Hit 'N' Run (Under Suspicion #1) (7 page)

Lorna turned in her seat, trying to get a good view of the officer before she lifted her hand towards the window, but didn’t comply with offering up the information. Hand just below the ledge of the pane, she hesitated, arm raised. “What’s the offense, officer?”

“Hit and run, miss.”

Lorna dropped her hand to her lap. “Wh-what?”

“Hit and run,” he said in an eerily familiar voice.

“I reported the offense, officer. There must be some confusion. I was not the one who ran,” she said indignantly. Inflamed at being pulled over for an offense already settled, she twisted in her seat, unlatched her seat belt, unlocked the door, and pulled open the latch, forgetting her foreboding.

In a voice which stammered with emotion, she said, “You have your story mistaken, Officer. A man by the name of Mitchell Morgan fled the scene, not me. I hit him, but he’s the one who ran the stop sign.”

“Hell of a place to run into a…ah…what would you call us? Former acquaintances?”

The tall man removed his glasses and a shiver coursed through the back of Lorna’s knees as she held onto the open driver’s door for support. Then that memorable wide devil-be-damned grin filled her with such familiar longing she almost ran to him, hoping he’d wrap her in his arms.

“You once called me Mitch.”

Like a blow to the sternum, her breath fled her body, and she couldn’t seem to stop the tight pull erupting low in her belly. Gone was the scruffy-faced hearse driver. Here stood a man more gorgeous than she remembered. Powerful in his confidence. His wide shoulders filled the uniform as though it had been custom tailored.
Damn, he’s aged well
. Her hand lifted automatically to smooth her hair as her eyes quickly travelled his lean form. A neat goatee, clean-shaven cheeks, and the skiff of hair she could see under his hat, trimmed as was becoming of a policeman.

“You-you’re—” Her words stumbled idiotically.

His grin broadened at her discomposure, revealing that one tooth on his lower jaw which never been fixed. Its crookedness, offering a slight imperfection in his perfectly masculine face, was endearing. Merriment reflected in his blue-black eyes. How like him to revel in her agitation. Of course she had always been agitated his presence.

Standing tall, letting go of the support from the door, Lorna started again. “You’re a…where’d you…how come?”

Worry crossed his features as he stepped closer. “It’s okay, Lorna,” he said, his concern making her ashamed of her reaction. “I didn’t mean to startle you so badly.”

“I’m not,” she began with a squeak to her voice obvious to her own ears. She drew a palm up to her mouth, coughed, and clamped her lips together.

“It’s been such a long time.” He stepped closer still, and she wanted to narrow the gap further by leaning into him.

“It has,” she agreed, lost in his eyes.
Does he know what kind of effect he has on me?

He leaned away slightly, rolling back on his heels but kept a close proximity, surveying her from head to toe. “You look lovely.” The grin lifted his full lips again, creasing his eyes.
Leave it to him to rock even with crow’s feet.

“Thank you.” She struggled to regain some composure. Conspicuous on the side of the road, Lorna peered towards the police cruiser. “Did you really stop me because of the accident?”

“Yes and no.” He followed her gaze, giving his partner a quick nod before fixing his gaze back on hers. “I conned one of the patrol officers to let me borrow his uniform.”

Lorna stepped back to within the safety of her open car door. “You mean you’re not a policeman?”
What kind of racket is he involved in that he can impersonate a policeman.
“First in a hearse and now in a cop car? What have you gotten yourself into, Mitchell?”

He held a hand up, palm towards her. “Easy there. Yes, I am a police officer. I’m just not a uniformed officer.” When she didn’t say anything, he continued. “I work un—I’m a plainclothes officer. I, ah, well, it’s not important. After what happened, I wanted to find you to first make sure you were in fact okay.”

His brows rose and crimped his face with question, and she felt obliged to answer. “Yes, I’m fine. Put a bit of a crimp in my day. But I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

He leaned marginally towards her, and she could smell the fresh scent of Irish Spring soap. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. He stood too close now. She felt wedged between his large body and her car, torn between apprehension over his seeking her out in this manner and longing for him to hold her just one more time. “I also wanted to know how you made me? You didn’t recognize me at the scene. You would have said. What gave me away?”

“You didn’t recognize me either,” she countered.

“I was a little preoccupied. It’s been a long while.”

“Have I changed so much?” The words were out before she could stop them.
Have I grown so old in such a short period of time?

He seemed to take forever weighing out his answer and his arms crossed over his chest. At last and with purpose, he unfolded his arms and reached up to pull the sunglasses down her nose, holding her eyes in the embrace of his gaze. “No.” His voice dropped in timber, and in that moment she was transported to a place where they were no longer surrounded by city noise with the sun at their backs. They were alone, and it was a dark evening with just the two of them. “But you were wearing these glasses. If I hadn’t been so distracted, believe me, I would know you.”

