The Sweetheart Racket (4 page)

Creep.

Her boot heel in the center of his chest roused him quicker than a slap and he opened his eyes. Blinking, he appeared dazed and on the verge of tears. She bent to point a finger in his face. He whimpered.

“Would you like to explain why you were peeping in my window, little freak, while clutching panties?” Only his pained expression kept her from kicking his ass.

Well, that, and he could have broken bones. It wouldn't be a fair fight.

“I wasn't p-peeping.” He took a breath, groaned, and tried again. “I was doing clean-up.” He pointed upward. Several more panties hung from the branches of the crooked oak tree between their houses. “From our first coed party last night.”

Her mind flashed back to her wild college years of not that long ago. The explanation, and the clues, made sense. Too much sense. Still, she wasn't about to let him off the hook.

Grumbling under her breath, she removed her heel. “I swear to God. Boys never grow up.” She reached down, unhooked the thong strap from his finger, then helped him up with her fists twisted in his polo shirt. He wobbled a bit but remained standing. “Are you hurt?”

“I don't think so.” He inhaled deeply and winced. The fact that he was upright was a sure sign he'd survive. His face turned contrite. “I'm sorry for scaring you.”

It was hard to stay mad when he peered up at her from behind ridiculously thick glasses. He was pitiful. He couldn't be more than eighteen, short and skinny; a dark-haired nerd through and through.

“I could have shot you. I still might shoot you. I haven't decided yet.” She brushed leaves out of his hair. Although she was only six or seven years older than her panty-peeper, she felt decades more mature. “I do have a gun. A big one. Lots of bullets.” She stressed that last fact, in case he ever got any ideas about using the ladder again.

He gulped and his lower lip trembled. “Please don't shoot me. I'm my parents' only child.”

With panties in her tree, his story of innocence held water. Still, there was no excuse for trespassing outside her bedroom window. Worse, she'd looked forward to capturing a peeper and possible future serial killer. That would show Willard he was wrong about her only skill being pom-pom waving for football fans. Instead, she'd caught a goofy college kid with none of the sense God gave him. Not exactly a big-time criminal.

Hell. She sighed. There was only one thing to do.

“Come on. Let's get this mess cleaned up.” Taryn went inside, grabbed a box of trash bags, and rejoined him. While she was gone, he'd scooped the panties into a small pile and was using the handle of a rake to collect more from the tree. She wondered how many he'd shoved into his pockets while she wasn't looking. “What's your name?”

“Andrew.”

“I'm Taryn.” She held open a bag. How had she not heard the party or the panty toss? She used to be a coed and had lived for parties. U of M cheerleaders were always invited. Was she getting old?

“Cans first, Andrew.” He tossed a few in the bag. “At ten cents per returnable, there's almost enough here to pay for a week of groceries.” She looked around. “Please tell me you didn't drink all these yourself?”

He grinned. “Nope. Fifteen of us live here.”

Fifteen? Ugh. The house was almost a mirror of hers and not huge. She'd seen guys come and go at all hours over the last few days, but fifteen?

“How?”

At her puzzled expression he chuckled. “Bunk beds.”

Sigh.

They filled two bags with cans, and part of a third with panties. She laughed when Andrew found a pair of men's black boxers in the mix. “Oh, the joys of living smack in the center of a college town,” she said. So much for living quietly.

“Campus is a crazy place and the term hasn't even started yet,” Andrew agreed with a grin. “I'm from a small town in Ohio. Two traffic lights. This place is so cool.”

“That is a small hometown.” She opened the bag for the briefs. “It must have been some party.” He opened his mouth as if to explain, but she held up a hand. “I really don't want to know.”

She glanced up into the branches and puffed out a breath. Two thongs and a pair of white granny panties were well out of reach. It would take a tree climbing pro to reach them. “We'll leave those last few up there. We shouldn't risk death on that ladder.”

“Good idea.” He took the bags from her. “Thanks, Taryn. I apologize again. And thanks for not shooting me.”

“You're welcome.”

She watched him place the can bags next to his house, in a wide wooden crate designated by red paint for returnables. At least the drunken students were environmentally conscious.

