And despite giving me shit, he’s the same fucking way. He floats from place to place so much, I don’t even know where his real home is, though I’m sure he’s got a home base of operations somewhere. By his age, he must. Not that he’s remotely old, but he’s got nearly a decade of hard-won experience on me, and I’d damn sure better have some cushy digs by the time I’m pushing up on forty.

  “Whatever it is, it’ll do. I just need a waystation to handle operations.”

  “This’ll more than do,” he says as he roots around in his pocket and pulls out a slip of paper with the address and other important info on it. It’d be really stupid to get caught because I trip my own damn home alarm system. “Enjoy the sweet digs for a change, man. Maybe treat it like a vacation instead of going from one job to the next. You can afford a few weeks of downtime after this one.

  I shake my head. “Wish I could, but Mr. Big was a no-show.”

  Hunter pauses in attaching my new license plate and looks up at me. His gray eyes are stormy as he scrubs a hand across his blond beard. “Well fuck. Maybe no vacation then. What happened?”

  “Don’t know,” I admit, leaning against my truck. “Cold feet, basically. Got the payday, funds are transferred, but no face with the name. I don’t like it.”

  Hunter hums and goes back to bolting on my new plates. “I know. You like to be in control of everything and have everything planned the way you like it. Not everyone falls in line, Connor.”

  “Yeah, and because of that, I work with people like you,” I remind Hunter, who grunts. He finishes up my front plate and knocks on the hood when he’s done. He knows better than to pat it and leave potential finger or palm prints. “Thanks for this. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Watch your ass,” Hunter reminds me, standing with his arms crossed and a serious look on his face. I dip my chin in acknowledgement as I back out, disappearing into the night. I find the address on the paper, doing a quick drive by in the quiet neighborhood. Even in the dark, I can tell that Hunter was right. This place is swanky compared to my usual hideouts. Normally, my first stop is to the nearest all-night store to buy fifty bucks’ worth of roach and rat traps.

  Not this time. The townhouse has a small yard with a private driveway and even a cute mailbox with what looks like a firetruck on it. Driving past, I take ten minutes to patrol the neighborhood, just getting a feel for things.

  Seeing nothing amiss, I go back and park, grab my go bag, and use the key Hunter gave me to open the door. I wait until the door is closed and locked before turning on a light. The living room is minimally furnished with a couch and a tv on a stand, and I can see through to the kitchen. I know the fridge will be stocked with my favorite beer and some frozen food, courtesy of Hunter. Beyond that, I’ll have to take care of things myself tomorrow.

  Not a problem, but not tonight. I’m too damn tired. Instead, I arm the alarm system and head down the hall. I do a quick check of the bedrooms and bathroom before stripping for a shower. I pull on a pair of shorts and fall into bed, dreaming of the sad-faced woman from The Black Rose.

  At some point, her pale face morphs into a blushing, freckled one and her hair shifts, turning bright red. The redhead who fell into me, who is probably freaking out about her missing laptop, looks so sad, like I ripped out her heart. I feel bad about that, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.

  Chapter 6

  Poppy

  “Miss Woodstock?” a tall, blond man says from the doorway across the room. The clerk at the front desk doesn’t even look up as I move past her, studiously keeping her eyes on the screen in front of her though her fingers are typing in slow motion.

  Then again, considering the ass-blistering tirade I gave her about ten minutes ago, she probably doesn’t want to be anywhere near me right now. I’m not saying that I’ve been living up to the stereotype about redheads being fiery tempered . . . but the clerks should be wearing fire department coats at this point. I’m not proud of it, but I am desperate and freaking the fuck out. Especially after the last two hours of being ignored by the security guards, a suggestion that perhaps I ‘forgot’ my laptop or where I put it, and then being summarily dismissed to the police station, where I’d expected to get help but instead found myself sitting and waiting for an officer to ‘have time to talk to me’.

