Divorced, Desperate, and Delicious

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

  

“Oh, God!” The brunette focused on his gun. Dropping to her knees, she snatched up the dog. “Don’t shoot! He doesn’t bite.”

Chase realized that the gun did point at the dog and now at the kneeling woman, who clutched the Yoda-like creature to her breasts. Turning the gun away, he pushed himself off the wall. “I’m not going to shoot. I need your help.”

She zeroed in on his shoulder, where his tan T-shirt had grown dark with his blood. Then her gaze zipped to his face. “Oh, God!” she repeated again, and her expression washed white.

The last “Oh, God,” told Chase that she recognized him. Yep, his face had been plastered across the news, all right. Double damn.

“Are you alone?” Pain vibrated his voice.

“No! My husband is here.” Her eyes went wide again, then darted left as she tucked a strand of hair behind her left ear.

He reread the word “divorced” on her shirt. As an undercover cop, he appreciated poor lying skills in a person—it made his job a hell of a lot easier. “Get up.”

She rose to her feet, keeping the squirming dog cuddled in her arms. “Why don’t I close my eyes, turn around, and you disappear? Then I’ll pretend I never saw you.”

“You would do that?” He studied her, wanting to believe it.

Her eyes widened and cut left again. “Of course.”

If ten different kinds of pain didn’t grip him in its clutches, he would laugh at her inability to lie. Hell, if not for the pain, he wouldn’t want to leave. His gaze swept over her again. At least he had her pegged: a very gorgeous, slightly nutty divorcée, who mostly told the truth—or did a terrible job of it when she did lie.

“Let’s go inside.” Forgetting he held the gun in his hand, he motioned for her to move.

“Please, just leave.” Her voice wobbled.

Dragging air into his battered lungs, he considered doing just that. But his next step flung him back against the wall of reality. He wouldn’t make it a block before the cops arrived. Then he wouldn’t have a chance in hell of proving he wasn’t involved in killing Stokes, or that he hadn’t taken the drugs from that bad bust that he and Zeke had worked a month ago. But damn, why hadn’t he ever suspected Zeke of taking the cocaine?

“I can’t leave,” he told her. “Look, I know you’re scared and you don’t believe me. You’d be a fool to believe me. But I’m not out to hurt you. I don’t care what they’re saying. I’ve been set up, and . . . Shit, I’m not guilty.”

Her slender throat bobbed up and down as if she attempted to swallow his words as the truth. One glance into her terror-filled eyes told him she hadn’t been able to pull it off.

“Let’s go inside.” This time he motioned with his hand instead of the gun. “You’re safe with me, I swear.”

She took a step back, stumbled, and almost fell. Normally, he would have jumped at the chance to wrap his arms around someone who looked like her—someone who he was sure was naked aside from her pink shirt. But after being beat up, shot, and leaping off a bridge, jumping was damn near impossible. He waited for her to right herself, then nodded toward the house. “Come on.”

Her gaze cut to his bloody shirt as if she wondered what chance she’d have at overpowering him.

A tad worried about those chances himself, he squared his shoulders. Pain filled the pit of his stomach. He refused to flinch. “Move.” He had intended to sound gruff but regretted it when fear masked her expression.