. Your Miss Morgan's been a very busy girl. Let's see ... bus ticket from Wilmette to Lafayette on the credit card. Illinois plates belonged to a Buick rented in Lafayette. Car was listed missing, but Illinois state found it abandoned near the Minnesota border, out of gas with the plates missing. Owner said a nice looking chic matching your red paid cash and gave an assumed. He's got his car back so he didn't bother pressing charges. From there she surfaced in Minneapolis, another bus ticket to Fargo, North Dakota. Another rental from Fargo to Red River where she bought the wagon. Then you found her. She must have switched the plates right after she bought the car. Pretty nice job."

  "What do you mean?” Brett was trying to follow Denny's trail and figure where Tara fit in.

  "If I wanted to disappear and didn't want anyone to follow me, this is how I'd do it. It's pretty standard undercover tactics. As a matter of fact.... Bingo! O'Conner worked undercover before he got shot."

  "Shot!” Every cop's worst nightmare. “Later with O'Conner. Keep on it. Anything else about our girl?” Brett expected the worst and hoped for the best.

  "Just that if I didn't know better, I'd say she was trying to lose someone. The trail is virtually invisible. A civilian would never have found her unless he was very, very lucky. Sounds like red is running from something.” Or someone? Or to someone? Tell Patrick I love him.

  Denny's voice called him back to the present. “I'm checking out the sister. Ohh! This is interesting. Seems that Tara Morgan entered a Winnipeg hospital about three years ago for a few days and it was paid for by, just a sec, Carter O'Conner's health plan. He listed her as a dependent. Wait a minute and I'll tell you why she was there."

  The thought of Tara being ill enough to be in a hospital for any length of time suddenly concerned Brett.

  "Holy shit, Brett!"

  "What?” The word cracked like a whip through the air.

 
"It says she had a baby."

  "A baby?” Of all the things Brett expected to hear, “she had a baby” wasn't one of them. “Are you sure we're talking about the same Tara Morgan, Denny?” The same Tara Morgan who told him she had no children? He was vaguely aware of Denny's voice shooting out line item info.

  "Baby was a girl ... eight pounds ... father unknown. Born Winnipeg General, September twenty-third ... this makes the kid a Canadian. Well, at least now we know Tara Morgan has a legal right to be in this country, even if she fucked around in getting here. Hey, I wonder what happened to the kid?"

  Brett wondered, too. But he didn't have time to get into it now. He heard the front door open. “I'm gone,” he snapped into the phone before pressing the end button and stashing it in his pants pocket.

  Tell Patrick I love him. I'd die for him. Was she talking about the baby's father? A boyfriend? A trained observer, Brett didn't see a wedding ring or any tell-tale indentation or tan mark that she had recently worn one. In fact, Tara wore no jewelry at all. A shame, too, because he thought she'd look very pretty with her hair pinned up and a string of white pearls adorning her slender neck. He'd searched the car earlier for a purse, but didn't find one. What kind of a woman didn't carry a purse? When he searched the pockets of her shorts last night, they yielded only her drivers license, birth certificate, and twelve dollars in U.S. cash. No credit cards, no bank cards. Of course, now, he knew that most of her journey had been funded by the sister and the sister's husband. He'd sure like to talk to them.

  "How's sis?” he asked.

  "Anxious. So I'm saying good-bye, Constable Brett Sinclair.” She held out her right hand to him. Brett had no choice but to accept her handshake. “Thank you for your bed, your shower, and the coffee.” She reached into her front pocket and handed him a U.S. ten dollar bill.