Dirty: A Jackie Mercer Novel

128 Pages·2011·0.83 MB·English

by  Debra Webb

DIRTY
A Jackie Mercer Novel
Debra Webb
Praise for Debra Webb:
"Breathtaking romantic suspense that grabs the reader from the beginning and doesn’t let up.
Riveting." ~Allison Brennan, NYT bestselling author
"Webb keeps the suspense teasingly taut, dropping clues and red herrings one after another on her
way to a chilling conclusion." ~Publishers Weekly
"Outstanding reading. Take a deep breath and enjoy!" ~Romantic Times
"Impossible to put down." ~Romance Novel TV
"Bestselling author Debra Webb intrigues and tantalizes her readers from the first word."
~SingleTitles.com
"Masterful edge-of-your seat suspense." ~A Romance Review
"Romantic suspense at its best!" ~Erica Spindler NYT bestselling author
"Fast-paced, action-packed suspense, the way romantic suspense is supposed to be. Webb crafts a
tight plot, a kick-butt heroine, a sexy hero with a past and a mystery as dark as the black water at night."
~Romantic Times
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used
fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and
any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2011, Webbworks, LLC
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
DIRTY
A Jackie Mercer Novel
Debra Webb
CHAPTER ONE
Where the hell is that skirt?
Littered garments made a haphazard trail from the door to the bed. Someone had been in a serious
hurry? Oh, yeah. That would have been me.
Grinning like a fan-girl who’d just gotten her idol’s autograph, I picked through the hastily shed clothes.
The skirt HAS to be here somewhere. Short, black, definitely wrinkled. I shivered at the memory of Kevin
lowering the zipper and then allowing the slinky material to slither down my legs.
“Come on,” he growled, surprising me as his strong arms wrapped around my waist and hauled me
back to the bed. “You don’t want to leave yet.”
The breath rushed out of my lungs in one long whoosh as my nipples grazed his chest. Before I could
protest he rolled me onto my back and ground his hips into mine, sending more sweet shivers through me
and simultaneously resurrecting memories of the recent, totally awesome orgasm he’d prompted. I sighed,
wishing we could stay like this just a little while longer.
“I can’t,” I said with genuine regret as my fingers splayed over hot skin still damp with the sweat of
arduous lovemaking. “But it was—”
“Amazing,” he suggested, breathing the word, his voice a sensuous whisper. He kissed my smiling
lips, then the tip of my nose as he braced one arm on either side of my head. With a languid, satisfied sigh,
he looked deeply into my eyes and asked, “Lawyer?”
I laughed at the sudden change of subject, couldn’t help myself. The humor sparkling in his dark brown
eyes assured me that he took no offense. “No,” I shot back. He was something. Despite having just shared
—as he so aptly put it—amazing sex, my body still humming with pleasure, he wanted to know.
“Well, damn,” he murmured. “I was certain I’d nailed it this time.”
“Don’t you have to get to the office?” I teased. “I know I do.” My assistant’s going to kill me! Right after
he interrogated me like a hostile witness.
“Did you have to remind me?” Kevin stole another kiss, then deepened it before drawing back, leaving
his taste and the promise of more to linger on my lips. Those skilled fingers forged a delicious path down
my ribcage, sending another rush of tingly sensations cascading along every single nerve ending as he
moved away.
I had to get up...had to get going, should never have let him drag me back into bed. To hell with it. Two
more minutes wouldn’t kill anyone.
I refused to let reality intrude just yet. Not today. Today was special. I deserved this moment. So I lay
there, swaddled in the sweet scents of lovemaking, and watched him stroll leisurely into the bathroom, at
once grateful for and bummed out by the tantalizing view.
Eventually the sound of water spraying in the shower dredged up a renewed, yet reluctant sense of
urgency. I was going to be seriously late if I didn’t get a move on. Though the idea held absolutely no
appeal. I still had to drive to my place, shower and dress for work.