His words caressed all her sweet spots. He did know her and he made her feel like she was the only woman he’d ever known.

“But this is new,” he said, drawing her deeper under his spell with a smile. The tip of his finger moved from her sunglasses to touch the side of her nose, where a small diamond stud nestled in her nostril, barely visible. His touch was the same as it always had been for her. It turned her skin tingly and her blood to lava. Try as she might—and there were many times before Kris when she did try—she could never replace this feeling with any other.

Her hand reached up to her nose as though to make sure it was still attached. “Oh, yeah. I suppose. I can’t believe you would notice.”

“I notice everything.”

Cold, hard reality returned with the ear-stinging sound of a car horn. That was the problem between them, she wasn’t the ‘only woman.’ Panting, she tried to regain control of her senses. She blinked to focus on her surroundings.

“So do I,” she said with as much force of will as she could muster.

Why am I so affected by this man?
She coughed to clear her throat, lowering her hand. Tearing her focus from him to the black-and-white sitting with the lights still flashing, Lorna tried to still her heart. Harden her heart to a man who already broke it once. She forced herself to remember how she waited for him to return to the tent that long-ago night, only to leave and find him with another girl.

With the image alive in her mind, she regained control of her treacherous body. “Ah, I have to get home, Mitchell,” she said in her crispest voice. “If there’s nothing else.”

His face fell and for a moment she regretted the business-like tone, but she couldn’t trust herself with this man again. The situation had changed where it wasn’t just her anymore. There was Kris and Mariam. She regarded him through the shield of her lashes, pushing her sunglasses back into place, watching as he shuttered his face from her. He wore a policeman’s mask now where nothing showed.

“Ah, yes, I see. You’re right. The same Lorna as always. All business, and I’m holding you up,” he said, retreating a pace. He placed a hand on the door as she sat back in her car.

After she buckled her seat belt, seemingly of its own volition, her hand snaked out and instead of grabbing the door handle, she covered his hand with her own. “So nice to see you again, Mitchell.” She smiled before letting go of his hand and closing the car door.

His face opened again, if only marginally, when he put his hands on the half-opened window. “And you, Lorna.” He straightened, turned, and walked back to the squad car.

Chapter Seven

Kris’s first “real” birthday party was coming up soon, and Lorna wanted to make his backyard party memorable one. Kids from the neighborhood and the preschool class he attended all confirmed they were coming.

With a giggle, Kris slapped the paintbrush against the fence. “Mama, like this?” He danced around on the spot, splattering the paint here, there, and everywhere, except on the fence.

Squatting over her work, a few pickets down from the youngster, pushing the brush between the posts, she paused to glance over. “Just like that.” Lorna beamed.

There had been a time when it would have driven her crazy to see the paint splattered all over. She would have felt compelled to fix it immediately. But like mother, like son. Kris taught her, in a way Natasha never could, that it wasn’t a big a deal. She understood her son very well, and he just wanted to help, but he would grow bored soon and toddle off to do something else. When he did, Lorna would simply paint over the small spot, and voila, all would be well. For now, fun was the name of the game. They listened to pre-school radio off the computer, enjoying each other’s company.

“Hey, it’s the hotdog song!” Lorna called as they both started to flap their arms up and down doing the requisite dance, paintbrushes moving wildly through the air.

“I be Mickey,” said Kris.

“I’ll be Daisy.” Lorna sang and danced around the yard as they marched and jumped, singing along.

When the song finished, Lorna couldn’t resist grabbing him up in a big hug, not minding the saturated paintbrush slathering her back. “Maybe we have hotdogs for supper?” Kris said as she twirled him around, her ears filled with the melody of his giggles, before setting him down in front of the fence again.

“I think Nana made your favorite—lasagna,” she replied, retrieving her fallen brush.

Easily distracted from hotdogs as the next song came on, Kris said. “Oh, yes, noodles. I love noodles.”

“Noodles,” agreed Lorna. “You’re a big noodle.”

“No, you a noodle,” he parroted. And they both laughed.

***

Kiddie music and laughter streamed down the driveway as Mitch alighted from his truck. Before committing to walking up the drive, he reached in his pocket for his phone, checking the address again. Two-forty-six Dunfield.
It’s the right house
. He adjusted his ball cap, not for the first time, and wondered why he was there, unannounced, uninvited, and likely unwelcome.

Was it the look she gave me when she laid her hand on mine? That familiar warmth—a hidden smolder in her amber eyes? Do I need closure? Damned if I know!

