When Things Got Hot in Texas Read online

  But hell, neither did he know her well enough to have her staying here. Yet here she was.

  All of this wouldn’t be happening if he’d just said no. And yet. . .?

  He inhaled the clean scents that reminded him of how a real home should smell. He noted the shine on the floors and furniture, then his gaze settled on a clearance-rack vase of flowers, blue bonnets, centering the dresser. He still didn’t know why he’d tossed the knickknack in the cart. Or maybe he did. Women liked shit like that. And true the splash of color looked good. It also reminded him of the color of her eyes. A vibrant blue with almost a purple hue.

  This, with the exception of the flowers, needed to be done. He hadn’t noticed how bad the place was until he considered someone with a smile like hers coming here. Other than a quick pass of a broom, and doing the dishes weekly, he couldn’t remember cleaning the apartment he’d lived in for a year.

  And just as coming here had felt like a change in the right direction, cleaning this house gave him the same feeling. As if he was leaving the dark place he’d been in for the last two years.

  Oh, he was sure it still wasn’t up to Jennifer’s standards, but damn if he didn’t like the place better himself. Yeah, he’d dropped almost three hundred dollars at Walmart in towels, sheets, and cleaning supplies, but it was money well spent.

  He gave the room another glance, searching for anything else to make it more suitable. Finding nothing, he gave his shoulders a complete rotation and moved back into the living room to face the mess he’d probably caused.

  He’d only stepped into the hall when he heard a phone ring. Jake pulled his cell phone out.

  “Baldwin,” he answered, then went straight to frowning. “How could he have gotten away?”

  “What? Who?” Jennifer asked.

  Jake held out his hand. “I told you it was best, anyway.” Pause. “She can’t. I know. I’m leaving here now.” He hung up.

  “What?” Jennifer asked.

  Jake’s expression said he debated offering up the information.

  “Spill it. If it’s about me, I deserve to know.”

  Jake’s shoulders dropped in resolve. “A black Chevy Cruise was spotted parked outside Mark’s house. Mark had someone watching their house, but the guy spotted him and drove off.”

  “No!” Color drained out of Jennifer’s face. “Is Savanna okay? He didn’t touch her, did he? Please tell me--”

  “She’s fine,” Jake said. “He barely stepped out of the car. Mark’s with her now.”

  “What about Bethany? Oh, crap. I went to your house last week. If he knows--”

  “We got this, Jennifer.” Jake’s arm went around her shoulders, ending in a soft hug. Clay noted the friendship between them.

  He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to note all the facets of her personality. Or maybe he did. For the next few days, possibly a week, he would be spending his waking hours with her. Knowing who he was dealing with would make it easier.

  “We’re moving everyone to Nan’s, Macy’s grandmother’s, house,” Jake said. “She’s gone on a yoga cruise. We’ve got someone talking to the DA right now. And we’ve set up a meeting with Mr. Mitchell.”

  “Do you have proof he’s behind this?” Clay asked.

  “Not yet.” Jake looked at Clay.

  “Have you checked to see if any car rentals leased--”

  “We’ve checked the three closest towns. Got nothing. We’ve got someone venturing out to the surrounding car rental places now. But there were a lot of fingerprints on the gun. They’re being run through the system now. Hopefully, we’ll get this guy’s name and be able to connect him to Mitchell.”

  “And if you don’t?” Jennifer asked.

  “Trust us, okay? We’re going to get this guy.”

  Clay wished that instead of playing bodyguard he was investigating the case. Oddly, it was the first time he really missed being a cop.

  “Bethany’s not going to want to stop working,” Jennifer said. “She’ll fight you on this. And this guy might know where she works. He could--”

  “Don’t worry!” Jake tightened his arm around Jennifer. “Mark and I have dealt with difficult women. We each married one. We’ll deal with Bethany. Like it or not, she’s going to take some time off.”

  “I should call her,” Jennifer said. She opened her purse, pulled out a cell phone, and stepped a few feet away.

  Clay’s frown dipped all the way down to his gut. Her phone could be a problem. He motioned for Jake to follow him outside. “Have you explained to her that she can’t tell anyone where she is?”