Surrendering to the inevitable, I rolled from the tousled mass of linens, located my pink panties—the
sexiest pair I own—and dragged them on. The skimpy bra was somewhat harder to track down. A quick
dive and search beneath the tangled sheets and I hit pay dirt.
Feeling like the luckiest woman alive in skimpy, however overpriced, silk and lace, I lifted one frilly pink
strap into place and sighed. Life just didn’t get any better than this. Before I could stop myself, I burst into a
totally tacky victory dance, pumped my fist in the air and had to bite my lip to hold back a redneck yeehaw!
Jackie Mercer, forty-five...and still able to rock her lover’s world! Yes!
I caught myself. Grabbed back some semblance of decorum and prayed my new lover hadn’t
witnessed the telltale episode. Eyes wide with encroaching humiliation, I eased closer to the bathroom
door and listened to ensure he was still in the shower. His low, sexy humming assured me he was. Thank
God. He definitely didn’t need to see that. Desperation was not a pretty sight.
Okay, get a grip, Jackie. Hands on hips, I performed a quick assessment of the situation. We’d done
the deed. There was no taking it back. But it wasn’t like we’d jumped in the sack at hello. Preliminary
groundwork had included two weeks of flirting and three official dates. I shrugged and concluded this was
adequate. Acceptable by most current social standards.
Years of hard time done on a church pew instantly shamed me. Fine. I threw up my hands and glanced
heavenward. I should have held out for a couple more dates. But, Jesus Christ, I’m only human! It had been
a really, really long time since I’d had sex. Three whole months. Ninety days. I knew criminals who got off
with less time served than that.
And all the right signs were there. One, he wasn’t seeing anyone else. Two, he got me, liked me just
the way I am—a real biggie in my book. I smiled. He made me laugh, that was three. Four, the kissing was
really, really good. I melted a little just thinking about the way he kissed. And finally, five, the one true test
every woman used as a measure of whether she was ready for that step: I felt comfortable baring my body
to him.
My big old smile drooped into a ground-dragging frown...but I so sucked at picking the right guy. My
aunt on my mother’s side once told me that maybe my picker was broken. Maybe she was right.
Still...sex with Kevin was so good! That if-I-died-right-now-I’d-be-happy good. Why the hell had I
waited for two whole weeks? I didn’t need anyone else’s permission. That’s right. I folded my arms over
my breasts and nodded resolutely. My self-confidence stock rallied. I was a grown woman who worked
hard to make ends meet in this unpredictable economy. I deserved great sex the same as the next chick.
As if to defy my emancipating proclamation, musical notes erupted from my cell phone, heralding
reality and undermining my newly gained triumph over doubt, regret, guilt and all that other crap women too
often felt after sex without the solidifying marriage document and accompanying shiny gold band.
Muttering a self-deprecating curse I weaved through the clutter until I found my recklessly abandoned—I
can’t believe I did that—Birkin bag. The uninvited nuisance erupted into those taunting chimes twice more
before I fished it out of my diamond embellished, crocodile hide encased icon of feminine power. I had to
get this damned—I mean beloved—bag organized one day.
Yeah, right. Organization was not one of my stronger points. Another blast of my ringtone had me
pressing the necessary button to accept the call before I identified the caller. Mainly because my reflection
in the mirror snagged my scattered attention. Actually, I didn’t look bad for a woman a few months closer to
fifty than forty. That hot guy in the shower sure as hell hadn’t complained. Determination squared my
shoulders. By God I was turning a new leaf. No more excuses. That worn out rationalization of can’t-trust-
my-judgment-in-men was no longer going to hold me back.
“Mercer,” I answered as I tugged the other bra strap onto my shoulder. No more excuses. No more
doubts. Today was the first day of the rest of my life. Not exactly original but whatever. Satisfied with my
conclusion, I let go all those foolish inhibitions in one long contented breath.
“Oh...my...gawd,” a male voice bleated in my ear, drawing my attention back to the caller. “I’m too late.
You slept with him, didn’t you?”
