Contract Pending Read online

Chapter 12

  His voice was a tight whisper in my ear. “Stay down.”

  I nodded, my teeth chattering. I wasn’t going anywhere. I recognize a gunshot when I hear one, and this one had come uncomfortably close. I’d also recognized the tinkling of the glass in the window next to the front door where the bullet had pushed through. I swear I’d even heard it zoom by, although that was probably just my imagination.

  He added, “Are you hit?”

  I shook my head. “You?”

  “No.” He lifted his head. Personally, I couldn’t hear anything but the rushing of blood in my ears and the frantic pounding of my heart, but after a second, he rolled off me and got to his feet.

  “Rafe...!” I sat up and reached for him, panicked. What if the shooter—the Hispanic man?—was right outside the window, and tried again?

  “He’s gone.” He glanced down at me. I could barely make out the gleam of his eyes in the dark. He must be able to see better than I could, though, because after a second, I could see the gleam of his teeth, too, as he took in the sight of me sitting there, with my skirt twisted high on my thighs and my dress down to my waist. He could probably even see the flood of color that rose in my cheeks. I hiked the bodice over my breasts and reached up to fasten the straps.

  “Shame to do that,” Rafe remarked.

  “I don’t want the police to find me on the floor with my dress half off.”

  “In this neighborhood, we’ll prob’ly have to call’em ourselves if we want’em. Although seeing you like that would make Truman’s day. It’s made mine.”

  I smiled, a little shakily. Patrol Officer George Truman is no more than twenty two, and he blushes if I look at him for too long. “Someone else will call them, don’t you think?”

  “We’ll see.” He moved toward the front door, silently, staying close to the wall. I held my breath, but nothing happened. In the distance, we could hear a car starting up and driving away.

  “There he goes,” Rafe said, not bothering to lower his voice. “Shit.”

  “At least he’s gone.”

  He glanced at me as I came up next to him. “Yeah, but I didn’t get a look at him. I wanted to see if it was the guy you told me about.”

  “That’s why the porch light was on.” I felt like a slow child trailing behind. “You expected this. That’s why you sent Mrs. Jenkins away. And that’s why you were upset when I showed up.”

  He shrugged. But he didn’t deny it.

  “Why didn’t you tell me to leave?”

  “Before or after you told me you wanted to sleep with me, darlin’?” He shook his head. “I figured you were safer in here than out there. But then I got distracted.”

  “God, I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, I really wish none of that woulda happened, too.” The tone was definitely sarcastic. “I should be apologizing to you. You coulda been hit. And it woulda been my fault.”

  “He wasn’t aiming for me. He was aiming for you.” And because I’d distracted him, he might have died.

  “That’s if it was the same guy you met,” Rafe reminded me. “And anyway, we were standing kinda close together. Wouldn’t be hard to shoot the wrong person.”

  That was unfortunately true. “What do you mean, if it was the same guy? Who else could it be? How many people do you have gunning for you at one time?”

  “By now? Could be a few.” He turned to look out the broken window, the glass on the floor crunching under his feet as he shifted his weight. I looked up at him.

  “What did you do, Rafe? Detective Grimaldi mentioned a cargo heist in Memphis. Lots of merchandise worth a lot of money missing, and the TBI talked to you about it.”

  “The TBI talked to a lot of people,” Rafe said, without meeting my eyes.

  “It isn’t the first time they’ve looked at you for something like that, though. Todd was telling me about the weapons thefts at Fort Campbell military base, and the tractor trailers in Knoxville—or maybe it was Chattanooga or Jackson—and of course there was the open house robberies here in Brentwood in September, and the TBI have talked to you about all of it, and somehow you always manage to slither through their fingers and away...” While everyone else around him seemed to get arrested.

  “No doubt Satterfield told you it’s because I’m some sorta criminal genius.” He looked at me, his eyes steady. “What do you think, Savannah?”

  He only called me Savannah when he was being serious. The rest of the time he called me darlin’. So my answer right now mattered.