  “Yes. Thank you for seeing me, Detective,” I reply, keeping my voice as calm as possible. As I pass through the doorway and into the office area beyond, I feel his eyes on me, especially on my ass. My dress felt sophisticated and beautiful at the dinner, but now I feel too exposed and vulnerable.

  Maybe it’s the officer’s covetous gaze, or maybe it’s that my bag is really missing, but tears spring to my eyes again.

  Why, oh why didn’t I do the smart thing and back up my work on a thumb drive or in a cloud or somewhere? I guess I’d been so dismissive about the piss-poor quality of what I’d written and on the verge of deleting it all anyway that I didn’t want it to seem ‘final’.

  “I’m Detective Jax Carter. Please sit down and tell me what’s brought you in tonight,” he orders.

  “Okay, I went to the writer’s workshop hosted by J.A. Fox,” I start for what has to be the third time. I told the hotel staff and security guards, I told the patrol cops they called, and I told the clerk out front . . . do I really need to do this again?

  “Right,” Detective Carter says, glancing at a piece of paper. Okay, maybe he does have the patrol officer’s report. “Says here that you’re a writer?”

  “Yes,” I say as evenly as I can. “Anyway, there was a blackout, and I was pushed to the floor.”

  “Yes, I see that. The security team was a bit alarmed . . . and I have to say, rightly so,” Detective Carter says. “Apparently, Ms. Fox is a bit of a celebrity.”

  “It’s not like I was charging at her like a bull,” I continue, trying to stay calm at his implication that I did something wrong. “After the lights came on and the guards realized I wasn’t a threat, they helped me up from the floor.” Under my breath, I mutter, “Showing the whole room my Spanx in the process.”

  Dammit, that wasn’t quiet enough, and now he’s interested. “Go on.”

  “So I went back to my workstation and realized my bag was missing. I’d set it down on the table onstage for the photo, and when the lights came on, it was gone,” I conclude. “The security guards helped me look, but it had vanished. I think the other security guard took it.”

  Detective Carter taps his fingers together, leaning in to listen . . . or maybe get a view of my cleavage, I’m not sure which. “Other security guard?”

  “There was a security guy standing on stage. He looked up right before the lights went out, and then he was gone when the lights came back on, and so was my bag.” I hold my hands out wide like the connection is obvious.

  He smiles condescendingly. “This security guard? Did anyone else see him?”

  “They’re all contractors, according to J.A.’s assistant. No one even knew his name . . . something that started with a C or a K, one guy said . . . Chad, Kyle, Cole . . . something like that. Apparently, they all came in for a one-time gig.”

  “Helpful,” he says dryly. I swear I think he’s doodling random check marks on the report now.

  “So, what do you need? The model type, the color?” I ask, trying to get us on track to do something, anything that might result in getting my laptop back. Isn’t this sort of like a kidnapping? The first four hours are key.

  “And what exactly was on this laptop that would make it worth stealing?”

  “My manuscript!” Detective Carter looks perplexed, so I add, “Of my book. Like you said, I’m a writer.”

  Humor lights in his eyes, and he’s almost laughing as he asks, “What kind of stuff are you writing about that someone would want to steal your manuscript? I’ve heard of superfans, but stealing a story seems a bit . . . overboard. Are you sure there wasn’t anything else in the bag . . . or on your laptop?”

  I can see the way he looks at me, and I unconsciously cross and uncross my legs, trying not to shift around too much. I feel tears threaten, and I feel so small and ridiculous that I want to curl up and disappear.

  Maybe this is a sign that this book isn’t meant to be. I’ve had enough trouble with it, but I kept pushing. Maybe this is fate’s way of telling me to just give it up.

  Seeing my distress, Detective Carter seems to decide he’s done enough to put me in my place and leans forward, offering me a tissue. “It’s okay, honey. I’ll see what I can do for you.”

  That sounds about as authentic as a two-dollar Rolex and doesn’t ease my mind in the slightest. The condescending ‘honey’ irritates me too, but instead of going off on him, I take the tissue and roughly swipe under my eyes.