Irritation pierced the softer emotions I had every right to savor. Regret followed hot on its heels. “What
do you want, Hobbs?” Leave it to my assistant to know just how to spoil the moment. I surveyed the
cluttered carpet. Where was that frigging skirt? I was late. And confused, dammit—despite my new leaf.
Worse, Hobbs would never let this go without a full concession of all the dirty details.
“Remember, Jackie, I warned you that there was something I didn’t like about that guy?”
I stopped rummaging, planted a hand on my hip and restrained the impulse to tell Hobbs where he
could put his annoying hunches. “Look, we’ve been over this before. You’re not my father or my husband.
You’re my employee. That position only extends your jurisdiction of involvement to my professional life. My
personal life is off limits, Hobbs. End of subject.” I gave myself a mental pat on the back for sounding firm
and commanding.
When I would have stabbed the button to end the call Hobbs said the words that turned the pride in my
unwavering show of authority into a cold, hard knot of disappointment.
“His real name is Ken Willis. He’s a wanted man, honey. Fraud, embezzlement. He skipped out on
bail over in San Antonio ten months ago. I hate having to tell you this, but if it makes you feel any better, this
guy is money in the bank,” he added, without the slightest hint of remorse.
My gaze strayed longingly toward the bathroom door where the sound of the shower told me the man in
question was still otherwise occupied. A mixture of disillusionment and dread settled like a bad Mojito in
my stomach.
I should have known. I finally meet a guy who feels like a perfect fit and he’s a freakin’ fugitive. An
accused felon. My head moved slowly from side to side in denial, but the energy was wasted. My assistant
wasn’t the type to make mistakes. Unlike me, apparently.
Utterly deflated, I plowed my fingers through my hair in a futile attempt to evict the disenchantment from
my head. “You got the paper already?”
If I’d learned anything about Hans Christian Hobbs it was that he never introduced a possibility he
hadn’t researched. If he said this guy was money in the bank, then he’d already done the grunt work.
And don’t ask about the Hans Christian thing, apparently his parents—who are every bit as made in the
U.S.A. as I am—thought it would be cool to name their only son after their favorite author of children’s
stories. In my opinion that’s likely why the guy decided he was gay. What the hell else was he going to do
with a name like Hans Christian? This is Texas you know, where country western music is king and guys
aren’t named after prissy storytellers who’ve been dead for more than a century.
“Of course I have the paper. I can be there in twenty minutes,” he offered, going for considerate but
sounding more hopeful than anything. Hobbs liked the whole rush of taking down the bad guys. Of flexing
his woefully meager masculinity muscle. At least in theory. He rarely participated in field work, but then this
was personal. “You don’t need to do this alone,” he tossed in for good measure, “especially under the
circumstances.”
Like hell. “I’ve got the situation under control.” Ignoring his protests, I ended the call. A sense of calm
settled over me; that confusing whirlwind of emotions subsided. Being the persistent meddler he was,
Hobbs instantly called back. I gave him the bitch button then shoved the phone back into my bag. My
fingers instinctively curled around the comforting grip of the Smith & Wesson .38 nestled at the very bottom
of the chaos there.
That’s the one thing I can count on without question or hesitation...my work. It never lets me down. And
neither does Shorty. That’s the nickname for my .38 since its barrel is a mere three inches but, trust me, it’s
not the length that matters, it’s how you use it and I know how to use it.
I didn’t bother with credentials or clothes. Just eased cautiously into the steamy bathroom then pulled
open the shower door, careful to keep my right hand and the weapon shielded behind me.
The man I knew as Kevin Williams, the same one who’d swept me off my feet and straight into his bed
after only three dates, smiled widely. “Decide to join me?” he inquired with a suggestive waggle of his
eyebrows.
One look at his gloriously aroused lower anatomy told me he was definitely prepared to back up the
proposition. For a single second I considered taking him up on it. I knew first hand how good it would be.
But that part of our relationship was over. Oh well...it wasn’t the end of the world. Just the end of the best
sex I’d had since the last Texan resided in the White House. What a waste.
