Deceiving Derek

by

Copyright 2012 Cindy Procter-King

Published by Blue Orchard Books at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Cindy Procter-King

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition

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Copyright Notice

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may
be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise,
without the prior written permission of the author, except in the
case of brief quotations embodied in critical re-views and
articles. This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and
dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not
to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or
per-sons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Deceiving Derek Publishing History:

October 2012 Blue Orchard Books – Revised &
Updated Author’s Cut

March 2007 Chippewa Publishing

June 2002 NovelBooks, Inc.

Cover by LFD Designs For Authors

Also By Cindy Procter-King:

Where She Belongs

Borrowing Alex

Head Over Heels

For more information, visit
http://www.cindyprocter-king.com/

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

About this Story

Deceiving Derek

About the Author

Sneak Peek at Catching
Claire

Sneak Peek at Head Over
Heels

Deceiving Derek
was first published in 2002 by
NovelBooks, Inc. as a stand-alone short story and re-issued by
Chippewa Publishing in 2007. In 2012, I decided to revise and
update
Deceiving
Derek
as the first in a five-part romantic comedy short
story series called LOVE & OTHER CALAMITIES. The series follows
the mishaps and adventures of a group of girlfriends as they
prepare for a wedding. In the process, each heroine finds love.

For
Deceiving Derek
, I am indebted to my dear friend,
Mary J. Forbes, author of women’s romantic fiction, for her
insightful critique and research advice. Thanks also to Shannon
Sessions, Public Information Officer for the Lynnwood Police
Department in Washington state, and Detective Brian McIntryre with
the Edmonds Police Department, who answered my many research
questions promptly and patiently.

Any mistakes or fictional liberties are
mine.

Lingerie designer Lacey DeMarco livens up her
life by finagling an unsuspecting police detective into attending a
funky bridal shower. She needs one last item to complete a
scavenger hunt list, and handsome cop Derek McAllister is it.

But a little trickery is at work.
Both
Lacey
and Derek are being hoodwinked…in the name of love.

“Someone’s stealing my underwear! I need to
find out who!”

Arching an eyebrow at the indignant female
voice, Detective Derek McAllister raised his gaze from his computer
screen.
Hello
. A slim blonde in a slinky red dress stood on
the other side of his desk in Rosewood’s police station. Sparks
radiated from the woman’s blue eyes as she dangled a scarlet
G-string inches from his nose. Her hand jerked. The scrap of silk
flipped off her fingertip, bonking his Mariners coffee mug and
plopping onto his notebook.

Derek glanced at the front counter. Both
Biggs, the balding desk sergeant, and Harding, a lanky patrol
officer who shadowed Biggs like a starved-for-attention sidekick,
looked back at Derek and chortled. Biggs twirled a finger near one
cauliflower ear, mouthing, “Craaazy.”

Like Derek needed Biggs to tell him.
Thanks a lot,
boneheads. Sending me the kook, huh?

Both uniforms were working the night shift.
Although Derek had reported a slow afternoon, there was still
plenty to do before the bars closed and mid-July crap hit the fan.
For instance, Harding. Instead of chuckling over the Funnies, the
dope could be checking parks and alleys. And Biggs…rather than
playing Sudoku and flirting with the female clerk, the guy could at
least check email.

“Well?”
The blonde at Derek’s desk stared him down.
“Are you going to shuffle me off like they did—” she flicked a hand
toward Biggs and Harding “—or take me seriously?” Her golden hair
shimmered beneath the bright lights in feathery layers.

Hell, why not?
Elbows on his desk, Derek hunched
forward in his swivel chair. Taking initial theft reports wasn’t
his responsibility. His job was to investigate. However, he sensed
frazzled nerves beneath the woman’s righteous ire. And, considering
the nature of her complaint…

He wanted to get a good sense of the problem
and who she was so he wouldn’t need to do a second interview later.
If kook-job poured off her in bucketfuls, he’d rather pacify her
and escort her safely home than subject her to potential ridicule
by directing her back to the guys up front. Sending her away to
roam the Seattle suburb in her current state of agitation was out
of the question.

Derek calmly eyed the G-string. He slipped a
pen beneath a lacy strap and lifted the lingerie as carefully as if
he were handling a piece of forensic evidence.

“Is this the underwear in question, ma’am?”
he asked.

Her chin tipped up. “I’m a
Miss
. Miss DeMarco.” Her blue
gaze darted away a moment. “No, that’s not the underwear I’m
talking about. That underwear isn’t missing. Is it, Detective?”

That depends on whether you’re wearing any
. Derek
stifled the urge to lean across the desk and check the presence or
absence of panty lines beneath her luscious red dress.

