“Let me rephrase that.” His arms slid around me, pulling me back against him. The heat of his body soaked through my dress, toasting my backside like a marshmallow over a flame. “You’re a beautiful, sexy mess and I can’t stop thinking about you …” he pulled aside the neckline of my sheer white sweater, baring my shoulder except for a blue spaghetti strap, “naked.” His lips caressed my bared skin, sending a barrage of quivers down to my fingertips. “Covered in bubbles.”

  “If you’re trying to charm me out of my clothes after calling me a mess, it’s working.” I leaned my head back against his chest, watching him in the mirror as he worked his magic on me. “Don’t stop.”

  His hands spanned my hips, pulling me even closer. “Have I told you how much I want you, Boots?”

  “Every night.” I groaned and moved his hands for him, one north, the other south. “On Aunt Zoe’s freaking phone.”

  “Tell Natalie about us and we can toss the phones.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  Doc’s mouth reached the crook of my neck and he glanced up in the mirror, catching me peeking as his fingers caressed. “What are you doing, Violet?”

  My face flushed at being caught peeping at my own peep show, but I held his stare. “Watching you touch me.”

  He cupped my breast, stroking with his thumb. “Do you like watching?”

  “Touch me some more,” I pressed my hips back into him, the fabric a thin barrier between us. “See for yourself.”

  For a moment, he pushed back, exploring further. Then he sucked in a breath and stepped back, holding his hands up like a dealer about to leave the card table.

  “Damn, woman. You make me want to tear your clothes off.”

  Gripping the edge of the sink, I scowled at him in the mirror. “Prove it.”

  His lips quirked. “Frustrated?”

  I growled. “I’m practically throwing myself at you here.”

  “And it’s incredibly sexy.”

  “It aches like hell.”

  “I ache every night after you hang up.”

  Him, too? Comments like that weren’t cooling my jets any. “You could be a gentleman and help a girl out.”

  He shoved his hands in his front pockets, adjusting his pants. “Come back after lunch when I have more time and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I can’t. I have to go see Cooper.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. He told me last night that he has something important he needs to talk to me about in private.”

  “Last night? Did you call him from the tub before you called me?”

  “No, I ran into him after …” the viewing “work.”

  “Come by my office when you’re done talking to him.”

  I shook my head. “I have to go to Jeff Wymonds’ to prep for tomorrow’s open house.”

  “Fine, call me on your way to Wymonds’ place.”

  “Okay,” then I thought about Cooper’s threat and added, “that’s if Cooper doesn’t throw me in jail.”

  “I’ll accept your collect call and come spring you.”

  I turned and blinked up at him. My chest warmed like I’d downed three shots of tequila without pausing to swoon. “You’d bail me out of jail?”

  He tucked a curl behind my ear. “Of course, Trouble.”

  “That’s sweet. Why?”

  “Are you fishing?” His grin was playful.

  I planted my hands on my hips. “I’ve been dangling bait in front of you since I walked in your back door.”

  “What exactly are you fishing for?”

  Hmmm. Good question. I chewed on my lip. This thing with Doc was not supposed to be happily-forever-after, just fun-for-now. But the prudent part of my brain kept insisting that if I was going to break my best friend’s heart, it should be for something a bit more substantial than just a good time under the covers.

  The question was, did Doc want more? Or was casual sex plenty for him?

  Now was not the time to dig into that conversation, partly because of his soon-to-arrive client, but mostly because the idea of talking about it aloud with him made my stomach contents want to bubble up my esophagus.

  With a shrug, I skirted his question. “Only my mom and Natalie have ever bailed me out of the slammer.”

  “How many times have you been in jail, Violet?”

  I laughed way too loudly. “Who counts that kind of stuff?”

  His forehead crinkled. “This is beginning to feel like an episode of Hee Haw.”

  The front door of his office jingled.

  I raised my eyebrows. “You installed bells.”

  “I didn’t want to be caught off guard if I was busy in back.”