I laughed softly, hating the female weakness that allowed me to still want him on a physical level. “You
know,” I said casually, “you’ve been after me to tell you what I do for a living since we first met.”
He reached up with both hands and pushed the damp hair from his face, the move giving me another
mesmerizing view of his spectacular body. Damn he was something. The muscle definition alone was
enough to get a girl’s motor running.
“You said you didn’t want to ruin things,” he reminded, “that your profession usually sends the opposite
sex running.” He twisted the faucet lever to the off position and grabbed the towel he’d slung over the door.
The humid air suddenly felt too thick, the room too quiet for my comfort. I had a feeling his lust wasn’t
the only thing I’d just aroused.
“That’s right,” I admitted with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm and one last wistful eye tour of that
phenomenal body. I should have known that nothing this good would last. Maybe it was bad karma. Or
simply the poor judgment I’d suspected since my very first sexual experience. Whatever the case, I
appeared destined to set the world record for disastrous choices in men.
He draped the terrycloth around his hips and propped one broad shoulder against the elegantly tiled
stall opening. Good-looking and money, too. His luxurious townhouse sat on a rare, neatly manicured plot
of designer grass in the swankiest part of Houston. Not to mention the very expensive, very classy Jag he
drove.
All likely paid for by other people’s hard-earned money, if the warrant for his arrest was legit.
Now that pissed me off. Narrowed everything into instant, crystal clear focus.
“Look, Jackie,” he said gently, his face the perfect mask of genuine affection in spite of the suspicions
no doubt taking root, “if it bothers you that much, you don’t have to tell me.” He traced a finger down my arm,
eliciting a shiver in spite of my surge of irritation and absolute determination not to react. “I’m perfectly
content with things just as they are.”
Damn. That was sweet. “Actually,” I countered, “I do.” I swung my weapon into position, my aim
automatically zeroing in center torso. Disbelief registered briefly in his eyes. “Have to tell you that is,” I
explained flatly. “I’m a private investigator who does a little bounty hunting on the side. And your ass is
mine, darlin’.”
CHAPTER TWO
Sour sweat, bad coffee and stale smoke.
Houston Police Department’s Central Processing always smelled that way. No matter what time of
year, no matter how heavy or light the number of reluctant guests. Maybe it was because most of the
detainees were male and either flat out nasty, perspiring profusely or both. The stagnant aroma reminded
me of the boys’ locker room back in high school.
Not that I thought boys were stinky or that I spent that much time in forbidden male territory but there
was that one senior who had made my ripening freshmen hormones fizz like a shaken bottle of Double
Cola. Apparently I wasn’t any smarter about men back then either. Otherwise I wouldn’t have lost my
virginity on a battered wooden bench surrounded by dented metal lockers and abandoned football gear.
O-kay...enough with the stroll down memory lane.
I ignored the leers sent my way by a couple of the social misfits draped against the bars of their cages.
Freshly apprehended perps generally fell into two categories. The ogling slugs who knew the routine well
enough to be bored and the quivering first-timers huddled in the far corners fearing for their very survival.
Ken Willis refused to fit into either slot. He’d shut down like going-home traffic at five o’clock on Friday,
uttered not a single word to me after I identified myself. All emotion had blanked from his face. He’d merely
pulled on his clothes as I ordered, then offered his wrists for the Tuff-Tie cuffs I dredged up from the bottom
of my Birkin.
Sounds kinky, I know. But carrying around the essentials like a gun, cell phone, hand restraints, as well
as pepper spray and a Tazer, is part of the job. Just like a Girl Scout...always prepared. Too bad I’d
missed out on the merit badge for recognizing creeps posing as Prince Charming.
I paused at the processing desk long enough to collect a body receipt for the fugitive I’d just turned over
and produced a smile for the uniform on duty. “Thanks.”
