Charmed and Dangerous (41 page)

At least everyone was safe. That was the important thing. She slowly felt a sense of peace being there, in the hometown that she loved, watching the crazy people live full out. Even Ce Ce and her gang had shown up and they were all jabbering about the exciting day (getting ever more exciting in the retelling, with each and every one of them in the starring role).

Bobbie Faye breathed in the scent of the grilled chicken and pork ribs and exhaled slowly, her eyes closed, when she realized she smelled . . .
him
. She looked up and around, and there was Trevor, sitting in another lawn chair, lounging back, his ankles crossed like he’d been sitting there for a while, watching her.

“Okay, that’s creepy,” she said, and he smiled.

She smiled back.

He moved his chair to sit beside her.

“How’s the Professor?”

“Pretty good,” he said. “They figured out what the poison was and he’s recovering. We still don’t know how it got in his food, though. Probably his attorney paid off someone. Your state police are doing a pretty thorough investigation. By the way, how’s your brother?”

“Oh, he’s fine, I guess. Or, rather, he’s back to normal. While he was in the hospital he made dates with three nurses, and two husbands have shown up already to beat the crap out of him.”

Trevor laughed and then picked up her hand from the chair’s armrest, playing with it.

They were silent a moment, until she said, “I still don’t quite get something.”

“Just one thing?” He grinned and she smacked his forearm.

“Seriously. This agent—Zeke—was on the take from Vincent, and Zeke decided to double-cross Vincent and get the tiara for himself.” She looked to Trevor for confirmation before she continued, trying not to get distracted with him holding her hand, his thumb purposefully tickling her palm. “So Zeke forced the Professor to rob the bank? He was going to wait outside and “catch” the bank robber, taking him and the money—and tiara—into evidence?”

“Right, where it would conveniently disappear as you guessed. He was going to claim the Professor acted on his own, so Vincent wouldn’t know Zeke had double-crossed him.”

“Leaving the Professor to hang as far as Vincent was concerned.”

“Exactly.”

“So, the Professor decides to double-cross Zeke? And he brings two kids to help him get away from Zeke—”

“Who wasn’t expecting any resistance because he had too much leverage on the Professor, who had major gambling debts and needed some money if he wanted to keep his legs and his family.”

“So, a triple cross. And you knew this all along?”

“Not the Professor stuff. I knew that Zeke was planning something. Zeke believed I was corrupt and working for Vincent as well. He knew you would have to go to the bank to get the tiara, and I thought he was going to try to take it from you there himself. I hoped to catch him in the act. The whole robbery part was completely left field.”

“So you would have stopped Zeke, then taken me and the tiara to Vincent and done whatever super FBI thing you do to save Roy.”

“That was the plan.”

“But then you tried to kick me out of your truck!”

“When I knew the boys had stolen the tiara, I thought I could get to them faster, and I was trying to protect you.”

“You changed your mind when you saw Zeke behind us?”

“Yep. No way was I letting him get his hands on you.”

She eyed him. He looked more relaxed, and sexier, if that was possible, but also a little more . . . dangerous . . . now that he was focusing directly on her and not running for his life.

“Are you really FBI?”

“Pretty much.”

“I’m never going to make bail, am I?”

“You think we want you in a jail cell where you can incite riots? We are not Stupid, Inc., thank you very much.”

“I’m not going to be arrested? For all that stuff we did?”

He leaned her direction and her heart rate doubled, and she was definitely trying to shush all of her other parts.

“I’ve been trying to nail Zeke for a year. You made that happen. I owe you.”

“Am I going to hear about that damned truck forever?”

“Nah. It’s just a truck.”

“What!”

He laughed. “I knew the truck was bugged, which is why I didn’t clue you in when you first leapt up in there. I had to stay in character. I was pretty sure the watch was bugged; it was a GPS thing given to me by Vincent. If, at any point, I had broken character, he would have figured out I was a Fed and he’d have killed your brother.”

“I can’t believe you tormented me about that truck.”

“You’re rather fun to torment.”

“Bastard.”

“Yep.”

But he grinned at her, a blindingly sexy grin. Good damned thing she was sitting down.

