Flirting With Disaster (9 page)

He searched missing persons in Cincinnati first, but considering that was the location she’d given, he didn’t trust it. When he found nothing related to Isabelle, he moved on to the Chicago area. There weren’t any missing women in her age group that looked like Isabelle there, either. Next up were the fugitive lists. It didn’t take long to get through the FBI list, but the local Chicago lists were extensive and broken down by district. An hour later, his eyes swimming from all the scrolling he’d done, he sat back in his chair with a sigh.

She wasn’t a fugitive, as far as he could tell. Which meant, as a marshal, he should just drop it. But he’d never been very good at dropping things. And he had more than a professional interest now.

If she wasn’t a wanted fugitive, then she was running from something else. She had a gun, a fake identity, a Chicago accent and no pictures of her family, who she’d implied were dead.

Trying to ignore the clock screaming 12:15 at him, he searched for murders in the Chicago area for the five years previous to when Isabelle West’s name had appeared on the record. There were a lot of murders. He started filtering out the least likely scenarios, but by 1:00 a.m., he realized it was useless. There was too much crime in a place like Chicago, and he still couldn’t be sure he had the city right. Could be Milwaukee. Cleveland. Or any place in between.

He needed to sleep. And he needed not to care. And he really needed to drop this.

He fell asleep ten minutes later with theories about Isabelle West still spinning through his brain, but when he dreamed, it was all about that kiss.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I
T
WAS
TURNING
out to be a truly glorious day.

Isabelle had awoken to a warm band of sunlight snaking across her bed and turning January into pure heat. No matter how cold it was outside, the sun at this altitude was scorching, so she’d kicked off her covers and stretched out naked in the warmth, feeling like a self-satisfied cat.

Self-satisfied, indeed, because thoughts of Tom had turned her slick and tight, and Isabelle had touched herself. Slowly. Lazily. Thinking of his subtle tongue and hard cock and the very good things she’d like from both of them.

He was dangerous. Maybe not to anyone else, but definitely to her. He could destroy everything she’d worked hard to build. Yet something about him drew her in. Maybe that very thing. The danger. Or maybe just that even though she didn’t trust cops anymore, even though she wanted nothing to do with any of them... She’d spent her whole life around cops. She knew how they moved and spoke and thought.

She loved the wariness in his eyes each time he entered a darkened room. The way his hand went to his gun when he was on alert. The way he studied her face when she spoke, trying to figure her out.

That was the problem right there. That he looked at her and
saw
her. But just the thought of it turned her on, so she imagined that. Imagined him watching as she touched herself in lazy strokes. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t order her around and ask to be touched. He just watched, took her in, devoured her with his eyes. Then he reached down and unzipped his pants and tugged down his underwear, and Isabelle whispered, “Yes.”

Yes, she’d said, fingering herself, stroking her clit, her other hand sliding up to pinch her nipple hard. Yes, she wanted him just like that. Standing above her. Watching her fingers slide deeper. Wanted him stroking his cock. That beautiful jaw of his would get so tense. His lush mouth would flatten. The sun would glint off his chest hair, and it would shine on the wetness of her pussy and—

“God,” she choked out as everything inside her coiled tight. “God, yes.” She came saying his name and picturing him coming right along with her.

Just that long, shuddering orgasm would have been enough to make the day special, but she’d followed it up with a spectacular day of painting, putting the final touches on one piece before starting on a clean canvas that was the very last work of the contract.

And now...now she was in the mood to party.

Jill, well aware that Isabelle’s domestic skills consisted of occasional grilled cheese construction and charring a perfect steak, arrived early with little puff pastries to be thrown in the oven. “Cheddar and jalapeño,” she said.

“Jesus, can I eat one raw?”

“No, but I made some guacamole, too. With more minced peppers, just the way you like.”

“Give it,” Isabelle said, managing to growl out a quick thank-you before she stuffed a chip into her mouth. She groaned her approval as the creamy goodness melted over her tongue. Yes, this was the perfect, perfect day.

“I’m going to paint another picture for you this spring,” she promised Jill. “Though I’d have to paint ten a year to repay you for all the food.”

“If I didn’t make food for you, I’d make it for myself, and I’d gain twenty pounds every winter instead of five.”

“Okay. Just get those puff pastries in the oven and we’ll call it even.”

“All right, greedy. But first I’ll grab the pies out of the car.” She headed toward the front door, and Isabelle rushed after her, her skin actually flushing with excitement.

“Pie? You brought pie? You really are the perfect woman.”

Jill winked over her shoulder as she opened the front door. “I normally don’t hear that until after sex.”

“Vixen,” Isabelle said before realizing there was a petite blonde stranger standing in the open doorway, her frown answering their laughter.

