Hit 'N' Run (Under Suspicion #1) (3 page)

Lorna veered her gaze from the uniformed policeman to the built-in table across the way and nodded her assent. Retrieving her black notebook, her heels clicked across the tiled floor. Pulling a chair forward, she took the paper and pen and sat. Including Mr. Gordon’s information, she answered the questions and wrote her report in the space provided. Several minutes later, she returned to the counter, still the only civilian in the foyer of the building.

The officer glanced up from his perch, and seemed disinclined to leave his chair again so soon. This left Lorna to stand like a statue at the counter. To her disgust, she observed a sneaky pinky finger slip up one of his nostrils to make a grab for something unmentionable.

She turned her head away quickly as bile rose and her gag reflex spiked.

He snorted a couple of times while she concentrated her attention out a window. She glanced back and waited for the constable to finish, envisioning all she could be doing at the moment instead. She had about six hours of work ahead of her to get the Aqua Oil situation sorted out. Unbidden, she tapped her foot and searched the ceiling for distraction. The dust motes floating in the current from the slow-moving fan did little to settle her nerves.

“So I read here
you
actually hit the other vehicle. A hearse, you say?” The officer stood on the other side of the counter, running a finger up and down the bridge of his nose, causing a slight red area to grow the white head of an impending pimple.
Yuk
.

“Yes. The hearse ran the stop sign.”

“You’re sure it was a hearse?”

“I assure you it was a black hearse.” She snorted, exhausted and a bit unhinged by her discovery. She immediately wanted to reel the sound back like a wayward fish. She sobered with a cough to cover her distress. “There’s a witness. His information is just here.” Lorna pointed a nail at the area of the sheet where she had included Paul Gordon’s information.

“And the driver of the hearse just drove off?”

The question of why bother to complete a report if the officer was just going to recap every point by point blinked like a neon sign behind her lids. “No, as I wrote, right here.” She pointed to another neatly printed line on the statement. “The man got out to see if I was okay…”

The policeman rested an elbow on the counter and smirked. “Nice of him.”

“I guess,” she agreed, forcing a lift to her lips, putting on her best salesman face. “Listen, the man left me his driver’s license. Said an emergency called him away.”

“Emergencies can happen in the funeral business, I imagine.” He lifted his gaze to meet hers, brow furrowed. ‘So, a polite runner then?”

Inhaling deeply, Lorna forged on. “I want to talk to you about that, actually.”

The constable stared, barely blinking, so she blurted. “It’s a fake.”

“What’s a fake?”

“The driver’s license,” she confirmed through tight lips.

“How would you know?”

“I didn’t recognize him at first with the beard and everything.” Oh, God, she was rambling.
Get a grip.
Lorna took a shaky breath. “I know–once knew–the driver I hit. His name is Mitchell Morgan, not Michael Ward, as is written here. The picture on this license,” she said, moving her own hand to cover the license on the counter, “is him, but that’s not his name. This,” she paused to tap the document with her fingernail, “is a fake.”

“How can you be sure?” His murky brown eyes met hers, clearly skeptical.

She glanced at the picture again, the tips of her fingers still touching the edge of the laminated surface. How could she explain the fact she would never be able to forget Mitchell Morgan’s midnight-blue eyes? Those same expression-filled eyes with just a hint of mischief couldn’t be disguised. “I’m sure.”

The officer lifted the license off the counter with beefy fingers and scrutinized the information, stifling a yawn. “Please sit down. I’ll run it through our system and see what comes up.”

Sitting down on the hard plastic chair, which seemed to be made for an imaginary body type, because no matter which way she twisted, the damned thing was uncomfortable. Crossing her legs and pulling her purse onto her lap, Lorna stared at the institutional grey walls and considered the ramifications of her actions. Mitchell Morgan or Michael Ward? Perhaps he used an alias at university?
She disregarded this. Perhaps he changed his name after graduating. Possible, but she didn’t think so.
Her gut told her the license was a fake, and she had long since learned to trust her intuition.

“Miss?” The constable’s gruff voice brought Lorna back from her thoughts.

“Yes?” She returned to the counter.

“I’m afraid you must be mistaken. The license is real. A Mr. Michael Ward is the registered owner of a black Jeep Cherokee. He is also listed as a licensed chauffeur for Golden Meadows Funeral Home. Is that the correct description of the vehicle you hit?”