  Busy with whom? I almost asked, then bit down on my jealous ogre’s tongue.

  Doc leaned out into the hall. “I’ll be right out.”

  I picked up my tote to leave, and then remembered the peace offering I’d brought. “I have something for you before you go,” I whispered.

  He glanced toward the front of the office as I pulled out the centuries-old book I’d snuck from the Carhart place after my showdown with the demon-raising bitch who’d torched my Bronco—also known as Lila to those who didn’t get a stabbing headache at just the sound of her name.

  Holding the book out to him, I continued under my breath, “To show you that I’m not hiding things from you,”—well, only a couple of things—”here.”

  He took the book and turned it over in his hands. “What is this?”

  “The demon cult book I borrowed from Lila.” My lip curled into a sneer just saying her name; I couldn’t help it.

  “Borrowed?”

  “She doesn’t need it, anymore.”

  “Does Cooper know you took it?”

  “Of course not. You can’t tell him, either. He’d lock me behind bars in a heartbeat for withholding that.”

  Doc flipped through the pages, his face growing more rigid with each creepy drawing of hideous demons committing vile acts. He closed the book, his jaw taut.

  “Truce?” I offered my hand for a shake.

  Taking it, he pulled me toward him. Then he leaned down and spoke quietly in my ear. “Thank you, Violet.”

  I breathed in the musky scent of his aftershave, letting it soak into my senses to savor later. “For giving you a freaky book on demons?”

  “For not hiding it from me.”

  My gut twinged, my conscience reminding me about the things I was still hiding. The urge to bury my face in his chest and tell him everything about Ray rolled through me, but the creak and groan of a chair out front kept my lips locked shut.

  I glanced toward the front room. “I’d better go.”

  “Call me,” he emphasized his request with narrowed eyes.

  “I will.”

  “And tell Wymonds to keep his hands to himself.” Doc dropped a quick kiss on my lips, then winked at me. “When it comes to you, I don’t like to share.”

  My cheeks heated at the memory of Jeff and the kiss he’d stolen a couple of weeks ago. “If you’re worried about Jeff kissing me again, don’t. It’s not going to happen.”

  I’d sooner have my tonsils removed while I was wide awake, which is kind of what kissing Jeff had felt like.

  “Good.” He rubbed his thumb along my jaw. “You give me enough other things to worry about.”

  “What can I say? I live to torture you.”

  “More than you know.” His lazy grin in place, he led me to the back door. “Now go sell something.” After a nudge into the sunshine, he added for my ears only, “And try to stay out of jail.”

  * * *

  I forced my feet to walk across the sizzling asphalt parking lot toward the front doors of the Deadwood Police Station. The afternoon sun rained heat down on my head, just like Cooper was doing.

  I jutted my middle finger at the sky on the way up the steps.

  When I grabbed the metal door handle, I got the static-electric shock of my life. It zapped me clear to my toes.

  “Yabba dabba!” Jerking my hand back, I stepped back, twisted my ankle, stumbled sideways, and slammed my hip into the center handrail. “Damn it!”

  This didn’t bode well. I hadn’t even made it through the front doors yet and I was already taking a beating.

  Straightening my shoulders, I yanked the door open and limped inside. The acrid stink of burnt popcorn in the cool air set me even more on edge.

  Behind the front desk, a silver-haired cop with a red, bulbous nose, who knew my name all too well from my past visits, didn’t even bother trying to hide his laughter.

  With a huff, I pointed back at the doors. “You need to do something about that.”

  “Sure thing, Ms. Parker,” he said between snickers. “How ‘bout I arrest it for battery?”

  Leveling a glare at him, I dropped my purse on the floor and leaned on the high counter. “Funny guy, eh? Here’s one for you. How many cops does it take to screw in a light bulb?”

  He glanced behind me. “I’ll bite, how many?”

  “Just one, but he’s never around when you need him.”

  The cop grinned. “You hear that Detective Cooper? I think Ms. Parker has a bone to pick with you about our inability to make it to her crime scenes on time.”