  “I’m not sure what to think,” I admitted. “I really don’t want to believe that you’re a criminal, but you know how to do a lot of things that normal people don’t.” Like opening locked doors with my hairpins and intimidating bad guys. He seemed scarily familiar with knives, and having guns pointed at him and shots coming his way certainly didn’t faze him for long. Nor did the sight of dead bodies or even having to stab a man to death. Like the Energizer Bunny, he just kept going. “And if the TBI keeps connecting you to crimes...”

  “There’s another reason they could be talking to me and letting me go, you know.”

  If he was innocent. I nodded. “But you’re involved. At least you were involved in the open house robberies. And Todd seemed pretty positive you had something to do with the other things, too.”

  “So...?”

  “So if you’re not innocent, you’re either a criminal mastermind, or...”

  ...what?

  He didn’t say anything, just watched me puzzle it out for myself. It didn’t take long. I’m not actually stupid, and he had given me some pretty broad hints. I stared at him, my eyes enormous and my mouth open. “You’re working for them. Aren’t you?”

  He didn’t answer. But he didn’t deny it, either. I closed my mouth, and opened it again. “For how long?”

  He answered that, anyway. “Since I got out of prison.”

  “Todd told me you were recruited by a criminal organization while you were there.” The Tennessee Bureau of Investigation is hardly a criminal organization. Not in that sense of the word.

  “I was. That’s what did it. The TBI figured I was their way in. So they sprung me early.”

  “And you’ve spent ten years undercover.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve spent ten years doing what I prob’ly woulda been doing anyway. And feeding the TBI some information about it along the way.”

  And probably making a lot of people suspicious about why he kept skating through while all around him, people were caught and arrested.

  A sound outside made us both look out the window. It was a car, turning onto the graveled drive. A black and white patrol car.

  “Here they come,” Rafe said. I nodded. “You wanna go upstairs? Pretend you’re not here? They’re not gonna search the place.”

  I hesitated. My car was parked outside, so even if the cops weren’t ones I already knew, who already knew me, they’d make a note of the fact that it was here. “They’re going to guess what we were doing, aren’t they?”

  The corners of his mouth turned up. “Anyone who looks at you is gonna guess what we were doing, darlin’.”

  “Great.” Not.

  Still, I didn’t go upstairs. Outside, the police car pulled to a stop and the passenger door opened. George Truman stepped out. After a second, Lyle Spicer’s graying head emerged from the driver’s side door. He adjusted his gun belt under his paunch and looked at the house. When he saw the two of us peering at him out of the broken window, he shook his head in resignation.

  “You two again,” he said when Rafe had unlocked the door. “What happened this time?”

  I let Rafe answer, since I wasn’t entirely sure how much the police knew about what was going on with him, and how much he’d want them to know.

  “We were in the kitchen, back there...” He pointed, “when there was a gunshot out here. Through the window.”

  “Uh-huh.” Spicer looked down at the shards of glass on the floor. “Then what?”
r />   “We hit the floor. When we heard a car drive away, we came out here to look at the damage.”

  OK, so it was a little different from the truth, but that’s essentially what had happened. With a few minor omissions. And it wasn’t like I could complain about what he had left out. I certainly didn’t want Spicer and Truman to know that when someone had shot at us, I’d been pretty close to having sex standing up in the hallway.

  “Any idea who mighta wanted you dead?” Spicer asked as Truman prowled the hall. He stuck his head through the door to the kitchen, flicking on the ceiling light, and took in the two beer bottles on the table—one empty, one half full—and the bag of nuts, along with the TV, which was still playing, sound muted. “Either one of you?”

  “Coulda been anyone,” Rafe answered with a shrug.

  “Right.” Spicer looked from him to me. “Miz Martin?”

  “What?... Oh, you want to know if there’s anyone who wants me dead? Not that I know of. Although there’s whoever broke into my apartment the other day. But they wouldn’t have known that I’d be here. I didn’t know I was going to be here until about thirty minutes ago. I had a conversation a couple of days ago with a man who wanted Rafe dead, though.”

  Spicer’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead as he glanced at Rafe. The latter’s face was carefully blank.