Lorna blinked several times trying to figure out the puzzle. “There wasn’t a sign on the vehicle, but…” she paused, striving for something—anything—to concentrate her thoughts in the empty room, “but I know this man by a different name.”

The officer shrugged, clearly bored with the conversation. “Either he looks like someone you knew or that someone used a different name with you.” To his credit, the officer tried for a smile. The crease at the side of his mouth resembled a fold in paper. “They say everyone has a twin.”

Lorna drummed her fingers on the countertop and shook her head. She opened her mouth to protest when she caught the officer’s eye again. The muddy brown gaze saddled her with a pitying expression saved for those lonely people craving a bit of excitement. She straightened her shoulders. “You are mistaken, sir. The man in this picture is Mitchell Morgan. I assure you.”

“Our system seems to disagree with you,” the officer replied with a note of skepticism in his voice while he retained hold of the license. “We’ll take care of sending this back to Mr. Ward as soon as he files his report.”

She lifted her purse from the countertop. “Fine. I’ve done my due diligence. If you choose to do nothing, that’s your business. All I need to concern myself with is ensuring my rental vehicle is reported damaged so the insurance people will have no further concerns.”

His domed top reflected the fluorescent light when he nodded before he resumed his seat, already lost in the information contained on the monitor. He glanced up once to nod a dismissal, an air of pity still glowing in his muck brown eyes.

The sympathy, combined with the day’s frustrations, caused her simmering blood to reach a boiling point. “Goddamnit to hell. I’m not some sorry loser seeking a bit of drama to spice up my life,” she said, flattening her hand on the scarred green surface
.

Noting his okay-here’s-another-female-with-too-many-hormones look, she turned on her heel, calling over her shoulder. “Thank you for your time.”

“You’re welcome, Miss.”

Jerk
!

Chapter Three

Mitch leaned against the back bumper of the open hearse. He filled his deprived lungs with air and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. With a drawn-out sigh, he allowed the adrenaline from the day’s proceedings to drain away. Considering the day’s events and near miss, Mitch pinched the bridge of his nose. He examined the solid gait of his partner’s approach through the rows of headstones. The crime scene team, accompanied by police dogs, had unearthed a small fortune of buried drugs stashed inside caskets and urns, waiting for transfer over the border. The graveyard resembled a gopher’s patch with its mass of open burial plots.

Mitch’s partner cut an imposing spectacle dressed in leather chaps, bare-chested with a leather vest revealing an art dealer’s amount of ink from shoulder to waist.

Arms folded across his chest, Mitch crossed his feet at the ankles and lowered his head to bury a chuckle.

The big man furrowed his brow in a sharp angle over his nose. “What’s so funny?” An answering half grin tugged the corners of his thin lips.

“Hank, man.” Mitch sighed, threw his head back, and laughed outright. “When I see you marching through a graveyard full of empty, open plots, dressed like you are right now, all I hear in my head is some hard, fist-to-the-air, loud-enough-to-make-my-ears-bleed, rock. You so fit the role, man.”

Hank slapped Mitch on the shoulder and tilted his face towards the early evening sky. The low baritone rumble echoed, barely recognizable as a laugh. The large man pulled the do-rag from his shaved head.

The hearse creaked a protest when Hank lowered his weight to the bumper next to Mitch. “The bust sure was something.” He yawned, not bothering to cover the gaping hole. “Hell of a day.”

Mitch stifled his own yawn. “Um hum,” he agreed. With the way his morning began, he was still amazed he actually made it to church—drug bust—on time.

Hank’s deep-set grey-green eyes, with their ability to intimidate even the most hardened criminal, crinkled with mischief. “I’ll be glad to get rid of this.” He moved a beefy hand along his leather biker outfit.

“What?” Mitch tilted over on his hip to appraise his friend from head to toe. “I thought Tina liked the new you, ‘Ax.’” Mitch nudged Hank’s muscled shoulder with his own, using the big man’s alias. “Didn’t ya say she found the new duds kinda kinky?”

Hank crossed his arms. “Sexy,” he replied and swiped the rag across his glistened brow. “Maybe for a weekend, but when Daddy comes home and the kids back away petrified…well, then it’s time to grow back the hair and lose the leathers and frayed jeans.”

The pounding of several sets of feet drew their attention. A small detail of officers approached. “We need to get to those.” One of the technicians paused, pointing to the contents in the back of the vehicle. The two caskets located in the hearse contained a shipment of cocaine, not bodies.

