Divorced, Desperate and Delicious, Page 8

Lacy twisted in her sleep, only to have the clinking of metal against metal startle her awake. She lay there staring at the ceiling while her brain registered several thoughts at once: handcuffs, sexy man, length or girth?

  Turning her head to the side, she saw that her free hand rested low on Chase Kelly’s abdomen. Right beside his “length and girth!” She blinked, swallowed, and offered up a quick Hail Mary that he still slept.

  Raising her gaze to his face, she swallowed again. The prayer might have worked if she’d been Catholic. As it was, he stared right into her eyes—directly into her Presbyterian soul.

  “You crossed over to my half of the bed.” His devilish eyebrows quirked up and his green eyes, filled with sin and heat, glittered with humor.

  She jerked her hand away. “You’ve napped. Now leave.” She knew he’d slept because she’d spent at least an hour watching his chest move up and down before she’d succumbed to sleep herself. During those slow sixty minutes, she’d mentally gone over her entire conversation with Sue. She didn’t know which of Sue’s statements caused her more mortification—the vet licking her wounds, screwing the FedEx man’s brains out, or becoming a lesbian. Embarrassment flared inside her and she considered going after Sue with the fish next. But guilt bit her, too. Had she even congratulated Sue on her letter about her book?

  The clock on the bedside table caught her attention. It was almost five and she’d wasted all day in bed—with a sexy man, but that was beside the point.

  He rose up on his elbows. His biceps tightened. The sight of his T-shirt, soft white cotton pressing against hard muscles, made her mouth go dry. She frowned.

  “Are you always grumpy when you first wake up? How about I fix us some coffee?” His gaze moved around the bed, studying Sweetie Pie, Leonardo and Fabio.

  Then he caught sight of the newest addition. Samantha, the shy gray tabby, stared at him as if she hadn’t realized he’d been there. She meowed, dashed off, then scurried under the bed.

  “How many cats do you have?” he asked.

  Lacy frowned, remembering what her mother had said about a woman with more than three cats. “Just three. And I’d rather you leave, as opposed to fixing coffee.”

  He sat up, scowling as if still in pain. “Do you take cream and sugar or drink it black?”

  She dropped back on her pillow and studied the ceiling without answering. When he didn’t continue moving, she turned her cheek to rest on the pillow and looked at him. He remained sitting up, staring at Leonardo sleeping between his knees.

  He glanced up from the cat to her. “You know, we should get a bigger bed.”

  Rolling her eyes, she turned away. He chuckled and the mattress shifted as he rose.

  “Do you need to go to the restroom?” he asked.

  “No.” She needed him to uncuff her and get the heck away.

  “Okay, I’ll be right back.” He groaned as he moved. “Damn, it hurts.”

  “You were shot. What do you expect?”

  “I don’t think that’s what’s hurting,” he said. “It was the fall.”

  “You fell, too? What did you fall off of?”

  He ignored her question and asked his own. “Your coffeemaker doesn’t talk, does it?”

  • • •

  Without waiting for an answer, Chase shuffled down the hall. Every muscle in his body cried for mercy, but thankfully the few hours of sleep had taken the edge off his exhaustion.

  “If I were coffee, where would I be?” He scanned the kitchen until he spotted a red canister sitting beside the coffeemaker. Moving slowly, he started the pot and then went to the fridge.

  “Eat the tuna and pick up a gallon of milk.”

  Chase stared at the appliance. “Okay, we’ll eat the tuna. Does that make you happy?”

  The fridge didn’t answer. Not that he really expected it to, but then again, who’d have guessed he’d be listening to an appliance to begin with? He opened a few Tupperware bowls until he found the suggested menu. Just to be safe, he gave it the sniff test and the important once-over for any unnatural green substance. Deeming it safe, he found mayonnaise and pickle relish. Grabbing a utensil from the dishwasher, he added a spoonful of both.