“So,” he said, still smiling at her, and holy geez, did it just go up twenty degrees? “Tomorrow? You busy? I thought we could do something a little less high profile.”

“What? Like outrun nuclear warheads?”

He laughed again, and the crinkles around his blue eyes and the tan and oh, holy shit, he was going to be trouble. Big trouble.

“After that day, you want to go out with me,” she stated, a little bit lost. Most guys would be running. Or giving her a list of things she had to change about herself in order for them to stick around. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he growled, and his confidence was intoxicating.

He stood and pulled her up, into his arms and against that amazing chest and said, “Let’s dance.”

Yep, he was going to be trouble. She could see it. He was freaking FBI. She regularly destroyed things that were Federal. This had disaster written all over it in huge neon print.

He spun her out onto the dance floor in the middle of a fast song rocked by a local band. The lights strung around the outdoor setting, the shrieks of laughter from the kids, the velvet of the night sky hung overhead—none of it registered when he smiled. He moved her and spun her as if they’d been dancing complicated steps all their lives, his hands sliding down her arm in a turn or slipping across her waist as she passed behind him, then pulling her close. The song ended to applause and the band segued into a slow song and he fit her against him.

“I would really like a second date,” he said, then kissed her. The world went nova and she completely lost track of time or space.

And then he smiled against her lips.

There’s just no way to amply thank everyone who’s participated in this journey and helped me achieve this dream; I am, frankly, gobsmacked when I think about how many people encouraged me and sustained me in some way. I am immensely grateful for everything you all have done. In my shabby attempt to name a few, I have not mentioned others who had a dramatic and profound impact—particularly my friends. If I tried to name all of my friends and all that they have done, it would fill a book and then some. Yes, I am freakishly lucky, and I hope my friends know how much I love them.

So, to name a few key players without whom this book would not exist:

To Julie Burton, one of the finest friends and first readers anyone could hope for, who handed it to Rosemary Edghill, who became the mentor of my dreams and whose own brilliant advice and encouragement helped me find my way. And to her sister, India Edghill, one of the best cheerleaders in the world. This book would not have happened if it were not for the three of them. (You people should read Rosemary’s and India’s books; seriously, you are missing out on some fine storytelling if you don’t.)

To Kim Whalen, my wonderful agent, thank you for the laughter and the faith.

To Nichole Argyres, my brilliant editor at St. Martin’s Press, who is a world of fun and another trusted friend. Your
insights and style and enthusiasm made the whole editing process a blast while simultaneously making me a better writer and this a much better book. You totally rock.

To the terrific, supportive, and encouraging Matthew Shear (publisher) and Matthew Baldacci (marketing director) and the fantastic people in marketing, PR, and art. I am extremely fortunate to work with such a stellar team whose own wonderful enthusiasm and support for this book was beyond my dreams. I hope you all know how much I greatly appreciate all your efforts. And to Ed Chapman, the phenomenal copy editor without whom you all would know just how much my grammar sucks . . . thank you.

To Rae Monet (for FBI advice) and Lieutenant Cathy Flinchum of the Louisiana State Police (Public Relations): thank you both for being so generous with your time and answering tons of questions. Any mistakes in procedure left in the book are entirely my own.

To the city of Lake Charles, LA, for being the extremely cool place full of people I am proud to call family and friends. I may have made up a few locations and, okay, moved a few places around a bit, but I promise that when I was done, I put it all back to the way it was originally. I think. I mean, if you run into a salt dome where it isn’t supposed to be, let me know and I’ll try to put it back where it belongs; that was one slippery little sucker to get situated and it may have escaped a time or two and moved somewhere else when I wasn’t looking.

Just so you know, the Contraband Days Festival is the real deal and I highly recommend it for a fantastic time; there are events scheduled for families as well as just for the adults. If you want to learn more, visit:
www.contrabanddays.com
.

