Dangerous To Love Read online

  Brett shook his head in protest. He knew it was just about all she had. “Don't be stupid. I did the public a service. The taxpayers have to foot the bill if I'd scraped you up off the road after you'd had an accident. I maintained the right."

  "The right to what?” She cocked her head in question, a puzzled expression on her delicate face.

  Brett chuckled. “I forgot, you're not from around here. Maintain The Right. It's our motto. So drive carefully. The cops in Brandon might not be as hospitable.” He watched her carefully, observing any hesitation or eyes flickering for memory scramble.

  To her credit, she corrected him immediately. “Winnipeg."

  "Right. Well, good luck."

  He walked her to her car and opened the door for her. He saw her fumble at the ignition, then turn to him. Those pleading hazel eyes went to work. “My keys."

  "Oh, yeah. Sorry.” He dug into his pocket and produced her keys. He handed them to her, closed the car door, and leaned against the open window. “Seat belt,” he reminded her.

  "Thanks again, I...” She paused and turned the key. Nothing. Brett watched her check her gas gauge, her battery indicator, and reinsert the key. Nothing. Just a foreboding click followed by silence.

  "This is not good,” she said slowly.

  And it wasn't, Mario informed her an hour later. “New starter.” He shook his head warily. “Gonna take a couple days."

  "Days!” Tara's bottom lip began to quiver. “But I have to get to Winnipeg today. I absolutely ... Brett...” She turned the hazel headlights on him. “Would you mind driving me to the bus station? Surely there's a bus going to the city."

  "Absolutely,” he replied. “Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday."

  "Monday!” She physically sagged and Brett thought she might collapse. He sprang forward and put his arms around her. She trembled like a leaf and was pale as a ghost. This was no act. He was genuinely concerned.

  "How about calling your sister. Maybe she can come and pick you up."

  "Oh, no, she can't. There's nobody else to look after...” She must have realized who she was talking to because she stopped instantly. Her eyes darted back and forth, looking for something to tell him. Something other than the truth.

  "Her husband. He's disabled."

  Brett breathed easier. It wasn't a lie. According to Denny, Carter O'Conner received a medical discharge almost a year after he was shot. They didn't hand out one of those every day unless there was no way in hell a cop could return to his job. On the other hand, why didn't she just call Patrick? The one she loved and would die for.

  "Is there no one else who could come and get you? Family. Friend. Boyfriend?” He let the word hang out just to see what Tara would do with it. She merely shook her head. Brett decided to try his luck again.

  "You mean there's no man in Tara Morgan's life?"

  Tara shook her head. In the process her wavy auburn hair brushed against his skin. Brett fought the urge to grab a handful and run his fingers through it. “I don't go out much. I'm trying to get back on my feet. Starting my business takes up a lot of time."

  Back on her feet from what? Brett knew he might be over-analyzing her every word, but he knew that sooner or later she'd drop a clue. And he intended to pick up on it.

  "I suppose hitchhiking is against the law?” She sounded as despondent as she looked. And, with what he'd learned about her this morning, he wouldn't put it past her to try it.

  "I'll take you.” Brett wondered who'd said the words. Then he realized it was himself. “If you don't need all those boxes, I can ship them to you later. Let me get changed and we can be on the road in twenty minutes or so. It's three or four hours at most. And don't start about inconveniencing me or how much trouble it is or any of that nonsense. Mario will take care of the car. Won't you?"

  The man stood silently, eyes to the ground, hands in his pockets.

  "Won't you?” Brett prompted.

  "Anything you say, boss."

  Tara smiled her thanks. Brett was aware that he still had his arms around her. She didn't seem to object, and there was no loud roar from his conscience, so he didn't bother to remove them. In fact, his hands were quite comfortable resting on Tara's slender shoulders. The heat from her skin radiated through the thin cotton and warmed his fingers. She turned to him. Her face was just below his chin. He could smell her freshly washed hair. He tilted his chin a little lower so it barely brushed the top of her head. He was close enough to taste her. He wondered what her reaction would be if he suddenly bent his head and buried his lips in her hair. Would she tear away from him in surprise and protest? Or would she shiver from the intimate overture and sigh longingly for more? Brett wanted to think it was the latter, that she would softly breathe his name, perhaps reach for him, sliding her soft hands up his arms in a welcoming embrace before tilting her head up, her full lips begging, urging a kiss from him.