  Waiting for the coffee to brew, he raked a hand though his hair, flinching when he came to the knot on his head where his captive had bashed him with the singing fish. “It could have been worse,” he mumbled, and an image of Zeke holding a gun to his temple flashed through his mind. He looked at the phone on the counter, wondering who he should call, or if he could trust anyone. He remembered that Lacy’s friend had said they were at the lake looking for his body. She had also mentioned Detective Dodd. Detective Jason Dodd.

  Chase couldn’t help but wonder what his ex-partner was thinking. Would he believe Chase was guilty? Chase tried to think of what he’d feel if the tables were turned—if Jason were suspected of stealing coke, of taking the life of a fellow officer, of being dead at the bottom of some river. The scenario brought a gutful of regrets into Chase’s stomach.

  He’d met Jason upon entering the force eleven years ago. Jason had stood as best man at Chase’s wedding and had spent almost every Sunday at Chase’s house eating barbeque and drinking beer. Sarah had welcomed Jason as part of the family. Then Sarah got sick and everything in Chase’s life changed. Everything.

  A different ache attacked his heart

  Chase scrubbed a hand over his face. He needed to concentrate on his problems with Zeke, not sit around taking trips down memory lane. Looking around the kitchen, he knew he shouldn’t wear out his welcome here either. Lacy Maguire had been more than hospitable, considering she was handcuffed to the bed. Well, she wouldn’t go hungry with him around. And according to her fridge, she liked tuna.

  Chase remembered waking up to the feel of her hand low on his belly. A smile pulled at his lips as he recalled the conversation he’d overheard between her and her friend. Running a hand over his mouth, his mind flashed to the look on her face when he’d stepped out of the bathroom without a shirt. Lacy’s eyes had held more than fear; some genuine female interest had flickered in those vivid baby blues.

  “Don’t go there,” he said to himself. When this mess ended, he’d visit Jessie and work off his sexual frustrations. Maybe he’d even bring the handcuffs.

  With Jessie, his neighbor, he found gratifying, no-strings-attached sex. It was a bodily function that brought release and pleasure, like taking a hot shower, or getting a massage after a workout. It had taken him over a year after burying Sarah to realize the difference between sex and what he’d shared with his wife. Basic sex was a function, a release. What he’d shared with Sarah had been intimacy and love.

  Closing his eyes to the past, he squared his shoulders and locked the emotion back in the black box he stored away deep inside himself. A second later he found dishes in the cabinet, chips in the pantry. Then, with two plates balanced on one arm and two cups of coffee held in the other hand, he started down the hall.

  “Dinner is served,” he said, entering the bedroom.

  He found her sitting up in bed, her legs stretched out in front of her and crossed at the ankles. She looked . . . divorced, desperate and delicious, surrounded by the two cats, now lacking their costumes. Her hair appeared a little mussed, like a woman should look in bed. She wore no makeup, which pleased him. Chase had always preferred his women au naturel. What she didn’t look, he realized with a great amount of relief, was afraid.

  She shifted.

  His gaze went to the slight sway of breasts beneath the pink cotton shirt. Why couldn’t she have been ugly?

  ‘‘Hungry?” he asked, trying to shake the attraction. The two cats jumped off the mattress and darted around his ankles. He glanced down at the prancing felines, then up at her. Careful not to step on the cats, he edged closer, placed a plate in her lap and the coffee on the table closest to her. She turned her legs and slid her feet over the side of the bed.

  The white feline jumped on the bed and Lacy nudged the
cat aside. She looked down at her plate, picked up the sandwich, studied it, then set it back down beside the chips.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Chase sat at the foot of the bed. “Tuna salad sandwich. Your refrigerator said you liked it.” He grinned. “I didn’t take the time to boil an egg, but I found some mayo and pickle relish.”

  She blinked, stared at the plate, and then her eyes grew round.

  “What? You think I’m trying to poison you?” He scooted over and swapped plates with her. She stared wide-eyed as he took his first bite of the sandwich.