“Chief Cates wants to see you upstairs,” the sergeant told me without actually looking up and definitely
sans any suggestion of a return smile. This guy had evidently skipped the class on public relations or
maybe someone besides me woke up in the wrong bed this morning. Still, I muttered another thanks and
moved on.
I didn’t bother with the stairs since I’d already had my aerobic workout for the day, took the elevator to
the third floor instead. Besides, I didn’t want to risk scuffing one of my heels. This is the only pair of
Christian Louboutins I own and only by virtue of the fact that a former client had used the like new designer
shoes for her retainer fee. I protected them at all costs. Anything I own in the way of designer icing, like the
cherished Hermes Birkin bag, I gained that way. I’m a woman, I can’t help myself. We all need a little
pampering now and again.
I didn’t like this little detour. Getting called into the chief’s office usually meant I’d encroached on
someone else’s territory or otherwise overstepped my bounds as a private investigator. Oh well, it wouldn’t
be the first time or the last.
The elevator doors slid open and a sea of cluttered desks and harried detectives dressed in cheap
suits spread out over the tan commercial carpet and beige painted terrain for as far as the eye could see.
The Robbery-Homicide bullpen, otherwise known as Rob-Ho. The largest division in the department.
The guys who got all the glory. Narcotics didn’t have half the manpower but that division did have its own
private niche in the basement where few outsiders dared to venture. I’d been there once not long ago after
a joint sting involving a pimp who’d decided to go into an additional crack trade in his spare time. Those
narc dudes rarely associated with other cops. Homicide might get all the glory but those guys in the
basement were the ones with all the guts. The T-types. Men who got off on the thrills of near death
experiences.
As I navigated my way to the far side of the male dominated domain a couple of the detectives I’d
worked with on missing persons cases turned homicides waved, phones attached to their ears like a
permanent accessory. I waved back, flashed my pearly whites. Felt good all over again about the black
mini skirt I’d opted to wear last night in light of the blatant gawks of approval several of the guys tossed my
way.
Look all you want, boys, I mused. It’s all natural, no lifts, no tucks, and no nips. Forty-five and loving it.
It’s funny, I considered briefly, how much a mind-blowing session of sex could do for one’s self esteem–
in spite of present circumstances.
As I reached the chief’s door a voice I’d just as soon banish from my memory banks for all eternity
made me hesitate. The sound had the same effect as nails scraping across a blackboard. I cringed.
“Well, damn, Mercer, I hardly recognized you without the blond wig, fishnets and street-walker boots.”
I told myself to ignore the knuckle-dragging Neanderthal. Argued that anything I said would only give
the misogynistic dinosaur glee. And it might have worked had I not overheard the aside he made to his
partner.
“If I had an ass and tits like that I’d sure as hell put them to better use.”
I turned around slowly. Pinned my lips into a wide smile. “What’s up, Nance?” Definitely not your limp
dick, I mused as I stalked over to his generic metal desk.
The coordinating economical chair squeaked as he dropped his feet from the desktop to the floor and
sat up straight. He grinned like the jackass he was. “I was just saying to O’Linger here,” he jerked his head
toward his partner who was preoccupied with my bare legs, “how nice it is to see you.”
“Yeah, I heard.” I leaned down and flattened my palms on Nance’s desk giving both him and his partner
a wide-angle view of the cleavage provided by the wickedly tight devil red tank I ambitiously selected last
night to complement the skirt. Who would have guessed I’d end up at HPD this morning?
“You made a good point, Nance,” I allowed, “if you had an ass and tits like this you might actually be
good for something.”
His lower jaw joined his feet on the floor.
“O’Linger,” I said with an acknowledging nod to the other detective who looked red-faced from choking
back the mirth shaking his belly. Then I swiveled on the heel of my coveted stilettos and strutted straight into
the chief’s office. There was nothing like putting a jerk in his place to make me feel on top of the world.
Yeah, baby. Don’t mess with this private dick—pardon the pun.