  How many times last night had he lain in bed thinking about the woman he'd undressed and put to bed? He'd held her up while she fumbled with the buttons on her jeans before finally giving herself up to an exhausted sleep. She tumbled into the sheets, her blouse half unbuttoned and her shorts sagging off her hips. She made a half-hearted attempt to push them down her knees.

  At first, Brett had congratulated himself in being such a gentleman. He threw the top sheet over her while she shimmied out of her cut-offs, finally kicking them out onto the floor where they landed on his feet. He'd picked them up and laid them across the bedroom chair. They were warm from her body and soft with wear. They had that next-to-a-woman's-skin smell all over them. He found himself somewhat disappointed that she still wore her stringy thong-panties. But, in hindsight, it was all for the best. She might want to feel protected, although who in their right mind would feel protected by a lacy scrap of material the size of dental floss? Brett's idea of going to bed with protection was having his nine mil under the pillow next to him.

  She'd lain unmoving for a moment, then rolled over to snuggle into the pillow. Her half open blouse became tangled around her. He debated the wisdom of helping her out of her blouse when he knew she had nothing else on underneath. What was a gentleman to do? It wasn't a matter of discipline, it was a matter of self-preservation. He'd reached over carefully to release the remaining buttons when Tara yawned loudly. Her eyes were closed, her body relaxing into sleep. Her own fingers had come up and tugged at the buttons, freeing them at last.

  Brett ran his tongue across his dry lips. His body no longer denied its attraction to her. He'd known at that moment the only thing for him to do was to turn around and get the hell out of the room. He'd no sooner reached the door when he heard the soft crush of material landing on the floor at the foot of the bed. He'd turned and spat out a silent curse. Tara had freed herself of her blouse and turned over on her back. The sheet was lying in soft folds across one breast only. The other breast was covered by a curtain of flowing red.

  Brett had marveled at his luck. The greatest free striptease of his life, right here in his house and he'd missed it. Timing was everything. He'd reached around, gently closed the door, then taken his burgeoning frustration off to the bathroom for a cold shower.

  He'd need another one soon if he gave-in to the fantasy he now held in his arms. He heard her voice calling him, touching an unfamiliar chord somewhere deep inside.

  "I don't know how to thank you,” she said softly.

  Brett felt a warning tug below his waist and decided it was time to hit the road. He cleared his throat and threw her an off-handed, casual response. “Don't worry about it. You go inside and fix us a snack to take on the ride. There's canned pop in the fridge. Help yourself to whatever. I'll be right behind you."

  And then reluctantly, he let her go. Not that there wasn't some pleasure to be gained in watching her from behind. Her swaying hips, the fringe of her cut-off shorts gently caressing the backs of her shapely thighs, not to mention the nicely rounded handful above. Damn fine view.

  His musings w
ere cut short. “Brett Sinclair. I'm gonna tell my Lucy what a bad boy you are."

  "It's for a good cause, Mario.” He grinned and winked at the old man.

  Mario bristled. “Hmph! In my day, we went to the drive-in and ran out of gas."

  * * * *

  It took them less than the twenty minutes he'd predicted. He changed into jeans and a T-shirt he borrowed off of Mel-From-Hell. It was the only clean one he had. Laundry. He mentally added it to his list of things to do. But later.

  While Tara was busy in the kitchen, he slipped into his bedroom and made a call to the detachment. First, he had to inform his staff sergeant of his intent. Then, he had to arrange to trade the cruiser for an unmarked car, which he'd have to pick up. He made another call to Denny to see if there were any more interesting tidbits on Tara and got an earful.

  "Hey, do I work for you or Ottawa? This stuff takes time. Want my advice?"

  There was an impatient edge to Denny's voice and Brett knew he'd just about used up every outstanding favor. Time to pull out the stops. “Always, young corporal, who covets something I have."

