The Officer's Girl (8 page)

It was the right thing to do, she told herself. No matter how much her body craved his touch, there was no room in her immediate future for a tall, broad-shouldered cop who rode to her rescue every time she had a hangnail. Especially if he didn’t care. Which he must not, considering how easily he’d walked away.

Once the door was locked behind him, the windows closed and the thermostat lowered to bone-chill, she headed for the shower. Their kiss might have meant nothing to Brett, but she still smoldered. Turning the tap on full force, she realized it would take hours for the hot water heater to recharge.

She would need every one of them.

Stephanie’s work phone rang twenty, sometimes thirty, times a day. Which made for a lot of sipped air and bruised feelings whenever the display showed a number other than Brett’s. Which it had done far longer than she’d thought he could possibly hold out. Never mind that she had told him not to call. She couldn’t take much more of his cold shoulder. She could handle broad shoulders, though. Especially Brett’s, which were broad enough and strong enough to—Her breath hitched when the phone rang, but she refused to look up from the report she was finalizing

When the phone buzzed again, she swallowed frustration at the unfamiliar number on her Caller ID and picked up.

“Hello. This is Stephanie Bryant.”

“Stephanie, it’s Mary Jenkins. You may not remember me, but…”

But she made a point of remembering names and faces. In the moment before she joined the conversation, she flipped through the pertinent facts. Mary was married to Tom. Tom’s best friend was on the CBPD.

“Of course I remember you, Mary. How are you? How are the girls? And Tom?” Maybe he could ask his friend to ask Brett to—Yeah, and, like, high school was soooo yesterday.

“Fine. We’re all fine. I hope it’s okay to call you at work.”

“Of course, it is,” she said warmly. “I saw Tom’s ad in the paper. I guess that means you weathered the storm all right?”

“Yes, thank goodness. Only a few loose boards at the marina, and that’s really why I called. I know it’s awfully late notice, but Tom has a night off tomorrow so we’ve decided to throw a post-hurricane cookout. We’d love it if you’d join us. Oops—hold on.”

While Mary said something about not playing with “that” and two little voices clamored for something Stephanie couldn’t quite decipher, something involving “Miss Steppy” and “posh,” she considered her plans. The excitement on tap for tomorrow was no different from any of the last twenty-one straight days—work until she couldn’t see straight, stop for takeout on the way home, and spend a nice, relaxing evening with her laptop and files. If she didn’t start following some of the advice she had given Brett, she would soon be walking her own job-burnout line.

“I’d love to,” she answered when she had Mary’s attention again. “Is there anything I can bring?”

“Not a thing except, mmm, maybe some nail polish?” Mary asked, sounding half-apologetic. “The girls keep begging to have their nails done again. I did it once, but I’m just a mommy. I don’t have the right touch. Or maybe it’s the color.”

The story drew a laugh from both of them. She would love to paint the girls’ nails, she said. “I’ll be there at six.”

After they hung up, she buzzed her receptionist. “Ralinda, could you pull Paul Mason’s address for me? And clear my calendar tomorrow afternoon. I’m knocking off early and won’t be in till Monday.”

Seconds later, her willowy right-hand woman appeared
in her doorway with the information. “You deserve a weekend off. You’ve worked, what? Sixteen days straight?”

Anything more might qualify her for martyrdom, so Stephanie kept mum on the real number. She turned instead to her computer where a stiletto-wielding brunette crept across the screen, smacked the corporate dragon on the nose and made off with all his gold. Stephanie smothered a smile and hit the Delete key. Space Tech frowned on personal computer use, but that hadn’t stopped the cartoon from flooding company e-mails or slowed the goodwill generated by her hurricane policy. She thought it might have even lessened the sting of the reorganization she’d implemented. As for the caricature’s source, John Sanders was the only local with the whole story and she refused to jeopardize the founder’s support by asking him about it.

O
KAY
,
SO SHE MIGHT
have gone a little overboard, Stephanie admitted with a glance at the hamper strapped into the passenger seat of her company car. But baby clothes, gift certificates and assorted goodies were the least she could buy for a man with a hole in the roof of his trailer and a brand-new baby at home. Especially since he had provided the impetus for her first major success at Space Tech.

Trouble was, she couldn’t find Paul Mason.