  “Why don’t you tell me what the book is about? Maybe that’ll help.”

  “It’s a romance, the sequel to my first book,” I continue, trying to calm myself.

  “Romance.”

  Judgment is already apparent, the corners of his mouth twitching as he fights a smile. “Like lady porn? All heaving bosoms and unsheathed swords? Or are we talking the red room whips and chains type?”

  Somehow, his disdain for my work is the spark needed to push me from being weepy to being pissed off again. Fire flames up in my gut, not embarrassment because I’m not embarrassed about what I write. What’s wrong, in a world where people treat each other like shit on a regular basis, with writing about women empowering themselves, men who have good hearts, and love that always ends in happily ever after?

  What’s so fucking wrong with love?

  Okay, so sometimes, the characters are works in progress, needing a little help and growth to go from bad boys to good guys, or from traumatized to strong, but that’s real life.

  So no, not embarrassed. In fact, as the fire builds and the anger grows inside me, I square my shoulders again, staring at him. What gives this . . . man . . . Detective Jax Carter the right to be so cavalier and rude about something that means so much to me, writing it off like my heart and soul spilled on blank white pages is nothing more than drivel and sex?

  Fuck this guy.

  “You know what? Forget about it. Thanks for absolutely nothing, asshole,” I bite out harshly and intentionally loudly. I want everyone in the room, though there’s only the clerk up front and one other officer several desks away, to hear me. “I’ll have my agent be in touch about the police report so we can file a loss claim.”

  I’m talking out of my ass. I don’t know what the publisher or Hilda is going to do about this, but I’m going to need their support if I have to deal with shit like Jax Carter. Because all I can think about is slapping that smug smile off his face and pinching his oversized head straight off his body right now.

  I offer up a silent little thanks to my dad. Mom might have given me my red hair, but Dad’s the reason for my short temper and fighting spirit. And I’m ready to fight for myself now, standing up and glaring at the detective.

  Detective Carter looks shocked, probably at my language and possibly at being called out. He’s probably so used to being the biggest swinging dick in the room that he’s stunned when a woman dares to call him out on his shit.

  He stands up too, trying to regain the height advantage and not show embarrassment from my outburst. “Miss Woodstock, wait—”

  “Too fucking late,” I snap. Nope, he’s lost my cooperation. I don’t even slow, bitch-walking my way right out of the office, my heels clicking on the tile.

  The clerk flinches as I pass her, and I’m sure she heard every word of that last bit. Good. I want everyone from the lowest patrolman to the chief of police himself to hear how unhelpful, judgmental, and rude Detective Jax Carter is.

  “Miss Woodstock? Is everything okay?” the clerk asks, probably reveling in someone else getting some of my ire after I freaked out on her earlier. Hell, maybe appreciating that someone knocked me down a peg or two as well.

  “No, it most definitely is not. If that’s what you have to work with every day, I am so sorry for adding to the shitshow earlier. You have enough to deal with.”

  The clerk’s brows jump up, but there’s a bit of ‘you got that right, sister’ in her eyes, and I feel like my apology is at least accepted.

  As for Detective Carter’s half-assed request for me to come back to his desk for more questions, I ignore the fuck out of that.

  My phone dings, reminding me that it’s now nine in the morning. Last night feels like it was a decade ago, and my addled brain is aching from the lack of sleep. I’ve pretty much stress eaten every sweet, salty, or otherwise ‘junk’ item in my pantry, and as I stagger to the kitchen to suck down another cup of coffee, the streaky raccoon that looks back at me from the reflection in the machine reminds me that nope, I haven’t even washed up since getting home.

  I’ve just wept, raged, walked circles in my living room, and raged some more. Nut and Juice finally gave up on me and flopped down in the corner to sleep, and maybe I passed out for an hour or two, somewhere in between my double stuffed Oreos and my salt and vinegar chip binges.

