Shockwave (Calendar Men: Mr. May) (3 page)

“Oh no. Something much, much better.” The night nurse came around the station and grabbed her arm, guiding her toward the recreation room. “Tonight is story night. And for the love of all things holy, have you ever seen a finer male specimen? If I didn’t already have a ring on my finger, I’d take a bite out of him.” She pointed a to a group of elderly women huddled around a man wearing a pair of faded jeans, work boots, and a black T-shirt, fitting tight enough to display a six pack that would make sane girls crazy.

His was face buried behind a paperback romance novel. On the cover, the eighties exploded to life all its bodice ripping, Fabio hair and naked chest, glory.
Smut
.

But damn if he didn’t read well. The deep timbre of his voice moved through her like a liquid orgasm, not sparing a square inch of her body. In a matter of seconds, he had her heart pounding and knees knocking.
Holy hell
.

The women giggled like schoolgirls and fluttered their lashes, flirting as though they were on a date. She couldn’t blame them a bit. He even tempted her to plop her ass down on the couch next to them and stare at him with doe eyes.

And then he lifted his chin and looked over the cover, right at her.

“Shit.” Lannie dropped her purse, unable to believe who sat on the couch, holding the cheesy romance novel. She couldn’t move, let alone breathe. Forget retreat—or a plan. The impact of her bag on the tile floor echoed across the room, drawing the attention of everyone.

“Sweetheart,” Noni called out. “Come over and sit down. Tanner was about to read the S-E-X scene. Her thighs are quivering and her bosoms are heaving. I think she wants to do him.”

Lannie blinked.
Under-freaking-statement of the year
. “Hoo boy. Speak of the devil and he appears.”

One week before....

Tanner scratched his head, staring down at a couple lying in bed, missionary style, with a silk sheet the only thing maintaining any modesty—a little too late. He’d already seen all the goods, and nothing but a bleach eye-wash would scrub that image from his brain. Throwing the sheet over them had been an afterthought. As in, after he wished he hadn’t looked.

“How much longer?” Sweat beaded on the forehead of the older executive, and not from prior exertion. The pair’s fun ended when Mr. Goodwell got a call from his wife an hour before, telling him she’d filed for divorce and left a parting gift under the bed—or more precisely, in it. Then she hung up, Mr. Goodwell called 911, and now here Tanner stood, trying to figure out how to get the lovers out of the sack without blowing everyone to hell.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
. A vibrator shoved into one of the men’s rectums continued to buzz in the background, as nobody dared to try to remove the adult toy. Any shift in weight could have disastrous consequences.

Mr. Goodwell, carrying at least fifty extra pounds around his middle, had lost most of his hair sometime in his youth, but the strands he’d swirled to cover his scalp exhibited the “I’m getting older,” denial. Midlife crisis?

Tanner eyed the man on the bottom. Twenty maybe. Bleached blond. Not Mrs. Goodwell, and why they were in this mess.

Thank God the bomb hadn’t been rigged to a timer. At least something worked in his favor. But how to get the couple out of the bed, without taking pressure off the spring-loaded plate on the land mine tucked between the box spring and mattress? Good question.

To further complicate a delicate situation, the bed had to be one of those special, high-tech mattresses. The kind you could set a glass of wine on and jump next to, not tipping or spilling a drop. He’d seen the commercials and had been impressed with the design, until now. Admirable or not, the patented sleep technology kind of threw a monkey wrench into things. So, the weight applied to one spot and one spot only, unable to be dispersed throughout the top, which he could work with, were he dealing with a normal freaking mattress.

Yeah, he’d braved crawling underneath to get a peek, and had cut some of the fabric away to find a serial number. Military grade—WWII. Unstable as hell, but he doubted Mrs. Goodwell cared much about the safety of her unfaithful husband and his lover. Good chance she’d paid a pretty penny for someone else to set the trap. No other way he could explain how the fuck she’d gotten a Bouncing Betty. Despite the age, the anti-personnel mine would do the trick. The minute they got up.

Boom
.

Tanner cocked his head. Maybe he’d over-thought
this
? He had a serial number. Ultrasound technology. He keyed his radio. “You track down where the bomb came from yet?”