  “Yeah. She knows.”

  “But will she do it?” Clay asked. “Every woman I’ve met in the last two years can’t live without telling the world on social media what they had for lunch and where. You both admitted that her friends are stubborn. And from my experience, the difficult ones travel in packs.”

  Jake chuckled. “She’s stubborn, but not stupid. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble with her. And hey, you already showed her who’s boss concerning the sofa.”

  Clay frowned. “I don’t want to be her boss. I just need to know she’s not going to do something that will jeopardize her safety.”

  “Like I said, I don’t think she’ll give you a hard time.” He smiled again. “And considering you aren’t a funeral director, I think you’re safe.”

  “What?”

  The door swung open, and Jennifer walked out. “Bethany’s agreed to take off the rest of the week. If you don’t catch this guy by Monday, you’ll be needing a pair of handcuffs.”

  Clay just hoped he didn’t find himself in need of a pair.

  Perhaps it was just Clay’s hunger, but the eggs, toast and bacon he’d made for dinner tasted damn good. But his houseguest only picked at her food.

  “There’s bread and lunchmeat if you prefer a sandwich,” he said, noting that Jennifer had placed her phone on the table as if waiting for a call or text.

  “Oh, no. This is good.” She picked up a piece of bacon and took a bite as if to prove it. “I’m just . . . I haven’t really been hungry since . . . last night.”

  Clay could understand that. He’d just gained back the last of the thirty pounds he’d lost those six months after the shooting.

  “Well, you can stop worrying,” Pete piped up. Then the old timer helped himself to the last of eggs. But damn, Clay was almost certain the old man had a tapeworm. He ate twice as much as Clay. “Ain’t no one gonna touch a pretty little hair on your head now. Between my shotgun and this guy’s two pistols, you couldn’t be safer.”

  She smiled at the same time her phone dinged and looked down and tapped the screen.

  “Hopefully we won’t even have to bring out the guns.” Clay tried not to frown. “What’s important is that no one knows you’re here.”

  “Yeah.” She pulled her phone over to continue reading.

  “And by that, I mean you don’t mention it in any text, Twitter, Facebook, Snapchat, or that picture one.”

  She looked up. “What about Google Play?”

  “No,” he snapped.

  Right then he felt a kick against his shin, delivered by Pete. The message was clear. He was coming off as an ass.

  She flinched then halfway gave a smile, but it wasn’t a real one. “I was joking.”

  He dropped his fork, wishing he could drop his attitude. “But I’m not. And I really need to know you understand that.”

  She looked chastised, and he felt like shit. What was it about her that put him on edge? Besides the blue eyes that were hard not to stare at, and the lips that occupied every guy’s wet dreams. Her waist. So little, he’d bet he could wrap his hands around. Oh, and that genuine smile she’d offered to Pete twice, but not him.

  “I understand,” she said.

  “Good.” The second he heard his frustrated tone, he felt worse.

  Pete obviously hadn’t liked the tone, either, because Clay got another shin kick. But damn, he thought only wives
knew how to do that.

  “What he means to say,” Pete offered in a soft voice, “is he’s sorry for coming off like a jackass with a spur stuck to his hindquarters.”

  Clay frowned. “I didn’t mean to sound angry, I just--”

  “It’s okay.” She set the half-eaten piece of bacon down on her plate. “Thanks for dinner.”

  “I think this is the best meal you’ve cooked since you’ve been here.” Pete sounded extra cheery. “The only thing we’re lacking is dessert. What I wouldn’t do for a good slice of pie. You like pie, Missy?”

  Jennifer wiped the bacon grease from her fingers. “Yes, I do.”

  “You know how to cook one?”

  Pete’s question had Clay clearing his throat. He might be coming off grumpy, but at least he wasn’t attempting to sign her up for kitchen duty.

  “I’m just asking,” Pete said. “We have some pecans.”

  Clay kicked Pete under the table this time.

  Pete flinched. “I mean, if she had a hankering to cook one.”