Then he took a few steps toward the front of his house, paused, and turned back to her.

Just when she thought she had him pegged as just a misguided but harmless nerd, he sent her a mischievous grin and held up the panty bag. “Next time we have a party, you're invited. And remember to wear your best thong.”

With a naughty grin he vanished around the corner clutching the treasured bag of panties and whistling a happy tune.

Taryn rolled her eyes and laughed. “Harmless nerd? Right.”

O
ne thing about Michigan weather was that one day you could be percolating in your own sweat, and the next, shivering like Jell-O on a crack high. A misty morning rain had lowered the temps to a pleasing degree and Taryn had her car window down, as she stuffed the last of a rubbery deluxe breakfast sandwich past her teeth, chewed, and washed it down with a latte loaded with an extra shot of light cream.

She sent a quick text to her mother and was about to head out when the surprising and sexy scent of spice and male wafted in through the open car window with the morning breeze to dance happily in Taryn's senses. She enjoyed the moment for a second before a familiar voice came out of nowhere, startling her and almost causing a coffee cup mishap on her lap.

“Where do you think you're going?”

Taryn righted the cup and looked over to see a tattooed arm leaning on the open window frame. That arm led up to a perfectly muscled bicep to a broad shoulder and farther up to a scruffy and handsome face she recognized.

Silva.

“Um. To breakfast?” Drat. She'd hoped to get on the road before he showed up; the whole lone wolf working by herself thing and all. But Irving had purchased a new set of faux crocodile golf shoes he'd wanted to show off. The appropriate time spent admiring the bright green-and-black shoes had pushed her back a half hour, while Irving explained in mind-numbing detail the benefits of this type of shoe on the fairway.

“Is that so? Then what is that?” He pointed to the greasy breakfast sandwich wrapper draped across the console, held down by a small red box that once held a deep-fried hash brown patty.

Shoot. Caught. What could she say?

Taking a quick second, she fumbled around in her mind for an appropriate excuse and came up empty.

“That's what I thought.” Rick crossed his arms and leaned back on his heels. “It's only seven-twenty. I thought we were meeting at eight?”

“Was it eight?” Her eyes widened. She took a second to admire the solid wall of muscled male before answering, “I must have accidently typed in seven on my calendar.” She feigned irritation. “And here I was mad that you were late. I was getting ready to call and lecture you about being punctual.”

Rick frowned. “Right.”

The man was really cute when he was annoyed.

“Then you won't mind if I join you.” He bent to retrieve something by his feet and walked around the front of the car, keeping her from speeding off. He placed a small black duffel bag on the car floor and was inside before she could come up with an alternate strategy for escape that didn't involve turning him into a speed bump.

While he settled in, she covertly admired the view.

Agent Silva wore an old black Metallica t-shirt, jeans faded at the knees, and low black boots. He had a silver ring with a wolf head on his right hand and dark sunglasses that made her wonder if he was looking at parts of her he shouldn't.

There was a touch of danger about the guy that worried her good-girl side, yet intrigued bad Taryn. Had he come upon her in a dark alley, dressed like an outlaw biker, she'd be convinced she was about to be robbed of her pocket change.

Since she knew him to be on the side of the law, she just found the whole biker get-up hot.

No, no, and no to thinking inappropriate thoughts about her client! She scolded herself.

Although he looked ready to work the case, it didn't keep her from trying one last time to extricate him from the investigation. If she was to get anything done, she didn't need him slowing her down.

“Look, Silva. I appreciate that you want to spend the day together in the search of justice, but I should warn you that I don't play well with others.”

“How so?”

“I like to follow my own rules. I don't share my toys. And if I get angry, I've been known to bite.”

A nice set of teeth flashed. “I like women who bite.”

Mmmmm.

“I'll bet you do.” She ignored the innuendo and the tingle beneath the pink satin and lace covering her girly parts. The scent of him wafted around the car and didn't help. There was nothing yummier than the smell of a freshly showered male, with a splash of some guy product to top it all off.

“Look, I'm here to do what you hired me for and nothing else. No personal space invasion whatsoever is allowed. Got it?”

