The Taming of the Thief (36 page)

 
   
“Mr. Blackburn, whatever do you think you
are doing?”

 
   
“Shutting you up.”

 
   
Then he bent his head and took possession of
her mouth
.

Read an excerpt from:

Second Chance
Detectives, book 1

Discover other titles
by Nikki Duncan at
www.NikkiDuncan.com
.

Chapter 1

 
   
Bottles and diapers and…a
raccoon?

 
   
“You rotten shit. Get out…” Maggie Sullivan
grunted as she swung the broom, chasing an irritated raccoon through the
kitchen.

 
   
Not that she expected it to listen, but the
destruction the overgrown rodent or mammal or whatever it was had caused in the
few hours she’d been gone had her cringing. She would get her sister back for
taking the kids and leaving.
Even if Grace hadn’t know about
the hidden cretin.

 
   
The raccoon jumped on the couch and
scattered cushions before jumping to the coffee table and back to the floor in
a flurry of magazines.
“Arrrggh.”

 
   
Maggie thought of herself as a calm woman,
but she teetered on violence. She’d spent the morning in her office—was nowhere
near finished with the website she’d been contracted for—and had several more
hours of work still to do. Now was not the time for Jared to resume his
childish pranks.

 
   
She closed in on the raccoon and lifted the
broom to swat at it.
I feel like a rodeo
clown chasing a bull out of the arena. At least they don’t have to clean a mess
afterward.

 
   
The raccoon spun around and ran under a
corner table, knocking her favorite decorative bowl to the carpeted floor with
a muffled thud and headed to the bedrooms. At least the bedroom and office doors
were closed. If Jared thought a raccoon made a good pet… He had another think
coming.

 
   
Maggie hustled down the hall, shooing her
furry nemesis. She just had to herd it to the door where hopefully its survival
instinct would have it running outside. Then she would worry about setting
things back in order.

 
   
Had she honestly been thinking she missed
Jared’s stunts? The kid watched too many
Crocodile
Hunter
reruns.

 
   
Head down, Maggie followed the beast around
the corner into the entryway. “About time you get there.”

 
   
“It’s a nice neighborhood,” a deep-timbered
masculine voice said from the doorway. “But leaving your door open isn’t
smart.”

 
   
Maggie screamed. Her heart slammed into her
ribs. She swung the broom up like a golf club to fend off the intruder, smacked
the raccoon in the rear. It squealed and slammed into denim-clad legs.

 
   
A giant man crashed to the porch. The
raccoon skittered across the man and scurried to freedom. Maggie barely managed
to stop herself from spinning in a circle as her makeshift weapon flew through
the air, missing her target.

 
   
With the man already down, she raised the
broom again, ready to pop him. She’d slam the door and lock it, but his
tree-trunk legs lay across the threshold. Still, if he made a wrong move…

 
   
She wouldn’t miss again. No one would
threaten her or her kids. Not if he wanted to keep walking.

 
   
“What is wrong with you?” The man demanded
with a slight rasp.

 
   
She didn’t bother answering as she braced
herself with a stronger stance and committed his appearance to memory. Her gaze
slid past his legs and over a strong, broad torso. His wide, square jaw suited
his broad mouth and full lips, which sat in a harsh scowl. A bump hinting at a
bad boy side marred his strong nose. Close-set, cobalt eyes glared up from his
prone position. Light brown, wavy hair, still just a little too long, brushed
his collar.

 
   
Crap.
Chills of dread slithered along her spine. Those eyes—and the rest of his oddly
intriguing face—had haunted her dreams for nearly a year.

 
   
Detective BD Harte.

 
   
His spicy scent reminded her of the cloves
she sometimes cooked with and fully clothed he put half-naked romance cover
models to shame. That hard body would be a masterpiece uncovered.
Whoa!
So not the time for
fantasies.

 
   
“I realize we didn’t meet on good terms
before, but I didn’t expect to be attacked,” he said as he pushed himself to
his elbows.

 
   
Her pounding heart plummeted. She stumbled
back, vividly recalling the other times she’d seen the man currently sprawled
at her feet. In dreams, he’d sprawled naked on her bed. In person, he avoided
her. Or he had at the courthouse when she’d attended the closing day of trial
and tried to thank him for helping her, to thank him for ensuring her husband’s
killer went to prison.

 
   
Her stomach dropped like a lead balloon. The
broom slipped from her grip, landing on his chest and making him flinch. “Who’s
dead?”

 
   
“Sorry?” Harte’s brows pleated as he flicked
her makeshift weapon aside.

 
   
Sorry.
Maggie’s shaking hand covered her mouth. He’d said that just before shattering
her world.
Sorry, Mrs. Sullivan. There’s
been an accident. Your husband, Mike, didn’t make it.

 
   
“Why are you here? Who have I lost now?” She
released a shaky breath. The kids were at the water park with Grace.
Safe.
She couldn’t lose them.