  I groaned inwardly and turned to find Cooper standing behind me in jeans, a button up shirt, and loosely knotted tie covered with little dots.

  Where had he come from? Thin air?

  His glare drilled holes clear through my skull. “I’ll have to be more diligent about trying to read her mind when she stumbles blindly into her next kidnapping.”

  Natalie was confused. Cooper didn’t have a crush on me; he just wanted to crush me, period.

  I lifted my chin, my back all rigid as usual when facing off with Cooper’s stainless steel eyes. “Don’t bother. I think at a college-reading level. You’ll just get frustrated by all of the big words.”

  A low whistle came from the desk cop. “You going to let her get away with that, Detective?”

  “Probably not. Keep your cuffs handy.” Cooper nodded toward the long hallway that led to his office—a route I knew from first-hand experience, unfortunately. “Let’s go.”

  He made me lead the way. My low heels clacked on the scratched linoleum, the sound echoing off the scuffed white walls.

  Dead Realtor walking.

  His stealth had me glancing back to make sure he followed. He did, his expression unreadable.

  Inside his four walls, I dropped into the chair opposite his desk and waited for him to start chewing me a new asshole.

  He shut his office door and leaned against it. “My house is ready to show.”

  “Uh …” It took me a couple of heartbeats to grind gears and shift from playing cops-and-suspects to Realtors-and-clients. “Okay. I’ll bring a yard sign over later this week.”

  He pulled two keys from his pocket and handed them to me.

  The keys were warm in my palm. Cooper had body heat? No shit. There went my theory about him being a killer robot sent back in time to terminate me before I spawned the child who would save mankind’s future.

  “One is for my back door, the other for the garage.”

  I slipped the keys inside my purse. “Do you have an alarm?”

  Shaking his head, he sat on the edge of his desk. “No need. Everyone around here knows I’m a cop.”

  “Right.” Which led me to ask, “Do you have any guns in the house?”

  He shook his head again.

  “Did you take down the artwork over the mantel?” I was referring to his oil painting of dogs sitting around a poker table cleaning their guns—handguns, shotguns, and semi-automatics. As intriguing as the dogs with guns were, the Georgia O’Keefe “Black Iris” print I’d found at a thrift store would add more buyer appeal and looked great with Cooper’s black leather furniture and the dark maroon curtains we’d hung.

  “Yeah, I switched to that flower print.”

  “Great.”

  “Uncle Willis won’t stop staring at it, though,” he said, a shadow of a grin hovering on his lips.

  I looked to the heavens and sighed.

  Harvey had fallen in love with the print at first sight. But his fascination had little to do with O’Keefe’s talent, which became clear after he declared the print reminded him of some good times he’d spent dallying with a dark-skinned señorita in a brothel just over the Nevada state line.

  “Thanks to him,” Cooper added, “I’m having trouble seeing the damned thing for the flower it is.”

  I changed the subject to something less squirmy for me than talking about female nether regions with Cooper. “Why am I here, Detective?”

  He picked up the grip-strengthening thingamajobbie he kept on his desk. Some people squeezed stress balls for relief. Cooper worked on improving his choke-hold.

  He squeezed the grip a couple of times without answering me, lines criss-crossing his forehead.

  I listened to it squeak squeak with dread crowding the oxygen from my lungs. I was about to wheeze when he finally spoke.

  “We found a cell phone on the body.”

  Where? The only thing I’d seen was tons of hair and that icky black mole. Then I thought of a certain hiding place and recoiled. “You mean stuffed up his … uh,” what was the CSI word for it? “Anal cavity?”

  Who’d mined out that nugget of evidence? Eddie?

  Cooper grimaced. “You watch too much T.V.” Squeak squeak. “It was in his pants pocket.”

  “You mean he was dressed when you found him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why did I have to look at him naked?”

  “We had to remove the clothing for the autopsy.”

  “Couldn’t you have clothed him again before I came?”

  “He’s not a Barbie doll, Violet. We don’t play dress up with bodies held in the morgue.”