“Mercer.” The chief stood as I walked in. “Close the door.” He didn’t look happy. Not that he ever did
but this morning he looked particularly unhappy. I suppose after twenty years of tracking down killers and
analyzing dead bodies at gruesome murder scenes a guy had the right to look anyway he wanted. Since I
hadn’t killed anybody lately and couldn’t recall pissing off a member of law enforcement, I should be out of
here before Nance had time to think of a witty comeback.
I closed the door and tacked my team player smile into place. When interacting with other law
enforcement authorities (Nance not included) I’d learned to respond humbly whenever possible. Most of
them were a little on the sensitive side. “What can I do for you today, chief?” I asked with all the team spirit I
could rally.
“I think you’ve done quite enough.”
My gaze shot to the left where the owner of the unfamiliar voice pushed off the conference table and
started in my direction. Classy charcoal suit. Crisp white shirt. Red power tie and shiny black leather
loafers. Regulation haircut with not a single brunette strand out of place. A cloying whiff of Hugo Boss
cologne preceded him, making my nose twitch with distaste before I even learned his name.
Federal agent. I could spot one a mile off. You could shoot’em and bury’em in the same suit. My
instincts went on point.
“Mercer, this is Special Agent Terrence Brooks from our local Bureau office. He replaced Agent
Watts.”
I flicked a glance back at the chief. “What’s this about?” Thanks for the setup, Cates. Go team!
“You compromised our primary asset in an ongoing operation,” Brooks accused. Judging by his tone
he was seriously PO’d. He stopped right next to me and pumped up the intimidation in the gray eyes that
were one or two shades lighter than his thousand-dollar suit. “Now we’re going to have to scramble to get
him back in the game.”
Ah-ha. Willis. This must be his handler. “Well, Agent Brooks,” I said, propping a hand on my hip in a
show of unrepentant confidence, “the Bureau should consider concealing the warrants on a fugitive felon
they don’t want picked off the street.” So much for humility.
Fury tightened the smooth, probably-purchased-at-the-spa tanned features of his face. “Willis is
working undercover for us,” he snapped. “We need him. We’re keeping him.”
Chief Cates cleared his throat, drawing my flabbergasted attention back to him before I could shake off
the denial and launch a defensive. “Mercer, we’re going to have to pretend this never happened and put
him back on the street.”
“What?” They couldn’t do this! One look at the Fed next to me and I knew they not only could but would.
The chief held up a hand as if he feared I might do something rash, like scramble over his desk and
shake the hell out of him or punch the suit towering over me. “Our cooperation is essential,” he stated flatly
as if the final decision had already been made and this discussion was a mere technicality. “No one can
know that Willis has been made.”
Say what? I gave my head a shake to arrest the mounting mixture of anger and confusion. “You’re not
serious?”
“You made a mistake, Mercer,” Brooks cut in. “As far as the world knows the man you brought in this
morning is Kevin Williams. That’s the way it has to stay.”
“Bullshit.” I glared up at Brooks. “I got this guy fair and square. No mistake about it.” I waved the body
receipt in his face.
The arrogant Fed had the nerve to smile at me! I wanted to shoot him. But that amounted to capitol
murder and the idea of taking my last breath in old Sparky changed my mind.
“You have any solid evidence to back up your claim?” he challenged smugly. “If not, Mr. Williams is
free to go.” The smile turned into a cold, hard smirk. “Any more questions?”
For one second I felt defeated. But then victory roared through me. Hobbs always double-checked his
sources. I’d bet my Birkin he’d run Willis’s prints. Prints, I suddenly realized, that my over zealous,
perpetually resourceful assistant had probably lifted off something at my place that Willis had touched on his
one visit. If Hobbs said the paper on this guy was negotiable then it was. He had been suspicious of Willis
from day one. I should have listened. Hobbs had the merit badge I was missing...the high-tech radar that
made him so damned good. And I, as well as he, would have the verifiable proof of Willis’s identity—
matching latent prints.
“Actually,” I said to the Fed, “I do have evidence.”
His triumphant expression darkened with impatience. “What could you possibly have?”