  "Really?” Denny's voice was barely audible. “You'd give it to me? No strings attached?” The kid was practically panting. Besides being a firearms instructor and a range marshal, Denny liked to collect antique firearms. But it wasn't Brett's prized World War II sub-machine gun that piqued Denny's interest. What Brett had on the block was much more valuable to Denny, who had another, more lucrative passion.

  "Yes, Denny. No teasing this time. No letting you see it, hold it and run your hands all over it, then locking it back in the case again. It's all yours. Beannie Bear no. 238, complete with certificate, if you keep on this Tara thing until it dies.” Denny's visits to E-bay were the stuff of legends. He collected Beannie Bears from all over the world, except no. 238 which was now retired and nearly impossible to find. Brett picked it up for his own collection, but never thought he'd end up using it for a bribe.

  "Brett, you can be a real asshole sometimes if you work at it. Blue-balling me over 238. That's past evil."

  "Is it a deal?"

  "Fuck you. Of course it's a deal. Here's the call. Get to Molly Malone's when she opens at noon. Look for a Mike McLeod. You can't miss this guy. He's a big mother-fucker. Huge. Bald. Screaming-eagle ammo tats across both shoulders. Likes Molly's pool table. Retired last year from WPD with thirty years in, but lives out this way now. He's got the crystal ball on everyone. And he used to be Carter O'Conner's partner. Was with Carter the night he got shot."

  Brett made a note of the man's name and shoved it into his wallet behind his badge. He debated the wisdom of taking his Smith and Wesson, but decided it couldn't hurt. Damn! The extra magazine was still in the washroom. He retrieved the gun from the bedroom closet gun locker along with the fanny pack holster and the extra magazine from the bathroom. He checked on Tara's progress in the kitchen. When he couldn't find her in the house, he began to worry until he looked out the front window and saw her searching through a box in the wagon.

  At first he thought she might have been packing a change of clothes. Then he saw her suitcase open on the ground beside her. He watched from behind the curtain at the nearly upended box she'd been rummaging through. At last, he saw her shoulders sag with relief as she retrieved a large brown envelope from the bottom of the box. She looked toward the house and then quickly opened the envelope. He expected her hand to emerge from the envelope holding a wad of cash or credit cards or something. Instead she retrieved what looked like a locket on a chain.

  She opened the locket, paused longingly at the picture, then snapped it shut. Then, she did something which totally unnerved Brett. She kissed the small locket and pressed it against her cheek as if willing the subject inside to appear before her. She closed her eyes and started the lip-biting again. A slight breeze toyed with her loose, spiral tendrils sending a shimmering, red veil across her face. Her shoulders shook and a moment later, she was swiping her hair away from her eyes. Along with tears.

  Brett started for the door, then stopped. Years of surveillance training barely won out over the almost irresistible urge to take her in his arms and comfort her. She gently swayed on her feet for a moment, shifting from one foot to the other as if rocking a baby. A baby! The kid's picture, perhaps. Or maybe a double whammy, the kid and the father. Brett knew he had to get a glimpse of that locket one way or the other. He had to find out what moved Tara so hard that the slightest glance caused her to shed tears.

  He backed away from the window, but kept his sights trained on her. He started to call, loudly. “Tara, are you ready?"

  Immediately, she dropped the locket inside the envelope and shoved it into her suitcase. Whew! Brett's luck was with him today. She didn't seal the envelope. She closed, but did not lock, the suitcase. Then she ran toward the house, calling. “I'm out here, Brett. I had to get a few things from my car. I'm ready."

  Brett came to the front door and held up a paper bag. “Forget something?"

  Tara stood in front of the station wagon, an embarrassed grin on her pixie face. “Right. Drinks. Sorry."

  "It's okay.” He locked the front door and bounded down the stairs toward her. “I'll take your suitcase,” he offered.

  "No!” she cried and ran to the back of the car and picked up her suitcase. “See, it's not heavy.” And she attempted to prove it to him by wrestling it into the cruiser's back seat.

