Careful What You Kiss For (22 page)

“His club’s got customers. The guy can probably afford a home improvement fetish if he wants one.”

“Could be. But my gut’s telling me there’s something else.” Max allowed himself a glance up, meeting his captain’s eyes. “The people I told you about that I saw going into the back, they didn’t even look at the dancers. My CI’s telling me the girls — new girls, anyway — aren’t allowed near Burns’s office, not even to get supplies. ”

The other man’s eyes narrowed in contemplation. “So what’s the connection?”

Max looked back down, drumming his fingers on his desk. “Not sure yet. He’s selling drugs, maybe. Or has a prostitution operation on the side. Or could be he’s messing with the books. Running money through the club or the store. For a fee.”

“A lot of maybes.”

Max pulled his mouth in tight and nodded.

“Check it out, but don’t spend time on dead ends.” His captain’s voice held a clear warning. “I need you on other cases.”

“I understand.”

“You at the club again tonight?”

Max jerked his head yes. If Tensley was on stage tonight — his dick stiffened at the possibility — it would take everything he had to concentrate on his job. “CI’s going to get me something I can work with.”

A pause. “Your CI’s a good-looking woman.”

Max heard the question. He shrugged, picking up his papers. “She’s okay.”
If you like smart, beautiful women who see straight through your bullshit and think there’s actually something good there. If that’s your type.

“You’ve got a week. If you can’t find anything going on at that club by then, you gotta get out of there.”

There
was
something going on. He could feel it in his bones. “But — ”

“You wanted a shot at this, so I gave it to you. But you spend too long at one place without anything to show for it, that’s not going to look good.”

Sleeping with his CI was going to look a hell of a lot worse. “Yes, sir.”

His captain walked away, footsteps ringing on the floor like nails in the coffin of Max’s law enforcement career.

• • •

Mid-day, Max got into his truck and drove to Rhonda’s store. His cell showed she’d called him twice since he’d blown her off early this morning. He still felt like shit about doing that. As if she’d caught him cheating, which didn’t even make sense.

But there wasn’t a whole lot that
did
make sense right now.

Her store was in a once-crumbling area of town now considered up and coming, thanks to a group fascinated with the faded murals and stone archways. The fact that these structures had, in another century, housed the town’s most profitable brothels apparently only added to the appeal.

The group had commissioned historical markers and a statue of one of the era’s colorful madams at her most provocative self. The city’s mayor, stepping in a beat too late, was now trying to put a stop to it all, saying it would give a whole new meaning to the term “bedroom community.”

Big mistake. Rhonda, who had managed to get herself elected vice president of the group, had picked up that comment and run it up field for a marketing touchdown. The mayor was still trying to stammer his way out of a public fight with a police captain’s daughter.

Max pulled into a parking spot in front of the store and cut the engine. Several bells clanged on the door when he entered the store, rising above the female conversation and sound of Lady GaGa singing in the background. Jammed with racks of women’s clothing, the shop smelled of equal parts perfume, furniture polish and mothballs.

At an antique wooden counter, a young woman picked up the phone, announcing, “Rhonda’s Rags to Bitches!” When she spotted Max, she waved hello and then pointed one long, orange fingernail toward another part of the store. “She’s back there.” Then she turned her attention back to the caller. “Yes, we have eve-en-ing gowns. You got a party to go to?” She grinned and wrinkled her sizeable nose at Max, causing the ring in its corner to disappear for a second.

He smiled, knowing it would only take a few seconds for Avril’s attention to be diverted to —

It took less than that. “You
have
to try that on!” she screeched at a woman holding a dress with mirrored circles plastered to its front. They reflected in the light, casting rainbows on the walls and Max’s shirt. “It’s so
cute
!” Back to the caller. “You looking for glam or gorge?”

Max weaved through the racks toward the back of the store.

He found Rhonda sitting cross-legged on a table in the stockroom, surrounded by an explosion of clothing. She had paperwork in her lap, a pen in her mouth and a look of consternation on her face.

She hadn’t seen him yet. For a few seconds, he thought about leaving. No good. Avril would only tell her he’d been here. He stepped around something sparkly on the floor. “Hi,” he said.