I laughed softly, relishing my victory a moment before I finished this. “Why, I have his DNA and prints all
over my body.” I opened my arms widely in invitation. “You want to take a few comparison samples?”
The discussion went downhill from there.
The old saying you can’t fight city hall is even truer of the Feds. So I left...mad as hell, without my body
receipt that served as payment voucher for my hard work and with the scent and taste of Ken Willis clawing
at my senses.
“I need a bath,” I muttered as I climbed into my decade old Jeep Cherokee. Note to self: never sleep
with potential income.
June’s heat wave made the vehicle’s interior stifling. I twisted the ignition and set the air conditioning to
maximum. The digital clock blinked, forcing me to acknowledge the hour. 10:21. Damn. I needed to get to
the office. With my partner retired, I was the only PI at the Mercer Agency. But first I had to shower and
change. I couldn’t stomach the idea of walking around the rest of the day with Willis’ genetic material
reminding me of my temporary slip into ignorant bliss.
At this time of day traffic was light. It wouldn’t take that long to get across town. Ten minutes to shower
and change. And then I would go to the office and break the news to my efficient assistant. Next month’s
operating budget had been stamped “hands off.” Enroute I tried my level best to keep my mind off what was
likely taking place back at Central Processing. Willis would be released. A clerical error report would be
filed. End of story.
My lips tightened in outrage. The Feds should get their shit together. Sinking the warrants on Willis
would have preempted this entire situation. His cover would not have been jeopardized and I wouldn’t be
sitting here regretting the best sex I’d had in years.
Frustration knotted in my stomach. Hot, frantic clips from last night as well as this morning kept
hijacking my concentration, like annoying redirects on Google. I could only hope that I wouldn’t run into Willis
around town. I felt reasonably sure Agent Brooks wouldn’t want his protected felon damaged in any way. If
the guy gave me any trouble I’d have to bust his kneecaps.
I told myself I hated Willis for deceiving me, but mostly my feelings were pricked and I was mad as hell
that despite knowing how he’d lied to me I couldn’t deny the sex was great.
“Oh, damn.” I groaned. It was Monday. I smacked my forehead with the heel of my hand. Dinner with
the girls. Maybe I’d fake some sudden illness. I performed a quick inventory. Fatigue. Headache. Big
knot in my stomach. Oh, yeah. I definitely wasn’t up to par.
It was the only way to salvage this day.
Dinner confessional was out of the question. It was too damned hard to hide anything from the girls.
They knew me too well. That’s what happened when you kept the same best friends your entire life. They
know you better than you know yourself.
I parked at the curb in front of my cottage at West University Place. It wasn’t one of the newer high-end
homes the neighborhood had to offer but I loved it. Cute and cozy. Bought and paid for with sheer
determination. My ex hadn’t paid the first red cent on this place. Not that I resented all those years of hard
work to make it mine. I didn’t. Nor was I bitter that I had to do it alone. Getting rid of the no-good, two-
timing buttwad I married was the best thing I ever did. Especially for him. Another minute of his lying and
cheating and I would have had no choice but to kill him.
My only regret was that my son Steven was forced to see the truth about his spineless father. It wasn’t
like I could keep it from him after the bastard deserted us in favor of his new, younger wife who, ironically,
was pregnant at the time. What did he need with his old family when he had a new one?
Steven had survived. Grown up into a fine young man currently enrolled in law school at Ole Miss. I
take singular credit for that major feat as well.
I got out of my Jeep and inhaled deeply, then let it go, forcing all depressing thoughts from my mind. I
was home now. My retreat from urban mania. My “comfort food” place from the stress of working
downtown. A mere thirty minutes from the office and brimming with peace and quiet. Exactly what I needed
to counter the insanity of my chosen profession.
Inside the cool air immediately started the stress deconstruction. I checked my messages, grabbed an
apple from the kitchen counter and headed for my bedroom. The quiet felt good. Went a long way in
soothing my ragged nerves.