“Negative. Still working on the source.”

“Have someone bring the ultrasound up. I want to get a closer look at this mine.” If the mattress dispersed weight the way it did, why hadn’t the bomb gone off while they were getting.... He pointed at the man on the bottom. “How long were you going at it before she called? And before you lie to me, your life could depend on your honesty.”

Two hours later. Tanner removed his bomb suit and shut the back of the tactical vehicle. Dud. Who’d have thought? When he turned around, he found a handheld recorder shoved within inches of his face. “Is the rumor true you found the CEO of UrasTek in bed with another man—and a bomb this afternoon? Do you have any suspects in custody? Have there been any other cases? Can you give us any details on what kind of bomb you recovered?”

He narrowed his eyes on the leggy redhead. What a beautiful nuisance. He supposed if a reporter had to annoy the shit out him, he should be at least thankful she wasn’t hard to look at. The woman had proved more than once, she created more than her fair share of trouble. “If you were a serious reporter, Ms. Sawyer, you’d know I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”

“Serious reporter?” She glared, her face going as hot as her hair. “Are you kidding me?”

“I assure you, I’m not. Why don’t you quit harassing me. Don’t you have some,
I Fathered a Three-legged Child with a Mermaid
story, to work on?”

“I write human interest stories, Sergeant North. I’ve never reported on a mermaid or the interbreeding of such, with humans.”

“Uh, huh.” He plucked the recorder out of her hand and dropped the device, stomping on the case with his boot. An audible crunch told him he’d disabled it. Forever. “So, if you’re writing human interest stories, why are you here, bothering me, when I have real job to do?”

“I’m here, because somebody called my boss two years ago and got me fired from my war correspondent position. You owe me. Fine. If you don’t want to comment on the bomb, let me ask you about something else. Sergeant Tanner North. Now that you are in the running for New York City’s most eligible bachelor of the year, can you tell me if you’ve been dating anyone—any serious relationships?”

“My hand.”

She gasped and her mouth dropped open.

“You can quote me.” He gave her a smirk and brushed past, knowing what he’d said would probably make the front page of her gossip rag. From her eyes popped wide, mouth hanging open, and nothing to say for once—whatever flack he’d reap from the guys at the station, and the ass chewing he’d take from the captain about public image, would be worth the hassle.

“Excuse me, ladies.” Tanner rose and stalked across the room to where Lannie Sawyer stood in her business suit and heels, a surprised look pasted on her face. Not the first time he’d seen the expression.
A talented actress, too
. The outfit looked ridiculous for the weather conditions outside. He eyed the cleavage she had on display; red lace cupped her breasts. He let his gaze travel down her killer legs. The skirt missed a couple inches of material—he’d not complain, but what an odd choice for a visit to a nursing home. His dick twitched. More like seductive dress for an office fling.
Right
. She happened to show up here, dressed in that get-up. He didn’t believe in coincidence.

What the hell did she want now?

She’d pulled her long auburn hair back and off her shoulders, into an annoying, no-nonsense bun. He’d seen her wearing the style on television a time or two when she’d talked about her award-winning story—or recent article in the
Star Chaser
, which made him the laughingstock of the department and every single woman in NYC’s wet dream.

He growled. Not again. She wouldn’t get anything this time.

With her hair away from her face, her features appeared sharp, almost waspish, and if not for her enormous amber eyes softening the effect, he’d retreat, instead of approach with the intent to throttle her pretty ass.

Pretty ass? Where did that come from?
  Redheads were not his type. Yet, something about her...
damn!
  Of all people, she was the last one he wanted to see. She’d turned his life into chaos with a capital
C
. He lowered his voice so the ladies wouldn’t hear him. “Ms. Sawyer. What an unpleasant surprise.”

“I should say so. What are you doing here?” She narrowed her stunning catlike eyes and studied him with more suspicion than he deserved.

Hah!
  That’s what she reminded him of. A cat. The way she moved, the attitude. Ms. Sawyer was a feline and he happened to love dogs. A bad mix. He’d known something about her rubbed him wrong, beyond the obvious, and he hadn’t been able to put his finger on what—until now. “What am I doing here?” She had a lot of nerve to ask. None of her business. His temper flared hotter.

