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Authors: Elizabeth Lowe

Red Silk Scarf

BOOK: Red Silk Scarf
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THE
RED SILK SCARF

 

Elizabeth
Lowe

 

CHAPTER 1

 

           

           
Painful abrasions on the tender skin
of Cassidy’s bare shoulders were already throbbing, the results from having her
body slammed against a rough brick wall.
 
Fingers biting in harder than intended were beginning to leave purple
prints that would remain days after reluctant iron hands ceased their violent
shaking.
  
Physical abuse made worse when
Cassidy noticed her attackers face contorting from horror when his intentional
light blows’ first to her left cheek then the right, produced a split lip now
oozing blood.
  
Not until thrown to the
ground and a foot carefully connected with her well-toned stomach muscles did
she experience the urge to vomit, a certainty if not for a shrill siren
signaling a pending rescue.
 

 

           
In the early hours before dawn, the
darkness of the eerie back street made Cassidy's skin crawl.
 
A setting in which the careful repetitious
rehearsals previously choreographed in a gym took on a reality that induced a
huge dose of empathy for women who endured worse beatings on a regular
basis.
  
It didn’t matter that Cassidy’s
was a well-rehearsed first; never would she come to terms as to why victims put
up with such cruelty.
 

 

   
       
Reflections
instantly severed when headlights of a patrol car burst into view.
 
Thank God, came on a gush of breath.
 
Surprisingly Cassidy welcomed the mingling
sounds of screeching tires, slamming doors and the click clack of sole's
smacking asphalt.
 
Without unleashing an
inbred instinct to retaliate, she wasn't sure she could tolerate much
more.
 
A self-defense mechanism intense
training wouldn't allow tonight, tomorrow night, or throughout this assignment
if she were to succeed, and, dammit, she would so determine was she to revenge
the death of four innocent women.

 

           
Now that officers were rushing to
her aide, it would be all right to feign pain, act like a weak female
victim.
 
She might even shed a tear or
two an intended ploy of vulnerability that from the very beginning rubbed
against Cassidy's grain.
 
No way, in
hell, would she play her role so convincingly.
 
A Brady’s pride, strength, and determination never permitted such
pretense.

 

           
Switchblade thoughts jerked to
DeMarco.
 
Cassidy prayed he was
safe.
 
There should be little doubt
considering he tore out like a bat out of hell after carelessly delaying his
escape to enable the inhabitants in the charging patrol car to identify
him.
 
The escape route another analyzed
move.
 

 

           
To Cassidy’s disappointment, none of
her teammates volunteered to be her attacker.
 
As a last ditch, effort DeMarco suggested the elite team draw
straws.
 
Plucking the short one made him
cringe.
  
It was his “lamb’s wool”
conscience challenging his heart at the last minute.
 
If Cassidy hadn’t brutally lashed out using
well-honed self-defense techniques, surely he would have walked away.
 
She had no choice; they had worked too hard,
and had come too far to back down now.
 
Besides DeMarco should have known a Brady never ran away from anything.

 

Wasting no time
pursuing the rescue, kneeling beside Cassidy, a sunbaked trim man, she knew to
be in his late thirties, whipped a hankie from his pocket to dab gently at the
blood dripping from her split lip. The sincerity lacing the tenderness of his
husky voice when inquiring if she was all right seemed genuine, in her
professional opinion considering he had no idea that without glancing at the
glaring badge filling her field of vision Cassidy already knew his face, name,
and number.
 

 

           
It did not surprise Cassidy that
Pinkert’s partner took his good old sweet time.
 
Waiting and watching distractedly, she couldn't help but notice that for
a man his size how nimbly Sullivan moved.
  
Finally stationed at her feet glaring, as if she were the slime of the
earth, his presence alone demanded undivided attention.
 
Tall, lean, spit polished from shoes to
starched collar Sullivan would stand out in any crowd.
   

 

     
     
Despite
the tremendous effort and pride put into rehearsing her part, let alone her sleazy
costume, for some reason Sullivan’s facial expression provoked a perplexing
anger.
 
The distain emanating from
piercing ice blue eyes said he had scrutinized her, chewed her up, and spewed
her.
 
Cassidy was exactly what she
appeared, a whore, as if L.A. needed another.
 
In spite of her inward cursing and muttering self-reproachfully,
unsuspectingly, Sullivan’s reaction could not have been more satisfying.
 
She'd passed the long awaited test.

 

It wasn't until
Pinkert gently up righted her that the arrogant, “I'm better than thou,”
Sullivan showed a smidgeon of concern. “Are you all right?”
 
He paused to clear the distain from his
throat that vocalizing the next word would bring, “Mame,” he asked curtly, as
if forced by his uniform.

 

The encompassing tall
fortresses blocking the few dim lights of the street shading the alley along
with the glare from the patrol cars' headlights made it impossible to identify
Sullivan's face, features that weeks ago caught and held Cassidy’s attention
while flipping through pages upon pages of officers assigned to South Central
L.A.
   
Men whose backgrounds her team
had investigated.
 

 

           
“I think so.
 
Thanks,” Cassidy addressed Sullivan with eyes
studying her prey much too intently in his opinion.

 

If not for knowing
better, Cassidy would have sworn she was naked.
 
Sullivan's scrutiny didn't miss an inch of skin, exposed or
otherwise.
 
The turquoise, stretch, tube
top vividly outlining overly endowed upper anatomy was so revealing it called
particular attention to the dark rings and extended nipples.
 
