Project Produce (3 page)

“The suspect appears to be long gone,” Hot Britches mused, his six-foot-two inch frame stopping right in front of me. Two whole inches taller than me. That thought shot straight to my libido. He looked like he’d poured his muscular body into a pair of faded Levi jeans with holes in the knees. Fine black hairs curled enticingly in the deep V of his light blue T-shirt, and a black leather jacket set off the sexy ensemble.

Eight ball, corner pocket
.

Stop that, you wacko
.

I yanked my eyes back up, my mouth going dry. I had never seen a man that gorgeous in my life. “Long gone. Yeah. That’s what I thought.” Good Lord, I really had gone crazy. Time to figure out a plan to get rid of the bad boy, fast.

I risked another peek at the impressive bulge cradled by his revealing jeans, and my eyes nearly crossed. Hot Britches was no pickle, I’d bet the last of my savings on it. My gaze dropped lower, and my mouth fell open. I stood there like an imbecile, gawking at what had to be size twelve or thirteen boots. Holy Mother of God, I had no idea they made them that big. And by ‘them,’ I meant his feet, not his...

“I’ll need to ask you a few questions, ma’am.” Hot Britches slid his gun into the shoulder holster under his jacket. He set a trash bag on the floor by his boots and pulled off his gloves.

My brain said he had to be a cop. He acted like a cop, but I couldn’t be sure. I couldn’t trust my judgment when it came to men, and that was the same trash bag I’d thrown at Flasher Freak. He must’ve dropped it outside, making easy pickings for this guy, so why come inside? Unless he wanted a little something more. I moaned.

The man snapped his head in my direction. “Something wrong, ma’am?”

“Wrong? What could possibly be wrong?” A shiver raced down my spine. I was stunned and a little disturbed to realize it wasn’t entirely generated from fear. That settled it. I’d lost my mind completely. I’d left scandal behind with my old life, only to invite craziness into my new one. I snorted in disgust at myself and started choking.

“What is it? Do you see something?” He spun around on the balls of his massive snakeskin boots and drew his weapon at a lightning-quick speed.

This was my chance to act. Trust me, I didn’t hesitate. “Y-Yes. I saw a man outside the window.”

“You’re sure?”

I nodded so fast my head hurt.

He shoved me behind him. “Get down while I check it out.”

I flopped onto the floor, until Hot Britches stepped out on the sidewalk and searched the street. Springing to my feet, I sped to the door like my life depended on it--my sanity sure as heck did--then I turned the lock.

Click!

He whirled around. “What are you doing?”

“I called the cops,” I said with a shaky breath.

“I know.” He just stared at me.

“They’re on their way. Any second now, they’ll be barreling through this door.” I looked out, hoping to see a patrol car, a person, anything. Nothing but a vintage car. What crazy person left that there? It was a wonder no-one had stolen it yet. My knees knocked and I prayed the glass was bulletproof, but I had to stay calm. Losing my head would probably get me killed.

His mouth fell open, and he hesitated a beat before he responded, “Look-it, lady, I am the police.”

I folded my arms and arched a brow. Maybe. But I still couldn’t be sure. “Yeah, then where’s your badge?”

“These are my street clothes. I’ve been undercover and came straight here when I heard the call. Forgot my badge at the office. Now, do us both a favor and open up.”

I could hear police sirens off in the distance, and obviously, so could he. His mouth formed a hard line, making it clear he did not want to be caught in this predicament. My gut told me he wouldn’t hurt me, but then again, my gut stunk when it came to men. No way would I let this guy in.

“You really expect me to believe you’re the police without proof?” I surveyed every inch of him and sighed in regret. “Of course you are. You can be anything you want to be, but please, be it somewhere else. Hurry up and shoo, now.” I swept my hand at him, then repeated, “Shoo, shoo. I’d hate to see you get into trouble.” The funny thing was I meant it. I’d just narrowly escaped being assaulted, yet here I was trying to help him get away. I frowned.

His shoulders shook as though he were trying to hold back a laugh, probably at the ridiculousness of the whole situation. Then his smile faded and he stared at me, probably trying to figure me out.

Good luck, pal. I’ve been trying to figure me out for thirty years, and I’m still not there yet
.