“Oh, hello,” Jill said brightly, as if the woman wore a decidedly more friendly expression.

The woman’s scowl deepened. “I’m Deputy Marshal Jones.”

“Isabelle,” Jill said slyly, “you’re under arrest again.”

“It figures.” Thank God Tom had warned her he was sending another deputy over or she’d be fighting off a panic attack. Isabelle craned her neck to see past the porch to the driveway beyond. “Is Tom coming?” she asked. “He said he was coming over to keep an eye on Veronica Chandler.”

Jill gasped. “Tom’s coming? I’m going to spoil him like he’s the only boy at a girls’ night party.”

Isabelle poked her shoulder. “You’re the worst lesbian ever, and a terrible feminist to boot. Focus on feeding us and forget about the boy. He wasn’t even invited.”

Marshal Jones watched them with a wariness that suggested she wouldn’t be surprised if they both pulled out revolvers and started whooping their way down the porch steps, shooting pistols in the air.

“I’m sorry, Marshal Jones,” Isabelle said. “But we are in the mood for a party. Did you want to come inside?”

“No, I’m only here to take a quick look around the property before it’s full dark.
Tom
will be over soon with Ms. Chandler.” She stepped quickly off the porch and headed for the side of the house.

Oh, shit.
Tom
, Marshal Jones had said with a little sneer in her voice. As if she didn’t approve. As if she had reason not to.

He’d said something about his second-in-command coming by, which meant that he spent a lot of time with this woman. Time on the road, at restaurants, in hotel rooms. An occasional night of mutual stress relief would be totally normal, but those situations rarely played out with equal levels of feeling on both sides. This was going to be awkward. No wonder Tom hadn’t stayed for a quickie last night.

“That woman needs some good food,” Jill said, climbing back up the steps with a pie in each hand.

Isabelle quickly grabbed one and backed into the house. “I guess she’s tired after a full day at the courthouse. Crap, I didn’t even check the news. Is everything okay?”

“It seemed quiet. Some motion was filed by the defense, and everything ended around 3:00 p.m. Aside from the lawyers and reporters blathering on for endless interviews, of course. They received another letter this weekend. Did you hear?”

Isabelle frowned. “Maybe?” She couldn’t quite remember, but she did recall how tired Tom had looked the night before. She sifted through her constantly crowded brain, trying to tuck away all the useless bits of anatomical details and medical facts that were currently crowding the way. “Right. A threat against the judge’s family. I talked to Tom about it last night.”

“Oh, you
did
? Now, that is something I hadn’t heard.”

Isabelle shrugged. “He comes to see you, too.”

“Yes, but I’m luring him with food. What are you luring him with?”

“My tits. And my sparkling personality, I’m sure.”

“No, it’s your tits. They’re gorgeous.”

Isabelle actually felt her cheeks go pink. “Shut up,” she said halfheartedly.

“Did you show him that painting?”

“He doesn’t like my work.”

Jill snorted. “He’ll like
that
. Now get out of my way so I can finish the pastries.”

Isabelle moved quickly to her bedroom to put on her party clothes, waving at Marshal Jones through the window before shutting the blinds. Thank God she didn’t have any neighbors. She could rarely be bothered with closing curtains, and she often ran around in nothing but panties and bedhead. It was only her, after all, and half her day was spent remembering something she’d left in the other room or forgotten to do. Sometimes it took her two hours to finish getting dressed.

But not today. Today was easy, since she’d already laid out her clothes, mostly because she’d just taken them from the dryer. Black leggings, a long sage-green tank top that covered her ass and swooped low over her breasts, heeled boots and her nicest black cardigan. The cardigan would come off once the sangria kicked in.

She smiled as she wrapped a long silver chain around her neck three times. The longest loop dipped to touch the rise of her breasts. She hoped Tom would notice. She hoped he’d look at that warm metal touching her skin, and he’d want to touch it himself.

Thank God Tom’s story had turned out to be true, or she’d never have let herself feel attracted to him. Not that sex with Tom was a sure thing at this point, but it was nice to have the interest. To look at a live, in-the-flesh man and feel her body say,
Yes.
The last time had been over a year ago and that had been more of a
Sure—why not?

She hadn’t been this casual about sex in her youth, but she’d been a very different girl then. As the only daughter of an overprotective, anxiety-ridden mother and a father who was a cop, Isabelle had walked the straight and narrow.

She’d done well in high school. Really well. She’d spread her wings a little in college, taking all the premed classes she’d meant to, but using all her elective hours on art. She’d saved her virginity for a boy she’d fallen in love with during her sophomore year of college. She hadn’t quite waited until they’d gotten engaged, but that had come soon after. Her world had been knitting together into beautiful conformity, the way the bones of a child’s skull slowly grew into the perfect protection.