  Hold the phone! I sat up. “Deadwood has a morgue?”

  His eyes narrowed, giving Dirty Harry a run for his money. “Sort of.”

  I snorted. “How does one ‘sort of’ have a morgue?”

  “It’s a modified garage.”

  Of course! The small building out behind Mudder Brothers Funeral Parlor. “It’s the Mudder brothers’ garage, isn’t it?”

  Squeak squeak. “That’s not important.”

  I envisioned big chest freezers lined up around the walls, the hearse parked in between. Now I knew where they stored the fresh bodies.

  I needed to get into that garage.

  “Stay away from the Mudder brothers, Violet.”

  “Sure.” Dang it. I said it too fast.

  He pointed at me. “I meant what I said last night about the restraining order.”

  “I know.” I held his stare for as long as humanly possible. Then I lowered my gaze to his loosely knotted tie, noticing that what I’d thought were polka dots were actually little skulls.

  “So, what’s this cell phone have to do with me?” I asked

  Squeak squeak squeak. “Your name was in it.”

  Fear tickled the back of my throat. I tried to gulp it down. “So, I make a lot of phone calls every day. It’s part of my job.”

  “It was a text message not a call.”

  “I could have texted the number by mistake.”

  “It’s not from you.”

  “Oh.”

  “Your full name was written inside the text of the message.”

  “That’s weird.” The tickle in my throat became a burning itch.

  “The only text message on the phone.”

  That was uncomfortably weird. I cleared my throat, fighting the urge to claw at it. “What did it say?” My voice sounded croaky.

  He pulled out a little notebook from his shirt pocket and flipped it open. “I quote, ‘Violet Parker from Rapid City. Mid-thirties. Curly blonde hair.’”

  My windpipe felt like it had been dipped in hot sauce. I coughed into my fist, trying to cool the burning. “There has to be some …” I paused to cough again, “some rational explanation.”

  Rational? Really? A crazy-sounding cackle erupted inside my skull. I squashed my lips together to keep it from spewing out. What were the chances of there being two curly-haired blonde Violet Parkers in Rapid City around my age?

  Cooper grimaced at me. “There’s one more thing in the text.”

  “What?” I wheezed, suddenly wishing I’d waited to cram that chicken and peppers burrito down my gullet until after I’d left the police station.

  He held the notebook out in front of my watering eyes.

  I blinked and read his scrawl—three times just to be sure my eyes weren’t fucking with me.

  The burning in my throat raced down to my stomach. I gulped. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

  “Disturbing, I’m sure.” Cooper slapped the notebook closed. “So, what we need you to do is—”

  Coughing on a bubble of stomach acid, I scrambled to my feet. “Where’s your wastebasket?”

  “Violet.” He reached toward my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  “No! Get back!”

  He should have listened better.

  Chapter Nine

  One hour, one trip home for a midday shower and teeth brushing, and one change of clothes later, I sat in the warm afternoon sunshine on the Picklemobile’s tailgate in Jeff Wymonds’ drive with my cell phone in hand.

  I pulled up Doc’s number, hit the call button, and then pressed the phone against my ear.

  Squeals of laughter drifted my way from Jeff’s backyard where my two kids were playing with Jeff’s daughter, Kelly, who was also Addy’s best friend. I’d tried to get the three of them to help Jeff and me prep the house for tomorrow’s Open House—my first—but cleaning the inside of a monkey cage with the monkeys still in it would have been less frazzling.

  Doc wasn’t answering his phone. After four rings, I hung up, not wanting to leave another message on his voicemail. Three were plenty. A fourth would push me over into the desperate girlfriend zone that might be the start of a downhill slide into love-‘em-and-leave-‘em valley.

  I weighed the idea of going back inside with Jeff. He could use my help re-painting the laundry room. But my feet dragged at the thought of bumping paintbrushes and elbows in a room much too small to share with an ex-football player who was determined to make me the other half of his Brady Bunch family.