She slowed in front of a neat brick rambler at the address her GPS navigational system and the efficient Ralinda swore was correct. There was nary a trailer in sight. Nor a single damaged and blue-tarped roof. Intending to double-check the address, she edged her car to the curb just in time to realize she had been duped.

Her tummy did a quick tuck and roll as Paul Mason, dressed like something out of
GQ,
emerged from a house
that did not have four wheels. Stephanie eyed the woman on his arm and swore she’d eat her imitation Coach purse if the girl had given birth within the last year. With no baby carrier to slow them down, the carefree couple climbed into an SUV so new it bore dealer tags.

Had Paul used money from the hurricane relief fund to buy a new car?

In light of all his other lies, Stephanie was certain of it. She hunkered below the headrest where she fought angry tears. She had personally approved the guard’s time off and the money to repair his nonexistent trailer. Her gullibility would undo all she had accomplished, and when Corporate learned of the fiasco, not only would they pull the plug on the relief program, she could kiss her dreams of advancement goodbye.

Or worse.

Worse, how? Her mind immediately produced several scenarios, one of which earned her an all-expense-paid vacation in a federal prison. While that might be a little farfetched, this was definitely a crisis, one she needed to drop everything to handle.

She drummed the steering wheel and concentrated on breathing.

What next?

She would call Mary Jenkins and beg out of the barbecue.

She would head back to the office.

She would spend the weekend verifying the claims of other so-called hurricane victims and praying Paul was the only cheat.

Her fingers stopped drumming.

She would do nothing of the sort.

Wasn’t this exactly what she had warned Brett about?

There was always a crisis at work. Some were bigger than others—and this one was huge—but she could either leave it at work, or surrender her life to it. Sure, she could spend the weekend building a case against Paul Mason and anyone else who was involved but, no matter what, the situation would still be there on Monday.

It was time to follow her own advice.

That didn’t make the choice any easier. By the time she reached the little beach house she called home, her shoulders throbbed beneath twin yokes of tension and disappointment. She changed into jogging shorts and shoes. Pounding her stress into the packed sand at the water’s edge, she ran until she felt ready to pick up the pieces of her ruined weekend.

B
RETT’S EYES NARROWED
at the unfamiliar 300-Series sedan parked in front of Tom and Mary’s house. His hand was halfway to the radio mike before he remembered he was off duty, not driving his patrol car.

He tried telling himself he had been working too hard, but the excuse made him shift uncomfortably. Truth was, he had worked his share of overtime, but there had been times when he wasn’t so exhausted that sleep claimed him almost before he reached his bed. On those nights, he headed for Sticks N Tips where he and his fellow officers killed a few hours, threw a few darts and tipped back a few beers.

It was all Stephanie’s fault.

Just thinking of the curvaceous elf with the amazing blue eyes made his heart race. He had kissed enough women to know when the electricity was there, and Stephanie’s kiss had thrown all his switches. Likewise, he had given the curvy brunette some of his best stuff and was
willing to bet he’d unleashed a current in her the likes of which she’d never known. But how did she respond?

“Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

Her sharp barb had drawn so much blood he had resorted to the procedures manual. True, there was nothing in the first aid book about
drinking
the alcohol, but it worked very well when applied directly to his wounded pride. His self-esteem had healed with barely a scar. He was ready to forget her, or give her a call.

His finger hesitated over the keypad of his cell phone.

Just in time to let him off the hook, a tummy on two legs, followed by its mirror image with a dad in hot pursuit, roared around the corner of the house. Holstering his cell, he watched Tom scoop the runaway off the ground and toss a twin—Brenda or Barbara, Brett could never keep them straight—into the air, catching her as easily as if he’d been doing it all her life…which he had. Brett swallowed his envy. It was time to join the fray.

“Unca Brett! Unca Brett!”

Scrambling out of their father’s arms, the twins were on approach the moment he cleared the front bumper. Divide and conquer was the theme as each slammed into a knee and tugged. Brett pretended to lose his balance, arcing in slow motion down to the ground where the giggling girls pounced on his chest. Usually, this was the point where they demanded the presents Unca Brett always provided. But this day, twenty little fingers waggled dangerously close to his eyes while the twins bounced up and down yelling, “Posh! Posh!”

He didn’t have a clue what they were talking about and it must have shown on his face.

Chuckling, Tom said, “Stacie. That girl we met at the storm shelter? She painted their nails a little while ago. It’s all they can talk about.”