The unwelcome sound of my evil cell phone interrupted my journey toward putting the past couple of
hours behind me. So much for serenity.
I rummaged for the annoyance, tossed my bag onto the sofa and turned my attention back to my
destination. My plan would not be thwarted. I had to wash this creep off my skin. Had to recharge my self-
esteem batteries.
“Mercer.”
“Where are you?”
Hobbs.
“I had to stop by the house,” I snarked, allowing my inner bitch to rear her vicious head. The warning
was clear in my tone: don’t get between a woman and her after-sex-with-a-jerk bath. “I’ll give you an update
when I get to the office.”
“Oh.” Silence. “You don’t want to talk about it.”
Give the man a frigging cigar. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Well, all right,” Hobbs relented, then qualified, “but make it fast because you’ve got a prospective
investigator waiting to be interviewed. He has the markings of excellent partner material.”
I twisted the knob to turn on the cascade of water in my tub and then reached for a towel. “Someone
responded to the ad?” I asked, surprised—no, scratch that, astounded.
“It would appear so,” Hobbs allowed patiently.
Not even his condescending response could hamper my enthusiasm. This was great! I desperately
needed a new investigator who might turn into a partner eventually. But finding a qualified applicant
interested in a one-horse operation was pretty much wishful thinking...or, at least, I had figured as much.
“Someone local?” I queried, intrigued.
“Gotta go. We’ll be waiting for you.”
My assistant hung up, leaving me with the distinct impression that something else in my shaky world
was about to be rocked and it had nothing to do with amazing sex.
CHAPTER THREE
I had no sooner cut the ignition on my Jeep in the narrow rear alley behind the building my agency
called home than Hobbs covertly popped out the backdoor.
Surely he hadn’t heard about the fiasco at HPD already. What was I saying? Of course he had.
Hobbs had the kind of hound dog instincts that could ferret out Al-Qaeda. I’d box him up and ship him to the
White House to help out there if I didn’t need him so damn bad here. I blew the bangs out of my eyes with
an exasperated breath. Might as well get this over with and put it behind me. Hobbs was going to be
difficult to live with the rest of the day.
The heat and humidity pressed in around me the moment I slid from behind the wheel. I plucked my
blouse from my skin in a doomed effort to circulate the nonexistent breeze. If it was this bad now, July would
be pure hell. There wasn’t an antiperspirant on the market that could keep you cool and dry from June until
October in the Lone Star State. The phrase “Texas hot” hadn’t been coined for nothing.
“His name is Derrick Dawson,” Hobbs said before I got halfway to where he waited. His slender, well-
dressed frame essentially vibrated with excitement.
Not quite the reaction I’d expected considering I’d shown up empty handed. “Whose name is Derrick
Dawson?” I measured Hobbs openly as I tugged my bag onto my shoulder and covered the last few steps
that stood between us. I hadn’t seen him this excited since Will and Grace helped pave the way for broader
acceptance of alternative lifestyles. And that was saying something.
He huffed impatiently. “Him.” He canted his head and gave me one of those looks that said you
know!...him!
Hobbs would stand nose to nose with me, an easy five eight, except for my stiletto advantage. He
outweighed me by twenty or thirty pounds but it was tight, lean muscle. He didn’t go to Gold’s Gym four
times a week for nothing. We’d worked together for nine years. I knew him as well as I knew my own
mother, maybe better. But whatever the hell was going on behind those glittering hazel eyes just now was a
complete mystery to me.
“The applicant for the investigator position,” he said out of the side of his mouth as if he feared
someone would hear and make something of it. Then he gave me another of those knowing looks that only
a true drama queen could pull off.
Oh, yeah. “Dawson.” I nodded. “Right.” I paused, a troubling concept taking shape in my head. My
gut clenched. “Is he...” God, how did I put this delicately? “Is he gay?” Not that I have a problem with
alternative lifestyles, mind you. But working with one gay man, especially an obsessive-compulsive
perfectionist, is quite enough.