Rhonda’s chin flew up. “Hi.” There was a streak of blue ink above her red lipstick. Her eyes, lined with black, were wide, anxious. “You didn’t call me back.”

“I was — working. Came as soon as I could.” It was only a partial fib, so why did it leave such a bad taste in his mouth?

Rhonda slid off the table and began pacing back and forth before him like a wind-up toy at full speed. She’d always been able to go from zero to ninety in less than a minute.

In tight low-slung jeans that hugged her ass perfectly and a T-shirt that barely contained her generous tits, Rhonda had a body every man who saw her fantasized about being able to get into bed. Every man except Max.

Any more, anyway.

She stopped pacing and turned to face him, her arms crossed. Her lower lip quivered. “I needed you last night.”

“I’m here now.”

“But last night — ” She broke off and raised her palms, appealing to the ceiling. Some kind of blue feather thing in her hair bobbed up and down. “I can’t even tell you what a bad place I was in. It happened again. I started thinking about … you know … and it just still hu-hurts so much … .” The last word disappeared as her eyes filled.

A familiar spot in his chest tightened. Yeah, he knew. But guilt had now taken up full-time residence in that spot because he’d moved on. Every time he wanted to tell her to quit living in the past, that guilt stepped up to figuratively punch him in the face.

She didn’t call him as much anymore, though. Only on the occasional bad night. Maybe that was a good sign. He stepped forward and folded her in his arms. “Are you still going to that therapist?”

She shook her head and a blue feather flew in front of his face. Her words, mumbled into his shirt, weren’t easy to understand, but he thought he could make out, “She didn’t understand.”

“You have to give her a chance to understand.”

She lifted her head. “Only one person does.” A loud sniff. “You.” She tightened her grip on him. He winced as fingernails dug into his back.

Pretty much a replay of the conversation they’d had when she’d first found out he was back in town. He struggled for something to say that wouldn’t make him sound like as much of a jerk as he felt. Couldn’t come up with anything.

“I’m never going to be a mother.”

“C’mon. That’s not true.”

She nodded so hard, the feather thing gave up and flew off her head, landing on the floor. “I haven’t been able to get pregnant again since we — ” An agonized hiccup. “I can’t even s-say it.”

So he did. “Lost the baby.”

“The worst night of my life.” Another hiccup. She closed her eyes, leaning her head against his chest. He breathed in the flowery scent of her hair and flashed back a million years.

To the warm, biting reassurance of a fifth of bourbon going down his throat after he’d lost Tensley. The jolt when he’d climbed out of his fog the next morning to find Rhonda in his bed. The aching regret when Rhonda told him a month later that she was pregnant. The sound of fall leaves crunching beneath their shoes as they made their way up the steps to the courthouse and a quickie marriage, Rhonda in a white, tight dress and Max in his only suit.

The judge hadn’t looked at Max once during the brief ceremony. His eyes had been glued to Rhonda’s chest.

Not many weeks later, the argument. Max had come home the next morning to apologize and found her curled in a ball, eyes puffy and one ankle wrapped. She’d told him she’d been crying so hard the night before, she hadn’t seen the stairs. Until she’d tumbled down them.

It had been his fault. The fight, the miscarriage, the divorce after less than a year. The fact that he hadn’t been ready to be a husband, let alone a parent. Ever since he’d come back to town, she hadn’t let him forget it.

Not that he could have, no matter how much he’d moved on. She’d never let him. And neither would the guilt that twisted in him.

She sighed against his chest. “My sister-in-law told everybody at dinner that she’s pregnant again, but this one’s gonna be the last. My mother’s so happy, she’s asking, wouldn’t it be nice to name this one after his grandfather? It’s not like there’s going to be any more grandchildren. She said that looking straight at me.”

Max rolled his eyes, remembering his few encounters with Rhonda’s mother. “You can’t let her get to you.”

“I would have been such a good mom, Max.”

He put a hand up to touch her hair, but drew it back before making contact. “You will be.” His voice was gruff; his feet already inching toward the door.