“Polish?” Brett mock-roared to the girls’ delighted squeals. “Gimme those hands. I’ll eat ’em up.” Pretending to munch, monster-style, on little fingers, he noticed that whoever this Stacie was, she had used a different shade of pink with each girl. His monster-grin widened. Finally. He had a clue as to which twin was which.

“I don’t think you’ve mentioned her,” he said while he and Tom continued tussling with the twins.

“I might have if you’d come around more often.” Tom tried to jab Brett with his elbow.

Brett ducked the blow but not the blame. “My bad,” he said. “I’ll do better.”

“You should. Brenda—” Tom’s chin dipped to the darkly polished twin “—and Barbara miss their favorite uncle.”

“I miss them, too,” he admitted before surrendering to another round of tickles. By the time he and Tom were breathless and the girls worn out, he had heard enough about the virtuous Stacie to raise questions.

“You and Mary aren’t setting me up, are you?”

“Nah.” Tom gave his head a shake that said more than words. “She’s not your type. Mary invited her tonight ’cause she’s new in town and she was so nice at the shelter an’ all. Plus, the girls like her.”

From all accounts, the amazing Stacie had saved his friends from a horrifying night out in the storm, singlehandedly organized the chaos of the shelter, and stolen the hearts of his two best girls. Even Seminole loved her, according to Tom, who reported the dog had spent the night at the foot of her sleeping bag. Stacie sounded exactly like the type of woman he needed in his life. Brett shrugged. If he weren’t so hung up on a certain brunette, he might even be interested.

As other guests began to arrive, Tom steered the party around to the covered pool and patio where Brett staked out a seat in clear view of the goings-on. Munching on salsa and chips, he made small talk with friends he hadn’t seen in far too long while watching over the twins who sat at his feet busily divesting Unca Brett’s presents of their clothes. Once the brand-new dolls were suitably naked, the twins toted them to the house. Through tempered glass, Brett caught the flash of a shapely wrist, but nothing more until the door opened some time later to spill out two giggling and cooing girls. They rushed to him, determined he admire the matching “posh” sported by their babies.

He was on his feet, his patented here-let-me-help-you smile plastered in place the next time sliding glass rattled in its tracks. But one glance at an oddly familiar tush backing through the door, followed by arms that held platters of burgers and dogs instead of what he wanted them to, and he spun aside. Shooting a casual wave to no one in particular, he strode purposefully to the other end of the deck where a cedar post offered support. He shuttered his eyes behind dark sunglasses, wishing they could cloak him in invisibility until he figured things out. He hadn’t made much headway before the crowd parted enough to let twin-toting Tom and Mary pass into view. Brett glimpsed the graceful ankles and dark hair of someone trailing in their wake. His gut tightened.

“Brett.” Tom stepped to one side. “I’d like you to meet Stacie Bryant.”

“Stephanie.” Brett and Stephanie spoke in the same instant.

“Stephanie? Oh,” Tom repeated vacantly. “Sorry about that.” He turned to the newcomer. “I’m very bad with names,” he explained with a red-faced shrug.

The tops of Mary’s eyebrows rose above the rim of her sunglasses while her look bounced between her two guests. “He’s right, you know. He’s always been bad with names. But…you’ve met?”

“Before the storm,” Brett answered as the dominos in his mind rearranged themselves into a new pattern. He trusted Tom’s judgment. And Mary’s. His friends thought Stephanie was all-about-the-other-guy. They would laugh if he called her a “me, me” girl. Which meant he had misjudged Stephanie from the moment they met. His throat closed.

He cleared it before he turned to her. “How have you been? Settled into that new job yet?”

“Not quite,” she answered. A look he could not decipher crossed her face before the lips he longed to kiss shifted into a guarded smile. “This is the first day I’ve had off in weeks. How about yourself? Still saving damsels in distress from wicked con men and half-crazed drivers?”

He followed her lead, stumbling through an abbreviated and nearly lighthearted version of the hurricane’s aftermath while behind dark glasses, his eyes narrowed. Something was bothering her. He could tell by the way worry tied a knot into the space between her brows. Was it him? Nah, he had backed off, just like she’d asked him to. He hadn’t written that frown on her face…though he’d be happy to help erase it.

“There’s a story in here somewhere,” Tom speculated as both he and his wife looked at him with question marks in their eyes. Brett kept his mouth shut. “But…I have a ton of burgers to burn.”