  Her lips twitched as if she wanted to smile, but she seemed determined to keep the emotion in check. She might not be afraid of him, but she appeared unwilling to share something as lighthearted as a smile. And that made it a challenge. Before he left here, he’d win a smile. One smile.

  “You didn’t think I could cook, did you?” he asked. “I’m not helpless in the kitchen. My father ran a restaurant.” He blocked the orange feline from his plate. “You’re not eating. Still don’t trust me? You want to swap plates again?”

  “It’s not that. It’s . . .” She bit down on her lip.

  He picked up his other half of the sandwich and continued to eat. “It’s what?” The words formed around the bite in his mouth.

  “It’s just . . .” She watched him take another bite. Her lips twitched again, but she still held back. “I’ve never been fond of . . .” Her eyes met his. “I didn’t have tuna in my refrigerator. I accidentally opened one too many cans and . . . well, that’s Fancy Feast.”

  “But your fridge said—”

  “I ate the tuna yesterday.”

  “You’re joking.” He stared, hoping she’d blink repeatedly, give him some sign that she lied. She didn’t. His gaze darted to the last bite of the sandwich he held between his thumb and forefinger. The bite in his mouth grew bigger, and he couldn’t bring himself to swallow.

  “I think this is flaky white fish and tuna. It’s Leonardo’s favorite.” She pointed to the cat moving toward him.

  The red tabby nibbled at the sandwich. The lump of bread and Fancy Feast lay heavy on Chase’s tongue.

  He dropped his plate on the bed and spat the half-chewed lump of sandwich into his hand. Jumping up, he moved to the bathroom. He could swear he heard laughter over his shoulder. But if she’d smiled he’d missed it and that didn’t count.

  • • •

  Zeke cracked his knuckles and pulled up to the security gate at Chase Kelly’s condominium. He’d paid visits to all fifteen houses within a two-mile radius of the lake. No one had seen or heard anything, and Zeke’s gut told him no one had lied. Which meant one of two things: either Chase Kelly was fish bait right now, or he had superhuman strength and had managed to pull himself out of the water, shot and beaten. While impressed a time or two with Kelly’s abilities, Zeke didn’t think he could have done that. He hoped not anyway.

  “Raise the gate?” Zeke called out the window to the punk manning the entrance.

  “You have to punch in your code or call someone to let you in,” the man said, and continued eating his hot dog.

  Zeke threw his car into park and jumped out. He banged on the glass window, making the slob with ketchup on his chin jump two inches off his chair. “Open the damn gate!”

  “Why?” the man snapped, wiping dribble from his face.

  “I’m the freaking police, that’s why!” Zeke slammed his badge against the glass. He’d searched the place three times, but desperation drove him back. He had to find the book and destroy it, just in case Kelly survived.

  The man hit a button and the gate rose. Zeke got back into his car, sorry the man had relented; right now, he was aching for a fight, real fist-to-fist combat.

  Driving through the gate, he parked his car and sat there for a good five minutes, white-knuckling the steering wheel, trying to get his blood pressure down. Finally, he walked into the first floor of the condo building and headed for the office to get a key. He cracked his knuckles again as he waited for the redheaded old woman inside to notice him pacing the length of the counter. “Need the key to 215.” He flashed his badge.

  The old woman squinted at him. “Fine, but you’re signing my clipboard like the rest of them. I don’t want somebody to come back and say that I’ve been letting every Tom, Dick, and Harry walk into the unit without permission.” She handed him a clipboard. “Like I told all the others, that Kelly man was as good as gold around here.”

  “Someone else been here today?” Zeke asked. It had been two days since the anonymous tip brought the force to search Kelly’s place. And they’d found just what they were looking for, too, so they really didn’t have a reason to be here today.

  “Yeah.” She pointed a red-painted fingernail at the clipboard.