“Need I repeat?”

“I read to them. The question is, why are you following me?” He glared, hoping to send her running. This night had nothing to do with him or her and everything to do with reading to the ladies like he’d done for the six years since his last deployment. He’d continued long after his discharge from the Army. Talking to them eased his soul, and he couldn’t find a better therapy, nor did he want one. He’d surrounded himself with a bunch of grandmothers who doted on him and told great stories, minus the chicken soup and cookies, and he sure as hell didn’t plan to start sharing his slice of heaven with the woman who’d turned his life upside down years before in Kosovo and, again, the week before, with her special article in the gossip magazine. “Don’t you have a story to write about some actress having a Martian baby?”

“Back to insults, Sergeant North? I’m here to visit my grandmother, and you weren’t invited.” Her hands went to her hips. “You can leave now.”

Oh fuck, no
. They were his grandmothers tonight, and he didn’t plan to go anywhere—spitting kitty or not. “You couldn’t pick another night?”

“Lannie, dear, is everything okay,” Mrs. Emerson, the newest member of his group, called out behind him.

He caught Lannie’s elbow. “Let’s talk someplace private.”

She yanked away. “Everything is fine, Noni. Mr. North and I are going to go have a little chat. I’ll be right back.”

“You better believe we are, unless you plan to write another story on it. Lead the way, Ms. Sawyer.”

She ignored him and spun on her heels, heading for the nurse’s station. “Peggy, do you have an office where Mr. North and I can talk—in private?” She sounded sweet, but even poison could taste like sugar to trick the victim into consuming a lethal dose. He knew better.

“All locked up for the night and I don’t have a key, but the supply closet across the way is open. I didn’t know you were acquainted with each other. Everything okay?”

“It will be—once we hash some things out.” More of her honeyed tongue, but she didn’t fool him. It would turn sharp like a razor once she had him alone. He could place a safe bet on the outcome.

Lannie glanced back at him, and then to the frost-covered front doors. He raised a brow. The way she’d dressed, no way would she go back outside to have this
talk
. She had one choice, and not a good one. He almost chuckled at the thought of her and him alone—in a closet and how long it would take him before he gave in to strangling her. Could she be thinking the same thing? He could tell from her scowl, she wasn’t pleased a bit.

“I could ask the ladies to move out of the recreation room for a few minutes,” the nurse piped up.

“No. The closet will be fine. Thank you.” Lannie walked over and opened the door. Motioned him to step inside. “A moment of your time, please.”

Red bloomed up her neck to her cheeks, and she narrowed her eyes when he drew closer. Her voice sounded calm, and if he hadn’t seen her face or hand that gripped the knob with crushing strength, he wouldn’t know she struggled to control her rage. No mistaking the white-knuckle grip, or the lump in her jaw from forcing a smile while she gnashed her molars together. Fuse lit. No doubt when the door shut, there’d be a screaming match. Redheads weren’t known for calm debates. Another reason he didn’t like them. Too temperamental.

The door closed and Lannie shoved him. Boom. Sugar and spice had left the building, as predicted. “How dare you invade my space? You’re not welcome here.”

He snorted. “They seem to be plenty welcoming to me.” He shoved her back. Not hard, but enough to let her know under no uncertain circumstances would he let her push him around. “I can guarantee I have been coming here longer than you. About six years to be exact and you’ve been coming here what, a few weeks? So, just to clarify, this is my space.”

“You come here to read smut to my grandmother. What qualifies Sunny Dale as your space? Are you related to any of them?” Her voice grew several decibels louder, and Tanner knew their
private
conversation had moved past that, closet or not.

“No, but familiar status doesn’t matter. I come here because I care about them and enjoy their company. I would never dump
my
grandmother here and forget her.”

“I didn’t dump her or forget her!”

“Can you tone it down, sweetheart? The world doesn’t need to hear this. And, for the record, your grandmother is a big girl. She can decide if she wants to listen to someone read dirty novels. The ladies love them. They asked me to read them and they provided the books.”