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need your witness for court.” He hesitated, looked away. “You’re one of the few friends I’ve got. I don’t want some chick getting in the way of that.”
Cam turned to Thorn, and he knew shock was all over his face. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
His stare turned glacial. “Don’t try to interpret my emotions, pussy.”
That was like asking Cam not to breathe. He probably knew them better than Thorn himself did. Then again, Cam had four sisters. If he hadn’t learned to think emotionally, he would never have survived to adulthood.
“Whatever, asshole,” he said. “I think we wait twenty-fours, then see if Lawton shows up. If not, I’ll pull out my badge and pay his pretty little mistress a visit.”
* * * * *
Brenna Sheridan saw nothing but red.
Rearing back, she eyed the big punching bag dangling from the ceiling, the tight grip of the boxing gloves around her wrists a familiar bite. She swung, putting every bit of her fury and frustration into the punch. Her fist connected with a satisfying thud, and the red bag dipped and swung. The impact of the blow shot fire up her arm. With clenched teeth, she grunted, but Brenna refused to feel pain. She’d been at this for an hour, and she wasn’t done.
Leaning back on her right leg, she kicked her left out to the bag, connecting with a vicious jolt that sent a punishing thud echoing through the room and a thrill of satisfaction zinging through her.
Sweat poured down her temples, between her breasts, down her back, dampening her white tank and black spandex shorts. Tendrils of hair floated near her face, having escaped the haphazard clip she’d shoved them into. With a toss of her head, they disappeared, leaving her free to step forward and punch out with another hard jab at the offending bag.
She pretended instead it was Curtis Lawton’s head.
Rude, insensitive, downright stupid… Then again, he’d been that way for years. She shouldn’t be at all surprised. He’d come around—but in his time, his way. He always did.
Brenna danced around the bag, balancing on the balls of her feet, before she lashed out with a fierce right kick. Because of him, she didn’t trust men, didn’t know how to really be herself when she was with them. She’d let him get in her head and mess with her mind. Stupid! And last night… Damn, by the pool with the stars twinkling, a glass of wine relaxing her body, she’d still been unable to come! And the source of her problems? Gone. Would a phone call hurt the man? He’d kept her at arm’s length in Texas forever. He’d occasionally sent birthday gifts and actually called last Christmas. Nothing else. So she’d come to him here in Arizona. She’d been here all of fifteen minutes, and what did he do? Disappear.
Bastard.
This morning, the reason for his behavior had become crystal clear. She’d read the morning paper, and dear Curtis’ name was plastered all over the front pages with lurid headlines: Local man to turn evidence in slavery ring.
Brenna had read on in shock. What the hell had he gotten himself into? According to the article, he’d helped smuggle young Mexican men and women into the U.S., then forcing them to work for a pittance in everything from sweatshops to underground bordellos. The whole thing turned her stomach.
After ensconcing her in this pretty little house in the middle of nowhere, he’d vanished, so it wasn’t like she could ask him any questions. He’d merely given her some warnings that made no sense—go nowhere, trust no one, say nothing. Then he’d gone.
Breathing hard, Brenna jerked her arm back and thrust it forward again, landing another solid strike directly on the heavy red bag. Her shoulder ached and her body trembled from the exertion but it felt good. Even if it didn’t do much to calm her mind.
What in the hell was she going to do about Curtis?
A loud, impatient pounding on the little bungalow’s front door snapped Brenna’s head around. She hesitated, her breathing harsh. If Curtis had returned, he would have just barged in.
That meant a stranger knew she was here. Out in the remote mountains of this austere desert, it wasn’t as if she had any neighbors welcoming her to the area with a plate of cookies. Whoever hammered on the door with a rough fist definitely wasn’t female or here for a friendly chat.
Too bad for them she was in a foul mood and had no intent to let anyone screw with her.
Drawing off her boxing gloves as more impatient raps on the door resounded through the place, Brenna darted down the hall and searched the French Provincial nightstand in the sumptuous bedroom until she found what she was looking for. Ah, a Beretta. Lovely semiautomatic favored by military and law enforcement. Curtis did love his guns.
This ought to deter her uninvited guest.
With a smile and the gun clutched tightly in her fist, Brenna sauntered to the front door.
Chapter Two
Brenna yanked the door open, the Beretta firmly gripped in one hand. Bad attitude, as only a Texas girl raised with macho alpha male cousins can conjure, was stamped all over her face. She wasn’t sure what she expected. Leather-wearing goons with jagged scars on their faces, maybe? Nothing, though, could have prepared her for the man who stood under the dim porch light, badge in hand.
Tall. So striking she couldn’t breathe for fully thirty seconds. Wow! Six-two…six-three. He towered way, way above her. Hair a silky, unrelieved black that looked as if it had been cut short once, months ago, then left to hang loose to brush his collar and tangle across his wide forehead. Bronzed skin covered the landscape of an angular face, complete with a sharp jaw, a sensually sculpted mouth, and killer cheekbones bequeathed to him by some Apache ancestor. Eyes a swirl of mysterious colors, like whiskey with chocolate made smoky by a hint of sin lurking just under his calm façade.
Dear Lord, had she ever seen a more gorgeous man?
Shoulders nearly as wide as the doorframe stretched a tight gray t-shirt to the brim with muscles that bulged and rippled, despite the fact he did nothing more than breathe. Without conscious thought, her gaze strayed lower, over ridged abdominal muscles that even clothing couldn’t conceal. And lower…to an impressive bulge nestled in clinging jeans that had faded in the most intriguing places. Forcing her gaze down again, she took in scuffed black western boots.
This guy gave the motto “Ride `em, cowboy” a whole new meaning.
He cleared his throat. “Ma’am, I’m Detective Cameron Martinez of the Tucson Police Department.”
Detective, not just a beat cop. With what Curtis was into, it was a miracle they hadn’t sent Border Patrol, INS, FBI, and a slew of other government agencies. But no, just the one absolutely amazing, beyond drool-worthy hunk.
“Would you mind putting the gun down?” he asked, his voice soft and forceful at once.
Oh, Lord! She’d been so busy gawking at the man, she’d forgotten she was pointing a weapon at him.
With an awkward smile, Brenna reached around and placed the Beretta on the small table against the wall on her left—but still within reach. “Out here all alone, a girl can’t be too careful. How can I help you, Detective?”
Brenna tried to play it cool. Tried like crazy. Hard to seem calm with a trembling voice, damn it. He was going to ask her questions. And she wasn’t a good liar. If she screwed this up, what the hell would happen to Curtis? Of course, if he did half of what he was accused of doing, he deserved to do hard time, but she needed his help before someone sent him behind bars. After last night, she knew she needed help real bad.
Besides, Curtis had told her not to trust anybody, even the police. For all she knew, Detective Martinez was a dirty cop.
Her unexpected visitor simply sent her a questioning glance, then changed the subject. “Can I come in and ask you a few questions?”
“Am I in trouble?”
She was stalling. Damn it, a story, some story—a believable one to throw him off track. She needed one now. No one would believe what Curtis told her to say…
“Not at all,” he soothed.