“Got it.” The smile didn't waver but went from amused to something darker. He locked onto her eyes. “Then let me reiterate something that you clearly didn't process yesterday during our previous conversation. This case is about my mother. Her losses. My guilt. Period. I failed her once and won't fail her again.” He took a breath and seemed to calm a little. “Where you go, I go. Or I'm taking my case elsewhere.”

The blunt words did their job. She gave up the fight.

“I hear you, loud and clear.” Although she hated to work the field accompanied, for this one case, she'd make an exception. The whole sweetheart con thing was an exciting new challenge. She'd do anything to keep the case. “We'll work together but I'm in charge. And you won't be covered on the Brash insurance plan. You eat your own hospital bills.”

Rick stared blankly for a couple of seconds. “Insurance? Why would I need insurance?” As he waited for her answer, suspicion took over his face, then finally, understanding. “How often do you get injured on the job, Taryn?”

“Not that often, really.”

“How often is not often?”

Clearly he wasn't giving up without an answer.

Taking a page from the guys comparing scars in the famous scene in
Jaws
, she rolled up her sleeve. There were two small puncture scars on her forearm. “Dog bite.” She slid up her right pant leg to expose healing damaged skin on her knee. “Concrete rash from slipping on wet pavement while chasing a car thief.”

“You chased a car thief?”

“Wait. This is the worst one.” She pulled down the neckline of her shirt to show fingermark bruises on her collarbone. “Two days ago a neighbor's abusive boyfriend assaulted me. He pushed me against a wall. I damaged both his testicles. He'll need surgery.” She paused. “Although technically that wasn't a Brash case, so it doesn't count. I jumped in when he tried to beat Angie with a claw hammer.”

“She'll take him back,” he said without missing a beat.

“Not this time,” Taryn assured him. “If she does, the state will take her son. There isn't anyone she loves more. Little Jacob will save them both.”

They sat for a moment while Rick rubbed his jaw. Finally he asked, “Is that it for scars?”

“Nope. I have a few more. But I'd have to take off my pants to show you and we haven't known each other long enough.”

His eyes narrowed and heated. “Tomorrow then?”

“Maybe.”

A deep chuckle followed. It had been so long since she'd flirted that she was rusty. Thankfully, Rick didn't notice.

As his hired PI, she shouldn't flirt at all. She'd never crossed the line with a client and didn't intend to now, just because she was sitting next to the most attractive guy she'd ever met. If she'd learned anything from her ex, Tim, it was that her judgment was skewed when it came to men. This tattooed bad boy was just the sort of man she should flee from.

Too bad he was so darn appealing.

That was all the more reason to stay away. She wasn't looking for an emotionless hook-up and she wasn't ready for a serious relationship. Rick didn't fit either scenario. He was a client. Period.

With that thought in mind, she mentally shook herself and turned on the engine. Thankfully, she was a consummate professional. She'd get through this case and on to the next without stepping over any boundaries with Special Agent Rick Silva.

“Let's get to work.” She fired up the Oldsmobile and pulled out of the lot. The bottom of the wreck scraped the pavement on the short incline to the street. “Oops.”

With him distracting her, she'd forgotten to take the exit at an angle. The old vehicle rode lower than her dearly departed SUV.

The beast's black ragtop and medium blue façade were a scuffed and dented mess, so she couldn't hurt it with an occasional rock chip or curb scrape. The Olds had once been an undercover cop car and had all the bells and whistles inside, including a top-rate radio. The outside could use body work and new paint, but the car had one hell of an engine.

Good old Detroit ingenuity. If she had to drive a wreck for a couple of weeks, it might as well have power beneath its crusty old exterior.

Rick smirked. “Maybe we should take my bike.”

Annoyance bubbled up. Twenty seconds on the road with her and he was already complaining about her driving. Her ex used to complain about her driving, too. All. The. Time.

Fire burned in her chest. “So you think because you're a guy, you're a better driver than me?” she snapped.

A brow cocked up. “I never said that.”

“But you think so. All guys do.” His silence irked her and confirmed her assumption. Insulted by the “men are better drivers” myth—proved untrue by several studies, by the way—a wicked mischief welled in her. She'd show him. “I'll prove you wrong. You'll want to wear your seat belt.”