  Zeke read the name and suspicion bit into his backbone and hit a raw nerve. Jason Dodd—Chase Kelly’s old partner. They had had some falling-out, and rumor said Dodd had finally requested to get the hell away from Kelly. Why was Dodd checking Kelly’s place? Scribbling his name down, Zeke snatched the keys from the old biddy’s hand.

  The thought hit Zeke that being here could be a waste of time. He needed to be searching for Kelly, maybe extend his search, check the houses a few miles farther out.

  He’d made it to the elevator when his cell phone rang. “Yeah?”

  “Duncan? You’d better come into the station.” The captain’s dead-serious tone made Zeke’s gut burn with indigestion. What did the man know? But damn, he didn’t have time to go in. He had to find Kelly.

  “Why?” Zeke asked. “What’s going on?”

  • • •

  Chase walked out of Lacy’s bathroom a few moments later. “That wasn’t nice.” The fishy taste on his tongue was now mingled with the minty flavor of toothpaste.

  “I didn’t do anything!” She bit into her lip.

  He met her eyes and found himself thinking a smile wouldn’t do it. He wanted to hear her laugh and see that laughter light up her eyes. “You let me eat a cat-food sandwich.”

  “I . . . I was still trying to figure out what it was.”

  “Funny how I’d almost eaten the whole thing by the time you finally figured it out.” He walked closer, picked up one of the coffees, and sat beside her.

  “Well, how was it?” she asked, and picked up the other cup.

  “Actually—” he ran his tongue over his lips “—it could have used a little more relish.”

  She lost it then; the sweetest laugh came from her lips.

  His half-drawn breath caught in his throat. Damn, but she was pretty. He sat there enjoying the view and debated if seeing her like this wasn’t worth eating cat food. Heck, when he was six, he’d eaten a worm to get a girl’s attention. And Lacy was much better looking.

  Her laugh continued and her hand shook, sloshing coffee over the cup’s edge. Chase leaned over and took the coffee from her hand.

  “Laugh all you want. But I used your toothbrush to get the taste out!”

  “Ugh!” she said, and then, “You should have seen your face when . . .” Her laughter bubbled up again and she couldn’t talk. Leaning forward, her head almost made contact with his shoulder.

  He sat there with his nose an inch from her hair, enjoying the smell of her fruit-scented shampoo. Then she shifted slightly and several silky strands, the color of dark chocolate, caught in the stubble of his two-day-old beard. Chase brushed it back. His fingers lingered at the spot right behind her ear and he wanted to touch more, to move his fingers down to the sweet curve of her neck, over her shoulder and . . .

  She pulled back, and he stared at her smile, at the laughter still lingering in her eyes. Taking in another scented breath of air, emotion pulled deep inside him.

  Attraction.

  Desire.

  He’d felt it since he’d first laid eyes on her. But this moment, the way her smile touched his heart and her laughter tickled his soul, it seemed like more—so much more that he got the e
erie sensation one gets when someone stands too close, or when someone stares directly into your eyes for a second too long. He leaned back, wanting space and yet wanting to get closer at the same time.

  Wrong time. Wrong place. Wrong situation. The last thing he needed after climbing his way out of the mess that Zeke had laid out for him was to have to answer to a sexual harassment accusation from a civilian. Hell, already if she complained he’d be up to his ears in trouble trying to explain why he’d handcuffed her to the bed. It probably hadn’t been a wise move, but at the time he hadn’t been thinking too clearly.

  He reached over her legs to set her coffee down on the bedside table. The movement brought his face close to hers. In spite of his internal warning, he noted how thick and long her eyelashes were, how they swept upward, and how sweet her mouth looked.

  She glanced up. Their gazes met . . . and held. Her pink tongue dipped out. He watched it glide across her bottom lip, then she sucked that same bottom lip back into her mouth. The need to taste her mouth overpowered the warnings. He leaned a breath closer.

  Chapter Seven