  “She told me about it,” he said. “I have no idea who it mighta been. The description coulda been anybody, pretty much.”

  Spicer looked back at me. “Didya happen to report it to anyone?”

  “I told Tamara Grimaldi,” I said. “She said the same thing. It could have been anyone. Hispanic man, mid thirties. Black hair, brown eyes. Some sort of tattoo on his back. Six feet tall, give or take.”

  “We can do a canvass tomorrow,” Officer Truman suggested, over his shoulder. “See if anyone in the neighborhood has seen anyone like that hanging around.”

  Spicer nodded. “See if anyone saw this car you heard drivin’ away, too. Where was it, d’ya think?”

  Rafe and I exchanged a look. “That way?” I suggested, pointing vaguely to the left. He nodded.

  “Parked a coupla houses down, most likely. He had time to get there after he fired. If he moved fast. Someone mighta seen him. Or the car.”

  “We’ll check it out,” Spicer said again. “And I’ll give the detective a call, too.” ‘The detective’ is what he calls Tamara Grimaldi. As if she were the only detective at the Metro Nashville PD. “Anything else?”

  Rafe and I looked at one another again. “I can’t think of anything,” I said. He shook his head. I turned back to Spicer. “Thanks for coming out.”

  Spicer nodded. “Always a pleasure seein’ you, Miz Martin. Mr. Collier.” He winked at me. “Nice dress.”

  “I had dinner with D.A. Satterfield earlier tonight.”

  “Right.” Spicer glanced up at Rafe on his way past, perhaps wondering what I was doing here, after having dinner with Todd Satterfield. Or maybe not wondering. Then he looked at the broken window. “You better put something over that. And clean up the glass.”

  “Soon as you’re gone.”

  Spicer grinned. “We’ll be back in the morning to dig out the bullet.” He gestured to Truman. “C’mon, kid. Time to go. These folks wanna be alone.”

  Truman grinned too, but moved through the door without comment, other than a polite nod. “Ma’am.”

  “Nice to see you,” I managed.

  I stood at the window and watched them drive away while Rafe went into the kitchen. He came back with a piece of cardboard and a roll of duct tape. And then he proceeded to tape the cardboard to the window, ripping off pieces of tape with his teeth. The window had broken in a sunburst pattern, with a tiny hole in the middle and a bunch of cracks radiating out from it. Some of the shards had broken off, but all in all, the hole was actually quite small, considering how big a bang there had been. I wondered where the bullet had ended up.

  “Wall over there,” Rafe said when I asked. He nodded toward the back of the hall, past the place where we’d been standing earlier. “By the kitchen door. Didn’t miss by much.”

  When I moved away from him to take a look, he raised his voice. “Leave it. They’ll get it tomorrow.”

  I nodded.

  “There’s a broom and dustpan in the pantry in the kitchen, if you wanna make yourself useful. Get some of this glass up.”

  “Of course.” I moved down the hall toward the kitchen, glancing at the neat bullet hole on my way past, and marveling at the incongruity of my life. Here I was, wearing the satin dress and silver sandals I’d bought for Todd Satterfield, on my way to fetch a broom and dustpan to sweep up broken glass in Rafe Collier’s hallway, after almost getting shot and almost having sex. Talk about situations I hadn’t expected to be in when I woke up this morning.

  After the window was taped and the glass removed to the trash can in the kitchen, Rafe looked at me. Up and down. Rumpled dress, tangled hair, smeared make-up. He seemed amused. “When I said there’d be fireworks, this wasn’t what I meant.”

  “Me either.” I smiled weakly.

  “Guess the moment’s pretty well shot to hell.”

  He was watching me. Trying to gauge whether I still wanted him, I suppose, or whether I was off the whole idea now.

  “I guess so.”

  Maybe he was the one who was off the idea. I wouldn’t blame him, if so. Someone had just tried to kill him, and that had to be upsetting. No matter how used to it he was.

  He folded his arms. “It’s a long drive back to Sweetwater.”

  I nodded. “That policewoman is still in my apartment. At least I think so; I haven’t heard that she isn’t.”