 
   
“No one I’m aware of.” Detective Harte
jumped to his feet in a lithe move.

 
   
“Then why are you here?” Relief wiggled her
knees and threatened to take her to the ground beside him. She contracted her
muscles refusing to be weak. She
would
control
herself this time.

 
   
“We need to talk.” His hard, unreadable eyes
regarded her as he pointed behind him. “What the hell was that?”

 
   
Startled, either by his move or the shivers
his voice sent down her spine, she raised her gaze. He towered over her by at least
six inches. Lean and ropey, he was harnessed power.

 
   
She bit her bottom lip to suppress a nervous
giggle. How crazy was it to find his irritation sexy? Or to have her mind jump
to the sexy image of him in a prone position naked in her bed?
“My son Jared’s latest attempt at a pet.
Is my family safe?”

 
   
“As far as I know, yes.
Why don’t you get the kid a fish?”

 
   
“They keep dying.” His presence scared her,
but she remembered tenderness. The way he’d held her. And he’d gotten right to
the point of delivering the bad news. He was alert and edgy, but not as
foreboding as last time. He wouldn’t be talking about fish if something had
happened to her family. She sagged against the wall as her mind settled.

 
   
“Suicide,” Harte muttered.
“Smart fish.”

 
   
“What are you doing here, Detective Harte?”
As soon as the words left her mouth, his slightly cynical smirk slid away to a
flat, blank look. Her throat tightened, her stomach jittered, her heart
hammered.

 
   
“I need to ask you some questions, Mrs.
Sullivan.”

 
   
“About…?”
Something that’s going to screw up my life
again.

 
   
Harte stood on the threshold and looked over
her shoulder into the living room, clicking his tongue. “Raccoon do all that?”

 
   
“Yes.” Maggie looked over her shoulder at
the havoc. She twitched and turned away. The image wouldn’t budge from her
mind. “What questions?”

 
   
Harte leaned back and looked briefly down
the street, clearly wanting to be somewhere, anywhere else. “Can I come in?”

 
   
Get to
the point already!
“Sure.” She led the way into the living room, which
resembled a hurricane’s path, and motioned him toward a chair. She straightened
the scattered pillows on the sofa and sat. Five minutes. He could have five
minutes before the mess made her skin itch with the need to clean it.

 
   
“There’s been a death in the park down the
street. Would you mind looking at a photo for me?”

 
   
Murder.
Homicide detectives didn’t go door to door for a
natural death or an accident. She braced herself for the possibility of seeing
someone she knew, cared for. She already knew the feeling of tragedy. While
hoping she wouldn’t know the victim, she felt horrible for anyone who did.
“Okay.”

 
   
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a
photo. “Do you know this woman?”

 
   
It was a headshot.
Closed
eyes.
Colorless skin.

 
   
“No. She looks like me.” Her skin crawled.
Hadn’t she dealt with enough death? And this had been close. Too close.

 
   
“Not really.” He cleared his throat.

 
   
The once beautiful woman was lifeless. Her
pain and horror-filled eyes stared straight at the camera. A purplish
discoloration marred her left cheek. “Who is she?”

 
   
“We believe her last name is Dane. We’re
hoping someone in the area might know more.”

 
   
“Sorry. I don’t know her.” Maggie’s throat
ached with sadness and remembered grief. The woman’s family would soon face the
helplessness and devastation of loss. The unanswerable question
why
would taunt them.

 
   
Time dulled the gripping pain, but it never
seemed to go away. Even the shared grief and support of her own family hadn’t
eased Maggie’s agony. Her relief had come when Detective Harte had held her and
offered condolences. His words had been the same he likely offered to anyone
else, and though he’d seemed to intimately understand what she’d face, as if
he’d faced similar loss, she’d gotten the impression he didn’t make a habit of
comforting family members left behind.

 
   
“What happened to her?”

 
   
“We’re not releasing details at this time.”

 
   
“Right.”
She was
sorry. Sorry he’d brought death to her door again. Sorry a woman had suffered a
blatantly agonizing end. Sorry she couldn’t identify the woman who deserved to
have her full name in death.

 
   
Maggie shook her head and handed him the
photo. “I’ve never seen her.”

 
   
“Have you noticed anything, anyone, unusual
around the neighborhood lately?”

 
   
“Aside from a black car with dark tinted
windows that occasionally drives by?” She leaned forward and straightened the
magazines still on the table. Time was running out on the minutes. “No.”

 
   
An odd look crossed Harte’s face as he
tucked the picture in his pocket and pulled out his notepad. “Can you be more
specific about the car?”

 
   
“A new Audi.
Four
door.
Black.
Expensive looking black
rims.”

 
   
His pupils flared briefly before he looked
down at the notebook. “That’s pretty specific.”

 
   
“Jason Statham drove the same thing in the
second
Transporter
.”