His sunglasses made it impossible to know what he was looking at. I squirmed. I’d always hated being the center of attention. The only reason I’d worked in my parents’ general store instead of going to college was because I’d thought they needed me. Twelve years wasted for being wrong. It still hurt to admit it, but they only needed me when everything went according to “their” plan.

I cleared my throat and pulled my shirt away from my neck, suddenly warm. “Well, you can’t say I didn’t give you a chance to escape. Why don’t I call the police again? I’m sure they can clear this up.”

He seemed to shake himself back into consciousness. “No. Don’t do that. C’mon, let me in, and I’ll explain.”

I ignored him and dialed the police as I watched him pinch the bridge of his nose and blow out a breath. He walked to the street and kicked a big whitewall tire, then leaned against the hood of the classic red Mustang. So he was the crazy person with the vintage car. Kind of a noticeable car for a crook. Maybe he moonlighted as a car thief.

The patrol officer arrived on the scene and joined Hot Britches while I verified with the man on the phone that Detective Dylan Cabrizzi was the real deal. After I hung up, I poked my head out the door. “Come on in. When I described you,” I jerked my chin in the Detective’s direction, “your captain assured me you’re not a criminal.”

The patrol officer coughed into his fist.

“Oh, and he said he wanted to speak with you first thing in the morning. Something about standard procedure.”

“Great. Can we get on with this? I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Sure. I have some questions, too.” I led the way into the lobby.

“Peterson, stand watch.”

“Okay. But, um,” when Peterson paused, I glanced over my shoulder and watched him grin wide, “maybe you should get your badge, Cabrizzi. We wouldn’t want the poor victim forgetting you’re not a hoodlum.” He slapped Dylan on the shoulder.

“And maybe you should can it, Peterson. We wouldn’t want you forgetting I outrank you.” Dylan returned the slap to Peterson’s back, and Peterson’s smile slipped a little.

“No problem.”

“Good.” Dylan entered the lobby and closed the door.

Yes, indeed, it had been one very long day, but it wasn’t over yet. In fact, things were starting to look up. Detective Hot Britches wasn’t a loser after all, not that I had any intention of getting involved with him. He was a man, and in my experience, that was just as bad. Nope, he wasn’t the perfect guy for me. No man was.

But he just might be my perfect zucchini.

CHAPTER TWO

I put a pot of coffee on, then motioned for Detective Cabrizzi to sit.

He glanced at the ugly excuse for a chair and said, “I’ll stand, thanks.”

I couldn’t really blame him. I’d watched T.V. The icky stuff the CSI guys dug up in dirty motels turned my stomach. I didn’t want to sit in those chairs, either, but the adrenaline rush had left me exhausted. I wasn’t about to strain my neck just to answer his questions, so I breezed by him and sat, trying not to think about what might be wiggling beneath my derriere. Folding my hands in my lap, I stared at him.

“Okay, I’ll sit.” He sat, pulling out a notepad and pen from his leather jacket. “Why don’t we start with your full name. For the record.”

I didn’t say a word, just kept staring at him.

“Look. I can’t help you if you don’t answer my questions.”

“And I can’t help you if you don’t take off your glasses. I don’t trust a man whose eyes I can’t see.” I didn’t trust men, period, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Sorry. Forgot I had them on.” He removed his mirrored sunglasses.

“Sweet Jesus,” I exhaled on a whoosh.

“What?”

“N-Nothing. Your eyes. They’re just...” I smiled. “They’re fake, aren’t they?”

“Come again?” He blinked at me.

“Come on, fess up. You have to be wearing contacts. There’s no way that sparkling sapphire blue is natural. And your lashes. Good Lord, they’re long.”

He cocked a brow. “I assure you, ma’am, there’s not a thing on me that’s fake.”

My eyes dropped to his crotch, and I wanted to smack myself silly. Yanking my gaze back up to his sizzling eyes, I gave him a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Um, where were we?”

The corner of his lip crept up ever so slightly, and he replied, “You were about to tell me your name before you got lost in my eyes.”

“I did not get lost in your eyes.”

“You were staring.”

