The Cradle Files. Delores Fossen
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sure did. It was coming out in rough, hurried gusts.
“I need to talk to you,” she said.
Garrett froze and put his Glock-retrieving plan on hold. Now he recognized that voice, and it set off all kinds of alarms in his head.
Not good alarms, either.
“Lexie?” he asked. “Is that you?”
She froze. For a few moments. And then she inched closer still. She stared at him and squinted, as if trying to peer through the darkness for a good look. Garrett did the same.
Yep. It was Lexie Rayburn all right, though he’d never seen her wear her hair that long or in that particular style. Her straight rust-colored locks fell choppy, loose and disheveled onto her shoulders.
The last time he’d seen her, she’d been cursing a blue streak and had thrown her panties at him. Well, maybe not at him, exactly, but in his general direction.
He was lucky she hadn’t thrown something heavier and more lethal.
That throwing incident was… When? A few months shy of a year ago, when Lexie had walked out of his life. But she hadn’t just walked out. She’d left him with a lot of questions, no answers, and she’d put his badge on the line. Since his badge was the most important thing in his life, that had not sat well with him.
It still didn’t.
Garrett’s jaw tightened.
She moved even closer, and he got a better look at her gun. An RG .22, commonly referred to as a Saturday Night Special. Another surprise. The cheap, no-frills weapon wasn’t her usual choice of firearms, but then neither were the clothes. She wore loose faded jeans, scuffed Doc Martens and a baggy navy-blue flannel shirt that was frayed at the cuffs. It was at least two sizes too big and practically swallowed her.
“Garrett O’Malley?” she asked.
And it was definitely a question. No doubt Lexie’s version of sarcasm.
Oh, this was going to get messy.
He just stared at her.
“Are you Garrett O’Malley?” she pressed.
Riled at her dry-as-dust sarcasm, at the gun and at the woman herself, he opened his arms. “You tell me. You’re not seeing anything you haven’t seen before.”
He’d meant his remark to sting, a reminder that he’d been her one-night stand. Her choice. Not his.
She took his remark as an invitation. Her gaze combed over him, starting at his face. Her marine-blue eyes met his green ones. Briefly. And then she slid that gaze all the way past his bare chest and stomach to his equally bare groin.
Her eyes paused.
Considerably.
For a long time.
Normally, he wouldn’t have been so bothered by the close scrutinization from a lover, former or otherwise, but these obviously weren’t normal circumstances.
“Mind telling me why you’re here and what your plans are for that gun?” he insisted.
She nodded. Not a confident I’m-in-charge-here nod, either. It was shaky. In fact, there was something shaky about her entire demeanor. “I want answers.”
So, this was maybe a payback visit in order to rehash their last encounter. A blast from the past. Lucky him. “I don’t know the questions, but I have a few of my own. For starters, how did you get into my house?” Because he knew for a fact she didn’t have a key.
She tipped her head toward the kitchen. “The patio door. You left it unlocked when you took out the trash after you got home from work.”
Hell’s bells. Not the brightest move he could have made, especially for a cop. He’d made that little faux pas only about fifteen minutes ago, which meant she hadn’t waited too long to confront him. Maybe she’d delayed her entrance until he got in the shower so she could catch him when he wasn’t near his Glock. Or perhaps she’d waited until he was what polite company would call indisposed.
She’d succeeded.
He was as indisposed as he could get. Still, that theory only created more questions.
“Why the gun?” he asked.
She glanced at it and swallowed hard. “I wasn’t sure I could trust you.”
“You can’t.” And that was a sore spot for him. Even now. “But then, I obviously can’t trust you, either. Still, a gun? Judas Priest, Lexie. That’s a little over the top, even for you.”
Her forehead bunched up. “I wanted to make sure you listened to what I had to say.”
“Oh, I’m listening. Pardon the pun, but I’m all ears.” Garrett turned toward his bedroom, but then stopped and looked at her. Actually, he glared. And he knew his glare was a winner. That particular facial expression alone had gotten perps to surrender. “I’m going to get dressed now, and I’d rather you didn’t try to kill me while I do that, okay?”
He didn’t wait for her to respond or concur with his smart-mouth challenge. Figuring that Lexie wouldn’t shoot him in the back, Garrett headed to his bedroom.
“Wait a minute,” she snarled. She hurried after him, but then stopped in the doorway. “Don’t just walk away from me. I’m holding you at gunpoint.”
“Believe me, I’m aware of that. Call me old-fashioned, but I’d rather not have this conversation or try to wrestle that .22 away from you while I’m buck naked. And make no mistake about it—I am going to wrestle that gun away from you if you don’t come to your senses.”
Besides, if this did turn into a wrestling match or even more, Garrett didn’t want his fellow peace officers to show up and find him wearing only his birthday suit and a glare. There had already been enough rumors and career-damaging innuendos as it was. He didn’t want to add this to the record, even if seeing Lexie brought back memories.
Both bad and good—and very, very good ones.
Riled not only at Lexie, but at himself and his too vivid, lust-induced reminiscence, Garrett grabbed a pair of Wranglers from the floor and slipped them on. Not easily. His still-soaking-wet body caused the denim to drag, catch and cling. Worse, it dragged, caught and clung while Lexie gawked at the entire awkward, semihumiliating process.
He didn’t let her gawking deter him, though. He zipped them up—carefully, since he wasn’t wearing underwear—while he also checked the position of his Glock. He didn’t relish the idea of drawing that gun on Lexie, but it was obvious she had a bone to pick with him. He didn’t want that bone-picking argument to turn into shots being fired.
Ironic.
Because he’d never thought of Lexie as dangerous. Armed, yes. Capable of kicking butt. But not lethal in a criminal, out-of-control sort of way. He was obviously wrong. Any woman who would pull a gun on him so they could talk had gone a few steps past that dangerous level and was definitely out of control.
What was wrong with her, anyway?
Yes, she had a right to be riled. But, heck, so did he. More so than she obviously was. Yet Lexie seemed to be putting all the blame on him.
“You didn’t wait around for the trial to end,” Garrett said, figuring his words would hit a few raw nerves. Because she hadn’t waited around for a lot of things—like to finish her testimony. Or even to say goodbye. “But I guess you know your former boss was convicted on all charges and is behind bars?”
“William Avery,” she said.
“William?” Garrett repeated. He stared at her. Well now, that confirmed something was truly wrong. Lexie always called her former boss Billy.
“I read about William, and you, on the Internet,” she continued. “That’s how I knew you were a cop. That’s how I figured