  “You’re welcome to spend the night here. There’s plenty of room. Marquita won’t be back, and my grandma’s gone for a while, too.”

  Obviously he remembered what I’d told him yesterday morning, that I was in his bed only because Mrs. Jenkins had been sleeping in her own bed, and I hadn’t wanted to spend the night in Marquita’s because there was a chance she might come back. But now there were two empty beds to choose from, and no need for me to share his. I managed to suppress a grimace. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  He nodded. “Got a preference?”

  “Oh. Um...” He was looking at me. Pretty intently, really. “I guess... I would kind of prefer... yours?”

  Right answer.

  He smiled. “Plenty of room in my bed too.”

  “Great.” I smiled back, relieved.

  “Need anything from down here?” He looked around.

  I shook my head. Everything I needed would be upstairs with me.

  “C’mon, then.” He put a hand at the small of my back, warm and hard through the satin. I started up the stairs.

  His room looked just as it had when I left it almost two days ago. The blinds were still down over the windows, and the bed was still rumpled. It still smelled like him. I drew in a deep breath before I turned. “We don’t have to do this. Someone just tried to shoot you, and if you’re not in the mood—”

  He didn’t answer, just grabbed me, yanked me up against him, and proceeded to pick up where we’d been earlier. Before the fireworks.

  Less than a minute later, my back hit the bed. Rafe did not follow me down, though. Instead he stood in front of me, grabbed the bottom of the blue T-shirt and pulled it up and over his head.

  I’ve never been into male strippers. Frankly, that much nudity is embarrassing. Bradley preferred the lights off when we had sex, and I didn’t mind, since I don’t precisely look like a swimsuit model. And it wasn’t like Rafe was stripping in the entertainment sense of the word. He was just getting undressed. But I won’t say that the sight of him peeling that tight T-shirt over his head, of muscles flexing and tightening, didn’t have my stomach tightening, as well.

  Then he pushed jeans and whatever underwear he had on down together, and I choked.

  He looked at me. Looked down, and interpreted—correctly—the re
ason for my sudden panic. “It’ll fit.”

  “But what if it doesn’t?” I scooted backwards, closer to the headboard. “It’s been a while, and...”

  The corners of his mouth turned up. “I’ll make it fit.”

  I swallowed another hitch of breath. “Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better.”

  “This was your idea, darlin’. If you’re not ready, I can wait.”

  “It’s not that I’m not ready. I’m just… nervous. It’s been a while. I guess I’m out of practice.” I smiled weakly.

  He smiled back, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “I’m not.”

  “Yes, and that’s another thing. You’ve had all this experience, while I…”

  “Haven’t?”

  I shrugged. Bradley. That was it. But I didn’t want to tell him that. If he knew, he might change his mind.

  “You afraid I’m gonna be disappointed, darlin’?”

  I avoided his eyes. “I guess.”

  “No need. You couldn’t disappoint me if you tried.”

  “That’s not what Bradley said.”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, I ain’t Bradley.”

  “I’ve noticed,” I said.

  How could I not? Bradley had been pale-skinned and fair-haired, businesslike, competent, and perfectly proper. Sex with him had been by the book: proficient and thorough, but hardly earth-shattering. Whereas Rafe was heat and passion, all warm golden skin and hot dark eyes and bone-melting kisses.

  My eyes glazed, and he chuckled. “You’re gonna enjoy this, darlin’. I promise. And by the time we’re finished, it’ll be like Bradley never existed.”

  “Must be nice to be that confident.”

  He grinned. “Think I can’t do it?”

  “I’m sure you can do anything you put your mind to,” I said demurely. And added, “Unless we get interrupted again. The phone could ring, or someone else could take a shot at you.”

  He shook his head. “Not this time. The only fireworks are the ones we’re gonna make ourselves. And the dress comes off. Now.”

  He reached out. Slipped both hands around my neck and unfastened the straps. And pulled the dress down to my waist.

  It was mostly just sensations and impressions after that. His hands, his mouth, his body moving against mine. Hot skin and hard muscles, soft touches turning impatient and then urgent.