The skin tight, neon pink Capri pants ending
at her knees intentionally left little to the imagination as to the remaining
portions of her lower body.
  
Tough as it
was to admit, Cassidy couldn't blame Sullivan.
 
When first wrestling on the outfit she turned beet red, visible markings
of embarrassment that would remain eternally etched on her forehead.
 

 

Whatever made her
think she, of all people, could pull off such a scheme?
 
However accustomed she was to diverse
undercover rolls during her five years with the New York Internal Affairs
Department this new assignment was ludicrous.
 
A whore for God's sake, what was she thinking?
 
The stiletto, silver, sequined shoes
continually twisting her ankles were irritating the shit out of her. Leave it
to a Brady she stewed, to march head on into a hornet’s nest to volunteer their
expertise, damn her remarkable record of achievements that ultimately procured
the assignment

 

           
“Allow me to assist you to the car
where you'll be more comfortable while I call an ambulance,” Pinkert graciously
offered.

 

           
Desperately trying to buy time to
appraise the pair, Cassidy pressed and held the officers’ now blood stained
hankie to her lip.
 
Her scrutiny saying
both were men whose demeanor spoke of an elite male power that a woman could
never possess.
 

 

           
Feigning a vulnerability that was
not her character, with facial expressions pitiful in extreme, Cassidy
answered, “No, no, please.
 
That will not
be necessary.
  
I'm not hurt all that
bad.
 
Believe me I've endured much
worse.
 
I'll be fine.”
  

 

           
With concern wrinkling his forehead,
“Are you sure?
 
You don't look well.
 
It wouldn't be a bother, honest,” Pinkert
pressed on.

 

           
Quizzically raising a bushy eyebrow,
voice peppered with sarcasm, Sullivan intervened, “and I don't suppose you wish
to press charges against DeMarco?”

 

           
The fact that her partner was
recognized shouldn't have startled Cassidy considering that DeMarco had
purposely delayed retreating a few seconds longer than intended to ensure the headlights
identified him.
 
Apparently, two years
working hard at building a reputation as the worst pimp in L.A. just paid
off.
 

 

           
Unsettled by Sullivan's intense
stare, gaze crashing to the pavement, Cassidy mustered a falsified meek shake
of her head.

 

           
“Didn't think so,” Sullivan growled
as though a vicious Doberman.
 
“Come on,
Mark, we're wasting time.
 
It's Saturday
night and there are plenty out there who need us.”

 

           
Eyebrows crunched together, “Jesus,
Patrick, how can you be so unsympathetic?
 
It was DeMarco, for Christ sake.”

 

           
“Every whore in L.A. knows DeMarco's
reputation and that a serial killer is on the prowl.
 
If this broad is stupid enough to hook up
with the slimy bastard and won't press charges to get him off the streets, then
she'll have to walk them and take her chances.”

 

           
“At least we could take her to the
hospital where she’ll be safe for the night,” Mark pleaded at his friend's
back.

 

           
Without a turn of the head
acknowledgement, Sullivan barked over his shoulder, “She doesn't look all that
hurt to me.
 
Surely she's been beaten
enough times to know when she needs a doctor.”

 

           
What a hell of an attitude, Cassidy
thought a split second before her mouth ran away.
 
“I'm not a broad, a she, or stupid.
 
My name is Cassidy,” she barked angrily as if
taking on Sullivan’s personification.

 

Like
dandruff on his shoulder, Sullivan brushed her off.
 
If not for vocally stopping him in his
tracks, he would have been in the patrol car, damn Cassidy’s uncontrollable
need to find out what needling the monster would do.
 
Hands on hips, wearing an impudent
expression, she did just that.
 
“Well,
you must think you’re Mr. King Shit.
 
How
dare you assume you know what it's like for those of us who apparently are
nothing more than dog shit under your shoes?”

 

           
“Oh, shit,” Mark, mumbled.

 

           
In seconds, forged indignation spun
Sullivan's tall, brawny stature his long strides bringing him much too quickly
within inches of her face.
  
A six-foot
and then some, height towering over her forced him to lower his head.
 
Apparently, tapping the brim of his cap
against her forehead he intended to make her take heed.
 
She did.
  

 

           
With nothing blocking her view,
Cassidy scrutinized the tiniest pores of the memorized face.
  
Confident, rough features said Sullivan could
easily get away with any crime.
 
Particularly now flushed from anger, his copper tone skin was haunting
and disturbingly breathtaking.
 
The steam
emanating causing beads of sweat to cling precariously on the tip of a chiseled
nose offered a considerable whiff of all too pleasant cologne. Then there were
his sky blue eyes swallowing her whole captured perfectly in the snapshot she'd
committed to memory. Dammit, to her dismay, panic began to breed in her stomach
a Brady of all people.
 
Considering she'd
shored herself up for a boisterous lecture, she was surprised when instead his
articulation became low, intense, and commanding.

 

           
“People make choices.
 
You made yours, Missy, and I'm making
mine.
 
The time we waste on trollops like
you inhibit patrolling this hellish neighborhood when just maybe the sight of
our patrol car might prevent someone from becoming victim number five.”
   
As he continued, his eyes sweeping the
length of her torso devouring every womanly curve, Sullivan slowly accented
each word, “Now I suggest if you value your life, get your little ass off the
streets, and stay off.”
  
It was not
Sullivan’s choice of words that caused inward shuddering but his eyes
hauntingly tattooing her breasts.
 
Certainly, it wasn't fear, not even God himself frightened Cassidy Ilene
Brady.
 

BOOK: Red Silk Scarf
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