  “She’s not here to cook for us,” Clay said.

  “It’s okay,” Jennifer said. “I do know how to bake a pecan pie. Won a ribbon. It’s my mom’s recipe.”

  “My mouth’s a-watering already,” Pete said. “Want me to set the pecans out?”

  “No.” Clay’s tone deepened. “She’s had a rough night. Let her rest.”

  Jennifer’s expression turned uncomfortable. He wouldn’t be surprised if she snatched up the phone and called Jake to come get her.

  “How about I do that tomorrow?” She leaned over and rested her hand on Pete’s.

  “Tomorrow sounds sweet,” the old man answered.

  Jennifer shifted her gaze back to Clay. “And since you cooked, I’ll clean.”

  “No.” He tried to softened the word, but failed.

  She lifted her right brow, and her eyes turned a stubborn hue.

  “Not tonight,” he spoke up fast. “Tomorrow we can divide up the chores. Tonight, you should just rest.”

  “I don’t mind,” she went to argue.

  “You look exhausted. You’ve got purple circles under your eyes.” The words no sooner tripped off his tongue when he remembered telling a woman she looked bad came with the Surgeon General’s warning. “I mean you look great. I barely noticed them. I just . . .”

  Pete intervened. “Why don’t you and I go watch Family Feud. Clay enjoys washing dishes.”

  That was a complete lie. He and Pete regularly argued over who’s turn it was to have kitchen duty, but considering he needed to digest the foot he’d already stuck in his mouth before he stuck the other one in, he went with it.

  “Come on.” Pete stood and waited until Jennifer did the same. As they walked out, Pete looked back and shot him a “what-the-hell?” glare.

  If only Clay knew. He’d done okay last night—with the exception of running around naked—and this morning at the hospital he didn’t remember screwing up. Why was now different?

  He leaned over the sink and silently muttered every four-letter word he knew.

  Bottling his frustration, he got busy cleaning the kitchen. As he put the butter back in the fridge he spotted the wine and beer he’d splurged on.

  Hearing Jennifer and Pete laughing, he felt something akin to jealousy. He pulled out a beer for himself. While he wiped down the counters, he sipped on it and tried to figure out the reasons he was in such a pissy mood. Was it her? Him? Was it because she hadn’t smiled at him?

  Running a hand over his face, he decided he didn’t like thinking deep. Psychoanalyzing was for chickens. And look where it landed them. Decapitated, de-feathered, and dinner.

  Moving to the door of the living room, he saw Pete had taken up residence in the La-Z-Boy. Jennifer shared the lumpy sofa with Devil. With his head resting on Jennifer’s lap, the big dog looked like he’d died and gone to heaven.

  For one second he mentally traded places with the canine. His head in her lap, her soft hand brushing through his hair. Lucky damn Devil.

  Was that what was wrong with him? She made him want things? Things he told himself he couldn’t have yet. Things, he didn’t know if he deserved?

  Clay waited until a commercial came on. “I bought a six pack and some wine if you’d like a drink.”

  She looked over. “I’d love a glass of wine.” She went to stand up.

  “Relax. I got it.”

  Her gaze softened and slipped into a smile. Still not the sweet kind, but close. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Wow. Had he spoken more than three words to her and not come off like a pompous jackass? This was progress.

  Chapter 6

  Bundy couldn’t sleep. He’d almost been caught. But friggin’ hell, why had the cops put a lookout in front of the pregnant woman’s house? In the past, he’d learned they simply didn’t have the manpower to do shit like that, and he never once complained because it made his job easier.

  Knowing they’d seen his car, he’d driven it to the airport. He’d parked it in C terminal metered parking, walked into the airport and back out, then rented another one. A silver Honda.

  Two hours later, he drove by Jennifer’s other two friends’ places, and damn it to hell and back if there hadn’t been a parked car with cop-looking folks in them, too.

  Thankfully, it’d been dark, and the cops hadn’t made him in the new car. He’d come back to the hotel to come up with a new plan. He was not going back to prison, but Ted Bundy didn’t quit a job. When he started something, he finished it.