“I wasn’t staring. I was just surprised,” I huffed. “And my name is MacDonald. Callie MacDonald.”

“As in ‘supersized’?”

“Well, aren’t you full of yourself?”

His brows formed a V. “I meant ‘supersized’ as in McDonald’s, the restaurant. Is your name spelled like that?”

“Oh.” Had I said this day was looking up? I wanted to hit the rewind button and not stop until I heard the sound of my alarm clock, so I could throw the useless thing out the window and stay in bed all day. “Um, it’s MacDonald, with an ‘a.’ Next question?” Darned Irish skin. He had to have seen me blush yet again.

He let it go, thank God. “No Mister in your life?” he asked, glancing at my bare ring finger.

Just because I didn’t have a ring on didn’t mean I wasn’t married. His assumption made me angry, even if it was true. “No. There is no Mister in my life, Detective.” And there probably never would be, after that awful video footage had been published on the Internet. It still stung that men only wanted me for one thing these days, and marriage wasn’t it. “I don’t see how that’s relevant to the investigation.” I slipped my right hand over my left.

He ran his thumb and forefinger over his goatee, but I saw his grin. I could tell he enjoyed making me squirm. “Not a problem at all, Ms. MacDonald with an ‘a.’ It’s simply a formality,” he paused, “for the record.”

“And we wouldn’t want to leave any holes in the record, now would we?”

“Not with my captain. He’s a stickler for details. How old are you?”

I blinked.

He grinned.

“Well, if you’re sure my age will help you catch the flasher, I wouldn’t dream of standing in the way of justice being served. I’m thirty.”

“Thirty?” His brows shot up.

“It’s the baby face. Everyone always thinks I’m younger. It used to drive me crazy, but now that I’m older, I’ll take it. Not that I’m old. I mean, thirty isn’t old. Is it? I can’t really tell anymore, because sometimes I feel ancient.” God, I hated it when I rambled. I tended to do that when I was flustered, and right about now I was ranking pretty high on the fluster scale.

“No, ma’am. Thirty’s not old.” His gaze ran over me with renewed interest, and I shivered as a tingle ran up my spine. The corner of his mouth twitched like he wanted to smile.

“Excuse me, the coffee’s ready.” I stood to my full height and strolled over to the pot, trying hard not to shake my butt. It probably looked like I had a pole stuck up my rear end, but I didn’t care. It was better than letting him see me jiggle. Poles didn’t jiggle. My fanny, on the other hand, did.

Big time.

I poured the coffee, thinking the ten pounds I’d put on since the scandal didn’t help, when the strangest sensation hit me. You know, that prickly feeling on the back of your neck you get when you can sense someone is staring at you? Well, that was it to a tee. The same feeling I’d had in tenth grade Biology every time I made the long walk from the back of the classroom to the chalkboard. Chuckie Turner would always say,
Must be jelly cuz jam don’t shake like that
.

I risked a peek over my shoulder. Dylan whipped his eyes up to mine with guilt shining bright. Guilt, and something more.

Darn it, I knew he was staring at my huge insecurity! Well, I sure as heck wasn’t in tenth grade anymore. If he made one smart-alec comment, I’d let him have it. He smiled at me kindly, looking like anything but a smart-alec. Not sure how I felt about that, I turned back around and finished making the coffee. When he cleared his throat, I frowned.

Note to self: Hot Britches likes jelly
.

That made us even, because I couldn’t deny I liked big feet. Only big feet had brought me heartache. I couldn’t go through that again. Donning a neutral expression, I picked up the tray and returned, setting it on the table between us. “Cream or sugar?”

“Neither. Black as sin for me.”

“Hmmm,” was all I said.

He picked up his steaming mug and watched me over the rim. Taking a sip, he raised his cup in salute. “It’s good.”

“Thank you. Next question?”

“Thirty-five.”

“Excuse me?” I stared at him, my cup halting halfway to my lips.

“That’s my age. I thought it only fair you knew.”

“Wow, you look... your age.”
Hello, Mouth. Meet Foot
. He arched a brow, so I blurted, “But it’s a good look, really.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“You’re welcome.”
You’re welcome? For what, you goof, insulting him?
“It was a compliment, you know,” I added.