The partners scooted from their perch, stepping to the side to allow the officer’s entry.

“Cut it kinda close, didn’t ya?” Hank raised his chin in the direction of the bent passenger door. “What the hell happened?”

Mitch rolled his eyes. “Friggin’ nightmare.” He ran a hand over the cavity. Red paint from the diesel truck edged the side of the dent. Red like those strappy heels attached to lovely legs and a well-rounded—
Still don’t have time for that
, he admonished himself while wondering if he might be able to find out her name and make it up to her.
Perhaps take the knot out of her hair
.

***

In her hotel room, Lorna fell back on the bed, drained by the happenings of the day. Completely spent, she worked and reworked the Aqua Oil proposal, striving to stay on task, her mind wandering at every turn. If only she’d had a normal day. But exhaustion pulled her down into its comfortable slumber. Try as she might, she couldn’t keep her eyes open a moment longer.

The goose-down pillows seemed custom made to fit her head. While her eyes fluttered closed, the damp scent of earth and wild ferns surrounded her. Young and free, the weight of the proposal and ever present business needs slipped away. She had transported back five years to McNab’s Island, the weekend prior to her graduation.

Lorna stood to stretch her back after whacking the last peg in the ground to secure the tent. “Call me critical…”

Natasha, the sister of her heart, laughed, moss-green eyes merry. “You’re critical.” She tossed Lorna a backpack.

Lorna ignored the barb and bent to retrieve her sleeping bag. “Tenting on an island for a big drunk fest is not the soundest decision we’ve ever made.” She scanned the wooded area next to them and lowered her voice. “We don’t even know who our neighbors might be.”

“In case you’ve forgotten…” Natasha threw another bag in the tent. “It’s called celebrating—a coming of age—end of an era—kinda thing.”

Lorna stood hunched in the confined space but managed to put her hand on her hip. “Remembering why I’m here doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten how to celebrate.” She tilted her leg out for better balance. “I simply think assembling hundreds of newly graduated university students—”

“
Graduated
being the operative word. Students no more.”

Lorna huffed and swung her arm wide, trailing her fingertips along the inside of the nylon fabric. “Okay. Putting a bunch of graduates together on one small island and telling them to go wild.”

Her roommate’s smile rivaled the brightness of the sun. “Do you think?”

“What?”

“We’ll get wild?” Natasha bounced up on her toes, an excited flush coloring her cheeks. “Be surrounded by wild, sexy men. What kind of paradoxical universe would that create?”

Lorna snorted. “Oh, ha, ha.”

Natasha’s straight brows drew a V over the bridge of her nose in a frown. “Listen, everyone needs to let go once in a while.” She placed her slender hands on Lorna’s shoulders. “Think you can
try
to let loose this weekend? You don’t want to be one of those people who up and cracks one day. Goes ‘postal’ or something.”

The image fetched a froth of giggles. Lorna pushed the slender girl back so they both landed on the pile of bags.

“When you put it that way, what choice do I have?”

Natasha shimmied back to reach inside their cooler and toss Lorna cold one.

Lorna caught the beer easily.

Natasha peeked outside the tent flap before pulling her head back inside. “Men,” she squealed. “We’re surrounded on both sides by M-E-N!”

“There’s that expensive education coming to good use.” Lorna crawled to the tent flap. “You can spell.”

“One-two-three, let’s down these and go exploring,” Natasha said. 

“Okay, on three.”

Music pulsated through Lorna’s veins, making her one with the camaraderie instead of simply a spectator. With no shortage of liquid spirits, Lorna’s shyness ebbed following Natasha’s lead.

Natasha jerked her arm, almost knocking Lorna off her unsteady legs. “Don’t look now,” she hissed, directing her strong chin toward a group of rugby guys bench-pressing girls from the cheer squad. “There’s Mitchell Morgan. Didn’t you tutor him or something? You get all the luck. How many times did he ask you out?”

Through fuzzy vision, Lorna honed in on the man. Her insides quickened. “I don’t know, maybe a couple of times. He wasn’t serious.”

“Wasn’t serious, my ass. How many times did he show up at the dorm?” Natasha maneuvered them closer to the action. “Really, what more could you ask for? Built with a sense of humor and those ‘see you in the bedroom’ blue eyes.”

Only because he doesn’t know I’m spoiled goods
, Lorna took another drink to cover the jitter of her heart.
No man will ever want what’s inside this package once they realize…

Within the crush of bodies and alcohol haze, Lorna considered perhaps for one night she could let it all go. She would be like everyone else, not flawed, not damaged, but free to do as she pleased.