  He rolled over on the mattress. It was too damn soft and sucked him in.

  Because he knew the cops wouldn’t be inclined to look for him at a five-star hotel, he’d rented a room in the best one this side of town. Who’d have guessed he’d sleep better in a cheap hotel than a nice one. Then again, after seven years of sleeping on a piece-of-shit cot in prison, his back probably rebelled against luxury.

  He rolled over again. “Screw it!”

  There would be no sleeping tonight. He shot up, got dressed, and took off. He wasn’t dumb enough to go back to one of her friends’ places, but he could take care of another matter.

  That damn junkyard guy.

  Bundy didn’t know if the guy lived there, but it appeared to have rooms in the back. And chances were if he didn’t live there, he lived somewhere close by. And Bundy had seen the black Chevy truck parked out front. He could drive around that entire postage stamp of a town and find the ball-busting piece of shit.

  At least he’d have that taken care of.

  Exhaustion made Jennifer’s bones hurt and her brain heavy. Yet, she couldn’t sleep. Just closing her eyes brought on flashbacks of running from a bald guy and of Clay naked. Neither induced sleep. He wasn’t exactly an exemplary host. Not that she blamed him. She’d pushed herself on him. And now she could clearly see why he’d wanted to refuse.

  She did another roll to the other side of the bed. Pete had been right. The sheets were as smooth as a baby’s butt, but she couldn’t get comfortable. It wasn’t so much the bed.

  She rolled again. Well, it was the bed. But in truth, the biggest problem with the mattress wasn’t the occasional lump, but that it wasn’t memory foam. Since Charles had moved in and brought his bed, she’d gotten accustomed to foam-induced sleep. It hadn’t dawned on her before now that she would lose it. Surely, Charles was going to take his bed with him.

  How sad was it that she’d miss his mattress more than him?

  Very sad. A voice deep inside her said. But it didn’t mean that much.

  Her feelings for Charles would’ve grown if they’d actually tied the knot.

  Or would they? Would he have married her and then bolted? Charles was a nurse. That career had a high divorce rate, so maybe their relationship had been doomed from the start.

  Her phone dinged with a text. She snatched it from the bedside table, curious to see who was texting her this late.

  Savanna.

  Woke u
p to pee. Gut says you aren’t sleeping. Hope I’m wrong. But wanted to say I love you and I’m so damn glad you’re okay.

  Smiling, Jennifer texted her back. Your gut was right. I love you, too.

  The phone dinged again with an incoming text. Did your host lose his attitude?

  They’d texted right after dinner and she’d mentioned Clay’s hostile outlook.

  He served me wine.

  Ding. He’s trying to seduce you.

  She typed back, I don’t think so. He’s pissed I forced him into this. He had to buy new sheets.

  Ding. New sheets? Now I know he’s trying to seduce you.

  LOL. Get some sleep.

  Ding. Don’t count him out just because he isn’t a funeral director and has a large joystick.

  She laughed. You are bad.

  Ding. Good night.

  Jennifer set her phone down, counting her blessings for such good friends. She wished she had as much luck in her love life.

  All of a sudden, her bladder announced itself.

  Getting out of bed, she tiptoed to the door. It opened with nothing more than a nighttime whisper. She gazed at the sofa where Clay was sleeping and saw the silent lump covered with a blanket.

  Obviously, the man didn’t snore. In fact, she wasn’t even sure he was breathing.

  She eyeballed the door to the kitchen where the one bathroom was located.

  She tiptoed through the corner of the living room, never looking at Clay, and darted into the bathroom. The flush of the toilet caused the pipes to groan and she flinched,, afraid the noise might have woken him.

  Not a peep of noise came from the sofa. A sudden rumble from her stomach was a reminder of the dinner she’d left uneaten.

  Maybe there was something in the kitchen to tide her over until morning. She eased over to the cabinets, opening two doors before she found cups.

  Cup in hand, she inched forward to the fridge, opening it slowly to make sure the light wouldn’t flow directly into the living room. It didn’t. Snagging the milk, she had the door a fourth of the way shut when a figure loomed on the other side.