Running for Her Life. Beverly LongЧитать онлайн книгу.
with coworkers about his fine rear end and speculated about other attributes. But now, with his pressed uniform, hat and shiny black shoes, he all but screamed cop, and it made her stomach cramp up in fear.
His stance was comfortable as he confronted a carload of teenagers who’d decided that the barricade across the road clearly didn’t apply to them. But she wasn’t fooled. He didn’t carry himself like a cop who’d gotten soft working a desk and doing the occasional crowd control. No, definitely not. And he’d certainly handled his gun last night as if it was an extension of his arm.
Was it as simple as it all sounded? Had he really come to Wyattville to help his old friend? But who had the kind of job that they could just up and leave at any time for six weeks to go work somewhere else? No. There was more to the story.
And she loved a good story. Got jazzed piecing information together. There’d been few who were as good at re-creating a series of events that made sense.
Whether it was covering a political campaign, a murder trial or the transgressions of the big banks, she’d loved being a reporter. Loved seeing the results of her work on the newsstand. Loved the editorial deadlines, even loved the notoriously bad coffee in the break room.
But that was a long time ago. Now she needed to keep a low profile. She needed to stay out of Chief Vernelli’s way and if she couldn’t manage that, she needed to make darn sure that she was at the top of her game. She couldn’t afford to slip up, to give him any reason to look at her closer.
She angled her chair, just enough that he was in her peripheral vision but not enough that he’d catch her eye. She bought a watery lemonade from two young girls and was relieved when the first floats came by. She was clapping for the Wyattville fire truck and volunteer fire department when a shadow blocked out the hot sun.
She twisted her body so quickly that one side of her lawn chair lifted off the ground, and she would have crashed to the side if a strong hand hadn’t steadied her.
“Careful,” he said.
“Chief Vernelli,” she managed.
He glanced at the bandage on her knee. “Bumps and bruises getting better?”
She nodded and prayed that he’d move along. Instead, he spread his legs, shifted his weight back onto his heels, hooked his thumbs in the loops of his belt and watched the parade like it was Thanksgiving Day and he had a boatload of stock invested in Macy’s.
She ignored him, and he appeared as if it didn’t bother him in the least. When the funeral home director and his family rode by on a float decorated as a coffin, the crowd was peppered with wrapped caramels. Jake reached a long arm up and easily caught a piece. He tossed it in Tara’s lap.
“It’s your candy,” Tara protested.
He shrugged. “I don’t have much of a sweet tooth. I’d arm-wrestle you over a bag of potato chips, though.”
More proof that he wasn’t normal. She unwrapped the candy and popped it in her mouth as the last tractor belched and snorted its way past. Tara stood up and folded her lawn chair.
“What’s next?” Jake asked.
I watch to see what direction you go in and make a mad dash in the other. “Lunch. Then we’ll head for the shade and rest our stomachs until the games begin.”
“I saw the dunk tank getting set up,” he said.
“The chief of police would be a big draw,” she suggested.
“Too bad I’m on duty.” He smiled and she felt the answering lurch in her stomach. He was a handsome man. Might even be charming.
She edged away. “Given how hot it is, there will likely be plenty of volunteers. I may even try it myself.” She turned and started walking. “I better hurry. Janet might need me,” she lied.
* * *
FORTUNATELY FOR JAKE, Tara didn’t get into the dunk tank. Breasts and cold beer were both good things. However, when the breasts were covered by a tight white T-shirt that suddenly became transparent, routine crowd control could quickly get ugly.
She did, however, play volleyball. Jake had stood off to the side, made small talk with those who wanted to get to know the new chief and discreetly watched the game. What Tara lacked in skill, she made up for in enthusiasm. Bending, stretching, lunging. She didn’t do anything overtly over the top to attract attention, but when Jake scanned the crowd he saw several young men with their tongues almost hanging out.
Was it possible that her recent trouble had something to do with a rejected lover? He’d asked who she’d pissed off. Maybe the question should have been, Who have you dumped lately?
When the game ended, he watched to see who approached her. Several of the young men did, but with each she seemed casually comfortable. She didn’t do much more than exchange a quick greeting with any of them until one too-thin, long-faced guy approached. He wore faded jeans and a white wife-beater T-shirt that revealed tattoos spread across both biceps. He was smoking a cigarette.
She looked surprised to see him. Then she motioned for the man to follow her, stopping when they were a distance from the volleyball court and anyone else who might hear the conversation. He talked, she mostly listened.
Then the man dropped his cigarette and with more force than necessary, used the heel of his boot to grind it into the dirt. When Jake saw Tara frown, shake her head and turn away, only to be stopped by the man’s hand on her arm, he moved fast.
“Problem?” he asked, when he reached Tara’s side.
The man dropped his hand and stepped back.
“No. No problem,” she said quickly.
He didn’t buy it. “You two seemed to be having a pretty heated conversation,” he said, staring at the man.
Tara stepped forward. “It was nothing,” she said. She pushed her hair back from her face. “This is Donny Miso,” she added. “Donny, Chief Vernelli.”
The man didn’t say anything and he stared at the ground. Close up, Jake could see that his hair was dirty, he hadn’t shaved for a couple days and the dark circles under his eyes pointed to more than a few sleepless nights.
He looked a little desperate. And normally Jake had some sympathy for people who had reached the end of their rope. But he had no sympathy for a man who used his strength to dominate a woman, to force her.
“Donny, I think you better move on,” he said.
“I don’t want any trouble,” Donny said.
“Then we want the same thing. Tara, I think Janet was looking for you. I’ll walk you back that direction.”
Without another word, Donny walked away. When he was almost out of sight, Jake turned to Tara. “Does he want his job back?”
“No. But the weird part is, he doesn’t have anything else. I don’t know what’s going on with him. I think he’s just so mad that his life isn’t what he thought it was going to be. He probably needs counseling, but he couldn’t afford to keep his health insurance after his real job ended. I’m worried about him.”
“You think he could have had anything to do with the damage at the restaurant or with you being forced off the road yesterday?”
“I don’t think he’s mad at me. Just at life.”
Even so, Jake made a mental note to have another conversation with Donny before the day ended.
“Excuse me,” Tara said. “I need to find Janet.”
She walked back toward the crowd and he waited several minutes before following. He found the women easily enough and wasn’t surprised to see that Nicholi had managed to get his chair next to Janet’s.
Tara had flopped down in the grass next to Nicholi’s lawn chair, her legs stretched out in front of her, crossed at the ankles.