Someone handed her a shot and she downed the contents, wheezing with the after burn. She joined the gyrating figures, stomping on the grass, hands in the air. Someone handed her another and soon her hair flowed about her shoulders.

She spotted Mitch on the edge of the dancers. Here was her chance. Emboldened by booze, Lorna opened another button on her blouse and made her way towards her conquest.

As if drawn to her like a needle at the end of a thread, she watched while he stepped back from the conversation at her approach. His face in shadow, she couldn’t read his expression.

“You let your hair down.”

With a self-conscious gesture, she reached to smooth the locks. Her breath labored as though running. Taking her courage by the shot-glass, she stepped closer. “Y-you never called,” she slurred and ended on a hiccup.

The gleam of his white teeth reflected in the dim light. “No.” He drew out the word, his lips moved to her ear. “You didn’t take my calls. You never answered the door.”

Her insides tuned to a quavering mass while his breath tickled her ear. She swayed back a step. “Oh.”

His eyes crinkled and his smile widened. He had deep dimples.

Without a word, he placed a hand on the small of her back and turned her towards the dancers. The warmth from his fingers radiated through her entire length. Entering the tussle of writhing bodies, he turned her in his arms, hands snug to her hips.

His lips caressed the flower of her ear, his deep voice throaty. “I knew there was something in you just waiting.”

The feel of his hard body intoxicated her more than the alcohol. “I’m s-sure there’s a lot more to me than—than y-you imagined.”

With his tongue spreading a moist trail of desire, she found it increasingly hard to concentrate.

“There is.” He claimed her lips.

Her arms twined around his neck. The throb, which had begun the moment she saw him, grew rosy with the heat of their bodies. She opened her lips to him, her tongue dueling for control.

His palms cupped her warm cheeks. His gaze drilled through to her soul. “Come with me,” he whispered and took her hand, drawing her from the throngs of dancing, sweating bodies.

Electrical currents of anticipation travelled along her veins. She’d follow him anywhere. Gone were the crowds. For this moment they were the only two people on the island. Her courage held until he unzipped the flap of his tent, then she hesitated, her old resolve causing her to pull back.

He tilted his head to the side and ran his thumb along her jaw. Electric tingles coursed over her skin. Desire filled her while a small pulse in an area typically ignored ached with expectation.

“You want me?” She couldn’t stop the question.

“I do. I tried to tell…”

“Truly?” She raised a hand to his stubbled cheek.

He kissed her tenderly, his lips forming to hers. He pulled back so only their noses touched. “For a long time now.”

She lowered her head. “I want you too.”

His thumb traced the contours of her lips and he tilted her chin up. “Do what you want to do, Lorna—what makes you feel good. Stop overthinking—overanalyzing.”

“Mitchell…I’m…I’m dam—”

“Damned beautiful is what you are.” His mouth descended on hers again, while his forefinger traced a seductive line from her collarbone over her exposed skin, down to her cleavage, to the button of her blouse.

Warmth flooded in all hidden places in her body. She sighed.

He lifted her hand and rained soft kisses on the inside of her wrist. “You don’t understand how I want you.” He led her through the tent flap and laid her back on the nylon floor, cradling her head in the crook of his arm. In no apparent hurry, he smoothed fingertips across her brow and down her cheek to reach behind her head to pull her face to his. “Don’t you know, Lorna?”

The ping of an incoming e-mail rang through to her conscience, unexpected and unwelcomed. Lorna’s eyes flew open stung by the bright display of the open laptop. Her breath hitched, his whispered words reverberated deep in her soul.
Don’t you know
?

Lorna swung her feet to the side of the bed. With her elbows laid across her knees, she tried to gain control of her breathing. She groaned, the loss of the emotional connection of her dream felt like a physical blow. She padded off to the bathroom to splash water on her face. Liquid cupped in her palms for a drink, she chastised her reflection. “Why didn’t I realize?” She shook her head at the dark circles under her eyes. She would have to take special care tomorrow with her makeup to cover the smudges of worry. “I was just a conquest. The one that got away—one in a long line, as it turned out.”

Clicking off the lights as she went, she moved back towards the bed, exhausted and ready for slumber. The beauty of the dream—memory—could not erase or ease of pain of the harsh reality. Her heart craved the sweetness of that moment. If only it had stayed perfect.