Fresh laughter floated down the drive on the wings of an undistinguishable tune.
Perhaps she had company over. Giggling was simply not a sound he associated with Lorna. His step faltered as he lost his nerve. Pangs of regret filled him—he again put her in an unfair disadvantage just dropping in on her like this, but curiosity won out. He didn’t know what he was thinking when he pulled her over like some juvenile prank, but he had wanted to see her, thinking that would put paid to it. But of course, it didn’t. Seeing her again only opened his own Pandora’s box, and he couldn’t seem to stop pondering the mystery of Lorna.
Had I ever stopped?

He knocked on the front door. Red. Interesting. Goes with the nose stud.

When no one answered, he pondered the doorbell, but hearing the activity coming from the backyard, he decided to take a peek. Before leaving the wide front porch, which housed a cozy three-person swing off to the side, the cop in him made him check the front door to see if it was locked.

“Good girl,” he said, before walking along the neat cobbled path to the side of the house, leading to the backyard.

Not wanting to intrude on a backyard full of company, Mitch peered over the tall fence to see a woman with her back to him, playing with a little boy. The well-rounded ass clad in cut-off shorts that reached to just above her knees, grabbed—and held his attention. However, it wasn’t the cut-offs or the roundness of her backside causing his lower body to tense. Nor the fact she was covered provocatively in paint splatters. Instead, what caused a slight harness to his member were the very titillating rips up the sides of the shorts to mid-thigh revealing sumptuous legs, a lovely golden color. He couldn’t help but imagine them wrapped around him as they once had. Taking a breath and forcing his eyes upward, he admired instead the toned shoulders covered in a loose tank top.

My God, is that really Lorna? Mitch was slack-jawed.
No way
. He could never have imagined someone as straight laced as Lorna cutting back in such a relaxed fashion. Wearing a red bandana topped with a once black, well-battered ball cap, singing at the top of her voice some song vaguely familiar from his sister’s house when the kids were watching television. Sweat-curled tendrils of hair clung to her cheeks, giving her the appearance of a young girl. His hand ached to tuck the tendrils back behind her ear.

Before he could reach over to unlatch the gate, a small body clad only in a speedo ran into view shouting, “you can’t get me, nanna-nanna-boo-boo,” while he shook his small hiney in her direction.

“I can too.” She dropped her brush and ran after him. The young boy’s knees buckled in the face of his pursuer as high squeals peeled forth when she grabbed the boy, tipping him upside down to run her fingertips over his stomach. “I’m gonna get that belly button!” Cradling his head in one hand, she held his legs firm as she zooberted his stomach, unleashing fresh squeals. Her hat fell to the ground behind her. Head thrown back, laughing, she moved towards the small pool Mitch could just see at the edge of his vision when she seemed to sense his presence at the gate.

Her step faltered. “Whoa. What? Mitchell?” All laughter left her face and she paled. She still held the child upside down.

“What? Mama?”

Mama? What? Is that it?
She’s married. No, he had checked. She’s not married.
Common-law? She doesn’t have to be married to have a kid.
He lifted a hand in greeting. “Hey.”
Why does she always call me Mitchell? I feel like my mom should be scolding me when I hear Mitchell.

She righted the small boy, setting him on his feet. “Someone’s at the gate, Kris. You run and play a bit.”

“Is it a stranger?” His eyes were big and curious. The sturdy legs held their ground by her side. He didn’t have the look of his mother. His coloring was dark to her fair. His eyes wide where hers were round.
Granted, he could look like his father
.

She placed a calm hand on her son’s shoulder. “No honeybun. Not a stranger.” She bent to give him a kiss on his forehead. “But good thinking.” She patted him easily on the backside. “Just an old friend of Mama’s. You run along and play in your pool.”

Mitch lifted the latch. “Sorry to bother you,” he began, stepping just inside the perimeter of the gate, sure to maintain his distance. “I really just wanted to apologize for the other day. I should never have spooked you. I should know better. It’s just…running into you after…”

He wavered, rambling, unable to take his eyes off her lips—so full and ripe, waiting to be kissed. Why did she do that to him? Why’d he always want more when it came to Lorna? His nostrils flared and he could practically smell the sunshine off her skin. Sweat trickled down his back as he jammed his hands in his pockets, striving to control his predatory impulse of walking up to her and taking her in his arms. None of the women he’d known over the years—far too many—ever had him panting for more like Lorna.

Averting his eyes to the well-groomed grass, he ground his teeth, imagining her with another man. A man she shared a life and a son with. His fists curled in his pockets. If the man were here now, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to maintain civility.