To my family who believed, supported, encouraged, cheered, commiserated, and helped many times over. I could never have done this without you. This is true of my whole family (I am extremely lucky), including Amanda Eschete (whose assistance kept my sanity intact—well, more intact than expected); my brother and his wife (Mike and Allison
McGee); and my in-laws (Marion and Patsy Causey); but especially to my dad and mom, Al and Jerry McGee, whose shining example of hard work and tenacity taught me to never give up, in spite of the odds. (And their love and hours and hours of baby-sitting made it possible!)

To my kids, Luke and Jake, who discovered the hard way that it was probably best not to get Mom to cook when I was writing lest there be fire alarms and billowing smoke (a regular occurrence), who survived (and sometimes took advantage of) my dazed expressions when they stood at my elbow asking questions, waiting for me to shift out of the imaginary world and back into the real one, and who would say with pride when someone asked, “My mom’s a writer.” (Yes, insanity runs in the family.) I love you beyond measure, and you have been the joy and laughter and fun and chaos (also good) in my life. I cannot imagine a world without you both, and no success would matter if you aren’t here to share in it.

And finally, to Carl, the love of my life and my best friend. You supported me in bad times and good, cheered me on, believed in me, and worked many many extra jobs and hours to give me the chance to pursue my dream, maybe never realizing you already had just by being there. None of this would have meant a thing without you.

Bobbie Faye Sumrall was full up on crazy, thank you very much, and had a side order of cranky to spare. It had been that bad of a week, and she hoped to have just one night, one measly little night, to sleep well. That wasn’t too much to ask, right?

Apparently, the Universe thought it was.

She and the Universe were like warring spouses locked in an eternal battle, trying to blow up one another while pretending all was okay when they were at couple’s therapy. She was beginning to think no one was buying the act anymore. Still she tried. She went through her nightly routine: she squeezed into the tiny bathroom of her small, almost-not-ratty trailer, fantasizing about actual hot water while she grabbed a tepid shower, and then to wind down, poured herself some juice and nibbled a cracker. Luckily, her five-year-old niece, Stacey, had been invited to spend the night at a friend’s house. No matter how much she loved the little rug rat, at least there wouldn’t be fourteen billion attempts to hog-tie the kid into bed for a whole five minutes of sleep before she bounced up again, determined to drive Bobbie Fay out of what little was left of her mind.

When Bobbie Faye did finally stretch out on her lumpy mattress, it was only to sink into disturbing, hallucinogenic dreams, all disjointed, a half-step two-step out of rhythm, bits and pieces swirling in a kaleidoscope of confusing colors. At one point, she saw herself and damn, she looked odd.
She could have sworn her boobs were off kilter, like one was higher than the other, but maybe it was just that striped butt-ugly shirt she was wearing, the one she’d won back in high school for that dumb “spirit week” contest. She was twenty-freaking-eight-years-old; why couldn’t her subconscious mind be a team player and clothe her in something über cool and sexy? And why did her normally long brunette hair look so . . . strange? It seemed all wrong: shorter . . . stiff, like she’d emptied a can of hair spray and shellacked it into a helmet.

Great. Bad dream
and
bad hair. But at least she wasn’t bald, like that little schlumpy guy she was talking to.

Oh. Wait. Make that the schlumpy little guy she was
shooting
.

Why in the hell was she shooting this guy? Five times. Damn, but it was a beautiful pattern. At least her dream got that part right. Still, he didn’t remind her of anyone she knew. He was way too schlubby to be IRS. Stupid subconscious. Why couldn’t it at least let her pretend to take out some of the jerks driving her insane? Mr. No-Extension-For-You IRS Guy would have topped her list. Then her dreams swirled again, and she felt the rush of wind tangling her hair, her arms wide as if she were flying under the streetlights in the small commercial district of her tough, no-nonsense industrial hometown of Lake Charles, Louisiana.

When she woke up, she had a raging headache, her mouth was painfully dry and then she peeled her eyes open, and
holy fucking shit
.

There was something definitely . . . bloodlike in her hair. Just beyond the foot of the bed, her closet was open. She instantly glanced down, dreading what she’d find, but no, she still had on the same T-shirt she’d worn to bed. So it’d been a bad dream. A way too realistic bad dream. Note to self: ease up on the chocolate suicide cake after dinner.