  But whatever. I’ve got to do this . . . I’ve got to call Hilda. Still, I procrastinate, not wanting to do it. I go to the bathroom to pee and then wash my face so that at least I don’t make this call worse than it has to be. I fake smile at myself in the mirror, aiming for a confidence boost, but the cookie crumbs crowded around my gums dash that hope too. I don’t bother with toothpaste but at least scrub away the grossness with a wet toothbrush. But with that done, there’s no putting off the inevitable.

  With trembling fingers, I dial Hilda’s number, and she picks up on the first ring. “You’re welcome.”

  “Hilda . . . it’s gone.”

  Hilda, obviously expecting me to answer with a happy ‘thank you’ and some gushing, pauses. “What?”

  Quickly, in one long, semi-coherent rush, I explain what happened. Hilda listens, and her first question is a punch to my gut. “And you didn’t back up the file?”

  I groan, another round of fresh tears threatening though I’ve surely got to be cried out by now. “Hilda, I know it’s bad, and I did go to the cops, at least. And I’m going to fix this. I don’t know how, but I’m going to.”

  “You’d better,” Hilda says. “Look, I can talk with Bluebird. Maybe they’ll give you a little more time if you have to start from scratch . . . but there’s not going to be any more advance checks until you actually turn work in, you know? Whatever’s in your bank account, that’s it.”

  “I know.”

  Hilda sighs. “I know I shouldn’t need to ask this, but you’re okay bill-wise?”

  “Oh . . . I’m okay,” I assure her, even though I’m going to have to be careful. I’ve got the advance funds in the bank, but most of the profit from the first book went to buying this townhouse. “I’ll figure it out, Hil.”

  “Do that. But when you get a replacement laptop, pick up a flash drive and make it a habit to use it from here on,” she says with some force in her voice, but then she softens. “I’m glad you’re safe. If you need anything, call. Okay?”

  “Okay. Uhm, bye for now?”

  “Call me this evening and tell me about your new computer,” Hilda says before hanging up. A yip from behind me tells me that Nut and Juice are up, and when there’s a growl and yip in reply, I realize they’re going at it for round 6329 or whatever it is.

  “Quiet, guys,” I growl, looking over at them and trying not to yell. It’s not their fault my head is pounding. “Momma really doesn’t need that this morning.”

  Juice looks at me, and I swear those two have knocked a few brain cells out of each other in their tussling. But before I can repeat myself, I hear folks outside making noise and then the rumble of a big diesel engine.

  What the hell? I go to my living room window and look out to see a gaggle of the neighborhood’s divorcee residents gathered on the sidewalk outside next door and a big black truck parked in the driveway.

  Damn, a new neighbor already? That was quick . . . but what’s with the Desperate Housewives Welcoming Committee?

  I step outside, closing my door behind me to keep Nut and Juice inside, and approach the group. One of the ladies moves aside, and in an instant, I can see why they’re being so welcoming.

  There’s a man standing there. I can only see him from the back. He’s pulling something out of his truck, but what I see is tall and broad and tapered in that sexy upside-down triangle shape. He’s wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, a simple combo that on him could melt the sidewalk, from the looks of things.

  Ah, the mating dance of the suburban divorcee, I muse as I get closer. Next step will be bringing over a cake or some cookies. After that . . . a casserole. All to get a taste of that eggplant.

  Why can I funny in my head and not on paper? Before I can think about that and lead to thoughts of my missing laptop, I crane my neck to get a better look at my new neighbor’s ass, which seems vaguely familiar in a pair of well-worn Levi’s that make me consider taking out stock in the jeans.

  “Jeez, you’re really getting hard up if you’re recognizing asses,” I murmur to myself, “especially when you need to be handling this crisis and not . . .”

  The guy turns, and shock hits me hard.

  I know that face.

  I do know that ass . . . and that asshole! It’s the security guard with a C or K name who stole my laptop!

  Before I can even process, my body is moving totally on instinct-fueled rage. I run across the yard, hopping the little knee-high border fence between my yard and Helen’s former yard, and launch myself at the man’s back with a Valkyrie screech promising death and dismemberment. Not necessarily in that order.