“After all these years,” she supplied, causing him to flick his gaze back to her curious brown ones. “The other day was a shock. Yes.”

He turned and closed the gate. “I have to know,” he said, pausing, gulping a breath to control his immediate urges that always accompanied his close proximity to this woman. “How did you know me?”

Her amber eyes crinkled at the edges, matching an uncommon mischievous grin, a sight unaccustomed. He blinked to ensure the sweat running into his eyes hadn’t obscured his vision. Her head tilted to the side, watching him closely—frank curiosity exposed. “Mitchell, I’d know you anywhere.”

She seemed to catch her words, and like a fisherman, wanted to reel them back in, and he relaxed, sensing her unease.

“Strike that.” She laughed nervously, eyes rolling skyward. “I didn’t recognize you right off. Only when you gave me your license, and I-I-it—your picture,” she stammered. “Then I knew.”

“Imagine that.”

She coughed, running her hands along her cutoffs before rising to the bandana. “Well, you certainly caught me off guard. I’m a bloody mess.” Lorna peered around for her cap.

“Just back there,” he said, pointing back towards the pool.

She nodded and took the bandana in hand to rub paint from her face, and he wished she wouldn’t. With the bandana no longer holding back her hair, it fell to just below her shoulders. As light as it had always been, and shiny like corn silk falling off the cob, damp, darkened wisps framed her smeared face, giving her a playful air.

“You look great,” he said before he had time to think, and he watched her eyes go round in surprise.

Assessing at her ensemble, she grimaced. “Yeah, well, thanks,” Lorna said and turned briefly to ensure the boy was in sight. “Would you like something to drink?”

Warring between the urge to run and his continued curiosity, Mitch accepted her offer and followed her back to the deck where there was a platter laid on the table.

“Three-year-old boys snack all the time. If I didn’t keep it here at the ready, I’d never get any work done from running back and forth to the house to get food.” Her laugh was awkward, forced, and he recognized it from when they first started seeing each other—she as his tutor.

She poured lemonade into a large plastic tumbler. He reached for the glass and took a sip. “Homemade. Nice.”

“Thank you,” she said simply, pouring herself a glass, watching him over the brim as she sipped.

“I assume you were driving a rental when we crashed?”

“Ah, yes.”

“No problems there?”

“No, none, thank God.” She peered towards the pool where the boy splashed wildly. “That’s what insurance is for, I guess.”

“Painting a fence is a big job,” Mitch said as he waved his hand to illustrate her handiwork. “You’re halfway there now.”

“It’s a chore, for sure. Kris helps.” She smiled fondly in the child’s direction. “We’re having a birthday party for him next week, and the yard needed some sprucing.”

Mitch glanced around the manicured yard with the well-tended flower garden creating a perimeter, the hanging baskets and the various trees. A person needed help to maintain this kind of yard.

“His dad be home soon?” Mitch jutted his jaw towards the boy splashing nearby. Realizing the impertinence of his question, he wanted to bite his tongue off.
What the hell?

“No,” she said so softly, gazed focused on the table. He leaned in a little to hear. “He doesn’t have a dad.”

A great bubble of anxiety popped and Mitch bit his cheek to keep from smiling. Resuming his breathing, he took another drink of the lemonade to cover his relief. “Oh,” Mitch said. He really had no right to be here. No right to walk back into her life. He set his glass down and moved to step off the deck and leave.
Intense, complicated, a mom. All the things I avoid.

Her relief was palpable as she followed him off the deck towards the gate. “Thanks for checking in, Mitchell.”

The stress of the last moment cumulated and burst with her mention of his name. Irritated, he stopped and turned, just as she reached to close the gate. “Why do you always call me Mitchell? I always feel like I’m in trouble.”

She stepped back at his change of tone before drawing herself up, standing tall. “It’s your name.”

“Yes, but my own mother doesn’t call me Mitchell.”

A quizzical, sardonic expression flashed across her face, and her amber eyes brightened. “What,
Mitchell
, would you prefer I call you?” She dragged the ‘L’ sounds of the end of his name in emphasis. “I really never went in for the whole jock thing you had going. What was it again? ‘Captain Morgan,’ after the rum commercial?”

Put in place firmly by her Mother Superior tone, he snapped back. “No, I thought after all these years you may have relaxed enough to call me Mitch, like everyone else.”

Sparks filled her eyes and her chin jutted forward, while color climbed high on her cheeks. She took an audible breath, giving away her own rising temper and she took hold of the gate, knuckles whitening. “Thanks for coming by, Mitch.” Her forced politeness emphasized his dismissal more than the deafening click of the latch behind him.