Without warning, she spun the steering wheel hard right and the car tires squawked as they entered the empty metal stamping factory parking lot next door.

“Okay, not the best way to prove me wrong,” he said.

“Zip it and hold on,” she warned.

Rick had only a second to click on his seat belt when she hit the gas and spun the wheels left, sending the car into a slide. Next, she weaved in and out of the empty parking rows at a high speed and took satisfaction that Rick grabbed the roof strap over the window.

“Shit!” he said.

As she turned the car in a figure eight, Rick rocked back and forth on the seat, still clutching the strap. Taryn had his attention now. For the finale, she tore from one end of the massive lot to the other and hit the brakes so hard that the tires screamed as they stopped a foot in front of a chain-link fence.

“Yes!” she yelled. “That's the way a girl drives!” She turned to her companion and fist-bumped the steering wheel. His tanned face was a shade lighter than before. “Convinced I'm a better driver, Agent?”

He blew out a shaky breath. “Nope. I'm convinced you're crazy.” He peeled his fingers off the roof strap. To her surprise, there was reluctant admiration in his eyes.

Ha.

Unfortunately, smug could only last so long. All good things had to end. Hers came with her cell chiming the James Bond theme. Uh-oh. “Hello?” Her bravado faded when Irving gave her a brief lecture about her antics and hung up.

“Bad news?” he asked.

“My boss,” she said, sheepishly. She should have proved her point in a parking lot that wasn't overlooked by Irving's third-floor office. “He told me if I ruin another set of new tires and burn out the engine again, replacements are coming out of my yearly profit sharing check.”

Rick Silva threw back his head and laughed.

* * *

Deep in his chest, Rick was sure that his heart had been one more doughnut spin away from complete failure. The woman knew how to drive. Like a monkey on LSD. Still, she'd managed to not kill them in her death lap around the lot, so he gave her props for that.

And she'd been sexy as hell while scaring the shit out of him. He had a serious hard-on beneath his jeans.

Now what would scare the hell out of her.

When he finally stopped laughing, he whistled and shifted to a more comfortable position, if he could find one in his condition. Hopefully, she wouldn't notice. “Where in the hell did you learn to drive like that?”

Taryn smiled smugly and drove out of the lot. “Irving sent us to a defensive driving school when he hired us. It was run by a former NASCAR driver. I kind of dated Dave that week and he taught me everything he knew about stunt-type driving at night, when everyone else was sleeping. I learned maneuvers they don't teach during business hours.”

That certainly explained her crazy mad skills.

A tug of envy filled him. Her blush convinced him that driving wasn't the only lesson she'd learned from Dave at driving school.

Taryn was wearing relaxed jeans and a tight dark blue V-neck tee in deference to the cool morning. She'd tossed a black leather jacket onto the backseat; he bit his tongue to keep from asking her to model it for him. He normally liked women who dressed flashily and drew attention to themselves, but for some reason her casual clothes hit him hard in the groin.

The high ponytail that held back her silky-looking hair left her soft neck exposed for nipping. But it was her perfect mouth that led him to thoughts of that mouth on parts of him. This did nothing to ease the strain in his jeans.

Reality raced in on the ding of a good-morning text from his mom and broke up one hell of a fantasy. This partnership was not about getting naked with his PI.

They'd barely spent an hour together since last night and already he was losing control. Then again, thinking wasn't acting. As long as he kept his hands off her, he was still moving toward his goal.

So he dragged his eyes away from Taryn's mouth and remembered that despite that teen boy myth, lack of sexual release did not cause permanent damage to the testicles. He was an adult and should be able to control himself.

Setting his mind to Brinkman was like a cold shower. “Now that you've proved yourself to be unhinged, what's first on today's agenda?” he said.

“I'd like to do another sweep of Honey's neighbors. I know you said you spoke to one, but I'd like to follow up with a couple more.” She pulled out her phone and typed. “I can't believe no one saw Brinkman or gossiped with Honey around the mailboxes. Someone has to know something about the mysterious Honey Comstock.”