“You ever think about what he would have looked like?”

He couldn’t let himself think about that.

“Bet he would’ve looked like you. Girls wouldn’t have been able to keep their hands off him.” A small choked sound. “We could have made it, you know. Been a family.” Her warm tears soaked through his shirt and onto his skin.

One drunken night might make a kid, but it didn’t make a family. Since he couldn’t bring himself to say that, though, he just let his shirt get wetter.

“You know, I never would have come all the way over to your place last night unless I really needed you — ”

What? “Hold on,” he interrupted. He stepped back, putting his hands on her shoulders. “You went to my apartment last night?”

“You weren’t there.”

“I told you I had to work.”

“You weren’t there at four
A.M.
”

“Rhonda.” It took effort to keep his tone even. As usual, she was taking a hammer to his patience. “You can’t just show up at my place. We aren’t married any more, remember?”

She threw her hands in the air. “You think I could forget? My husband doesn’t even bother to tell me he’s moved back to town. I have to find out from my father, like that wasn’t uncomfortable. Real nice, Max.”

“
Former
husband,” he corrected. And then, because he was pissed off she’d gone to his apartment, he added, “First in a series.”

“First, second, third, what difference does it make?” she bit out, jamming her hands on her hips. Then she seemed to think the better of it and when she spoke again, her tone had softened. “You’re the only one who ever mattered. You know that.”

He turned away, studying a necklace that looked as though it weighed as much as Rhonda. Where did she get this stuff, anyway? He picked it up and let it slip through his fingers to clatter onto a counter. “Husbands two and three might not agree.”

“Oh, very funny. I don’t even know where Jess is and Carl, well, you know what’s up with that.”

Unfortunately, he did. Carl, a more senior detective, had never gotten over the divorce and considered every male between the age of eighteen and eighty a rival for his ex-wife’s affections.

“Jealous?” Rhonda purred.

Hell, if he could figure out how to get her back together with Carl, he would. Max changed the subject. “So, how’s business?”

She brightened. “I have a blog.”

He picked up a pile of clothing and dropped it onto a table to get to the wooden chair beneath. Shiny stuff — glitter or something like it — shot upward. He dragged the chair out of the danger zone and straddled it, crossing his arms over the back. “What’s it about?”

“Fashion. How you can find great bargains and look amazing for not much money.” She clasped her hands together. “I already have about a zillion followers. It’s incredible.”

“That’s good.” She needed something in her life besides serial marriage.

“And I gave it the perfect name.” She paused, taking a deep breath, apparently to give the name a dramatic introduction. “Rhonda’s RearView.”

He covered his sudden, sharp laugh with a cough. “Nice,” he managed.

She flashed a dimple at him. “You should see my photo. Everyone says my ass is my best feature.” To illustrate her point, she thrust her hip toward him and turned, looking back over her shoulder. “Including you.”

“It is, yeah,” he said, “a good feature.” It was getting hot in this stockroom and the musty smell coming from all these clothes was starting to get to him. He stood, pushing the chair aside. “But don’t sell yourself short.”

“You can’t go.” Rhonda rushed over and grabbed hold of his jacket. “You just got here.”

He loosened her fingers. “Work to do.”

“I was in such a bad place last night, I couldn’t even trust myself. I was afraid of what what — I might do.”

Alarm shot through him. “Go to the therapist, Rhonda.”

“I told you. She doesn’t underst — ”

“Go. To the therapist. Call her.”

She let go of him and stepped back, tipping her head and looking up through her lashes. “Take me to dinner and I’ll think about it.”

Not gonna happen.

She must have read the answer on his face because she answered before he did. “Forget it. You don’t owe me anything. Even dinner.”

“Rhonda.” He stopped, not sure what to say.

She picked up a skirt, examining it. “Besides, I’m sure your girlfriend wouldn’t like it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“Whoever she is. The one you were with at four
A.M.
”

God help him if she ever found out. “Told you. I was working.” He had been. At first.

“You can’t fool a wife, Max Hunter.”

“
Ex
— ” He broke off. No point. “I’ve gotta go.”