During her junior year, she’d come to a realization that she could combine her love of painting with her love of medicine, but it had terrified her. She’d always known that she would be a doctor. Her parents had always known. Her fiancé, by then an up-and-coming attorney working for the state prosecutor, had considered marriage to a doctor a perfect match.

She hadn’t wanted to let him down. She’d been afraid to shake things up.

Yes, that had summed her up nicely back then. Afraid to shake things up. And then an earthquake had hit her life and shaken everything to pieces.

Isabelle traced a hand down her collarbone then onto the warming silver and down to the tops of her breasts. Yes, she’d changed after that, thank God. She’d had her first orgasm, and it had been with a drunken one-night stand, of all things. She’d needed a man to show her what her body could do. A
stranger
. That had horrified her. She’d been so passive her whole life that she’d waited for someone else to reveal her own body to her.

That had been the end of passivity. It had been the end of a lot of things, and the beginning of so much more.

She knew it was a bad idea to sleep with Tom Duncan. It was a bad idea to even draw his attention. But she resented her fear and caution. She wanted to kick and scream and push against it. She wanted
him
.

After a quick brush of her hair, she pulled it up in a French twist that she hoped would hide any pigment she might’ve gotten on the ends during today’s marathon painting session. Shampoo wasn’t exactly effective on oil paint.

By the time she came out of the bedroom, the smell of butter and cheese had bloomed through the house. Isabelle turned on the stereo, got the first pitcher of sangria from the fridge and smiled at the sound of a car door slamming. A woman’s laugh preceded the knock at the door, and Isabelle was laughing in response before she even opened it.

Girls’ night was here.

* * *

S
OPHIE
LOOKED
THE
SAME
.
Somehow Isabelle had expected her to return looking like Sandy at the end of
Grease
: leathered and eyelinered and big-haired. But she still looked like a postwar librarian, her red hair curled under in an elegant chignon and her little black glasses doing their best to hide her naughty thoughts.

“Where’s your bike?” Isabelle asked after giving Sophie a third hug and pressing a glass of sangria into her hand.

“We left the bikes in Texas for now. Alex has a quick contract in Alaska, and I decided winter in the Alaskan oil fields was not the adventure I’m looking for right now.”

Lauren dropped onto the couch beside them. “Does that mean you’re home for a while?”

Sophie winced. “For a little while.”

“Shit,” Isabelle groaned. “Just spill it.”

Sophie cleared her throat. “I’m turning in my resignation,” she said softly, reaching out for Lauren’s hand. They worked together at the library, or they had before Sophie had taken a leave of absence four months before.

“You’re really leaving,” Isabelle whispered.

“I’m leaving. Finally.”

“Okay,” Isabelle said. “That’s good.” Neither of them wanted to lose Sophie, but she’d lived her entire life in Jackson, and it was time for her to see the world. On a motorcycle. With her delicious new man.

Isabelle touched her glass to Sophie’s. “I’m proud of you.”

Lauren sniffed a little, but she smiled. “Me, too. As long as you promise to ride through here every year and see us.”

“Oh, come on!” Sophie cried out, her eyes watery. “My dad is here. I’ll be back all the time. A lifetime of crippling family dynamics can’t be magically overcome with the power of one penis. Not even Alex’s.”

“Are you sure?” Lauren drawled. “What about when you throw in the tattoos and the bike?”

“Okay, it’s close.”

Isabelle nudged her a little less than gently. “Shut up already. Everyone in this room except me has access to a penis.”

Jill barked out a laugh from the doorway. “Bite your tongue, woman. None of you
need
one anyway. You can order high-quality substitutes from the comfort of your own home.”

Sighing, Isabelle sank back into the oversize couch, letting the first flush of sangria wash over her. “I know, but there’s nothing like the real thing. Warm skin and that velvety texture and the smell of a man’s body. God.”

Silence fell, and Isabelle knew why even before she leaned forward and looked toward the front door. “Hi, Tom.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, his voice as neutral as a court stenographer’s.

Isabelle hopped up with a grin. “Nonsense. Your arrival was utterly apropos.” Once she was standing, she saw the young woman behind him. “Veronica? I’m Isabelle. Welcome!”

“Thank you so much for inviting me!” When the woman pasted a smile on her face and stepped forward with an outstretched hand, she looked a little less young and uncertain, but only a little. Her short blond bob swung forward against round cheeks that gave her a sweet, youthful look. The pretty blue eyes didn’t hurt much, either, though they were darkened with smoky gray shadow and black eyeliner.