  Brett watched her every move. Hers was a textbook reaction. Whatever else was in that suitcase, it was obviously important enough for her to want to protect it. He suddenly realized it wasn't going to be easy parting Tara from her suitcase.

  "Okay, Constable. Let's go."

  He belted her into the front seat beside him before backing the cruiser out of the driveway. “Three hours and a bit should see you on the doorstep of your sister's place,” he said to her. Tara merely nodded an acknowledgment and stared out the window. Brett could see her face reflected in the passenger door mirror. Tiny tense lines marred her forehead. Her cheek twitched from being chewed. Her breathing, fast and shallow. She was nervous or scared, maybe both. Maybe objects in the mirror appeared closer than they were, but Tara was as distant as she could be.

  Something in her manner made Brett glance in the rearview mirror. A quick surveillance of the street behind failed to yield anyone following them. Why then was she such a basket case?

  Then he felt his eyes widen with clarity and he remembered what originally drew him to watch Tara in the driveway. The car! Holy Shit! He nearly smacked his head in realization. He stole a glance at her and had to stop himself from shaking his head while he fought back a grin.

  He had to admire her. She was quite a piece of work! From first impressions, and once you got past the legs and other standard software, she came across as if she was some kind of ditz who didn't have two neurons to rub together. Brilliant. According to Denny, her escape route from Chicago was nearly perfect and her execution of the helpless female, virtually flawless. He suddenly began to ponder the wisdom of getting involved with her. There was definitely more than the usual forces of nature at work in Tara Morgan.

  In the time it had taken him to find and pack his gun, she had removed and concealed the Illinois license plates from the station wagon.

  CHAPTER 4

  Trying to engage Tara in conversation was like pulling teeth. Her monosyllabic answers were frustrating at best, especially when Brett tried to ask her about her past, her family, or any other personal information. Then she immediately tossed the line of questioning back in his lap.

  "So, what's with the bears? Do you have kids or something?"

  Now here was a topic she seemed to like to talk about. Brett thought he detected a note of wistfulness, almost longing, in her voice. He kept his eyes on the road and shook his head.

  "No kids, not in my line of work. The bears are kind of a work-related hobby. Some kids collected dinky toys or coins or stamps; I collected teddy bears. It got me beat up at schoo
l a lot. Some of my bears are quite valuable now."

  "But how do they relate to your job?"

  "Oh, that. Take a look in the back seat.” When she craned her head and shoulders around, the neck of her white blouse fell open to one side, giving him a side view of her bare cleavage. He swore the first thing he'd do when he stopped for gas was march Tara to the nearest ladies’ room and make sure she put something on under that sheer material, even if he had to take his own shirt off and put it on her personally.

  "More teddy bears?"

  "Correct. They're Comfort Bears. We give them to small children in distress. Anytime I have to deal with a baby or toddler in a crisis situation, whether it's an accident or a domestic, we, the force, provide a teddy bear for them to cuddle. Some kids want to wear my hat. Sometimes I let them. Depends on the circumstances."

  "Well, it's a very nice hat. But it's a little big for kids, don't you think?"

  Brett could only smile at her ignorance. He knew she meant the Stetson since she'd not seen him wear his regular duty cap. “I'll let you off the hook for being a Yankee. Mounties don't wear their dress uniforms all the time when they're on duty. The Stetson stays in the closet unless I'm in Red Serge. We have a regular garden-variety blue uniform. Except for special occasions, we look like any other cop on the beat."

  She was silent for a moment. “Too bad. It's a very nice uniform. It makes you look very ... official.” What he wanted to hear her say was handsome. And maybe sexy. Yes, there was an advantage to the dress uniform. Most women admired the heroic image of the tough, imposing Mountie in Red Serge, tall brown boots, and tan Stetson. Sort of half-soldier, half-cowboy. He certainly could have had his pick over the years. And did. For a while. But, the years had a way of catching up with a man. Most of his friends on the force who were his age had settled down. They were married and had kids now. Even a lot of the younger, newer guys who transferred in had growing families. It made him stop and think that maybe he might be missing something. But then there were men like Mel and Wolfy, old school guys who lived for the force and frowned on members having families until they were established.