“All right, then. What underwear of yours
is
missing?”
A question he certainly hadn’t anticipated asking upon his return
to the station. On a seedy street corner, maybe.

“My lingerie designs. The prototype samples.”
The blonde snatched back the G-string. “This thong is a prototype,
too, but thankfully the thief didn’t nab it.”

“Are you sure it was a thief?” Derek still
had panty lines on the brain.

“Yes, Detective McAllister,” Miss DeMarco
said with strained patience. “You
are
Detective Derek McAllister, right?
That’s the name she—I mean, the men at the counter gave me.”

Derek arrowed a glance to the desk. Biggs,
looking back again, rolled his eyes. Harding scratched his stomach
and snickered.

“They would be right.” Derek tapped the cheap
brass nameplate beside his computer. Miss DeMarco’s nervous gaze
tracked the movement.

Her shoulders squared. “Well, Detective
McAllister, usually when there’s a burglary, there’s a thief
involved. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Yep. Usually, I would.” Unless she’d
imagined the whole thing. Anxiety hopped off her slender curves
like ants attacking a sugar bowl. Maybe she was paranoid.
What a
shame
.

She hoisted a gigantic shopping bag off the
floor. Derek’s lips tugged into a smile as she plunked the bag onto
his desk, dug inside, and pulled out a skimpy lingerie top. She
tossed the G-string—pardon him,
thong
—and pink lingerie onto the desk, then
rummaged through the bag again.

“Damn it, I wanted to make sure he—I’m pretty
sure the thief is a he—didn’t steal more samples, so I grabbed as
many as possible before catching the bus over.” Out flew blue
underwear and a yellow slip thing. “Trouble is, these prototypes
take up so much room I’m having trouble finding my wallet.” The
shopping bag coughed up a purple bra and some flimsy, pale green
panties.

Derek put down his pen. “Don’t worry about
the wallet.” Did she think she had to pay him?

“I see it!” She continued emptying the bag
until an explosion of frothy colors littered his desk, reminding
him of his twin sister Janie’s rooftop garden after her
ex-boyfriend broke her heart and she’d weed-whacked every blossom
formerly planted in honor of their love.

It occurred to him Janie would like Miss
DeMarco. He could visualize the two of them whacking blossoms
together.

“Ah ha!” The blonde produced a slim wallet. A
cell phone clattered out of the bag, bouncing across the lingerie
and clunking his jar of pens. Amid the chaos, she opened the
wallet, withdrew a business card, and handed it to him.

A flowery script on creamy stock announced:
Lacey’s Little
Underthings. Lacey DeMarco, President and Head Designer
.

“Lacey?” Derek muttered. “Give me a break.”
Yeah, she’s a
wing-nut
.

A blush stained her face. “That’s right,
Lacey DeMarco. My mother, Cather—uh, Christina DeMarco, is the
famous lingerie designer out of Milan. My sister is Silken and my
brother is Teddy. My mother believes in theme names.”

“Does she now?” Placing aside the card, Derek
pressed down another smile. He’d never heard of Christina DeMarco.
Or Cather-uh DeMarco. “Look, I need to understand the situation. If
someone’s stealing your underwear, what’s all this?” He sifted his
fingers through the pile.

She gazed at the heap. “This is...what’s
left. What I’ve rescued.”

“Mm-hm. From the culprit, you mean?”

“Yes.” Her voice rose. “This hasn’t been
stolen. Yet.” She stuffed the cell phone and lingerie back into the
bag.

Derek picked up the green panties and studied
the inside label.
Well, lookee here
. The hand-stitched label read
Lacey’s Little
Underthings
, like her business card.

Maybe his sexy wing-nut was on the
up-and-up.

“Okay.” He tossed her the panties, which she
caught with surprising deftness. “Please sit.” He indicated the
chair in front of his desk. On his computer, he saved the grid he’d
drafted showing a week of vehicle thefts. “Tell me what happened,”
he said as he logged out of the computer and reached for his
notepad.

She remained standing. “I’d rather tell you
on the way over.” She shoved the wadded panties into the bag.

“The way over where?”

“My place.”

“Your
place?”

“My design studio—it’s in my apartment.
That’s where the theft occurred. Don’t you want to inspect the
scene of the crime?”

“I’d rather take notes first.”

Her eyebrows high-jumped. “I don’t have time!
I never know when he might strike again. He’s already plundered me
twice!”

Derek chuckled. “The panty thief?”

“The
corporate
panty raider,” Lacey returned in an uppity
tone he swore she employed to disguise her obvious jitters.
Because, if her dress was anything to go by, she didn’t look the
uppity type.

“Lacey’s Little Underthings is a legitimate
company, Detective McAllister. I’ve produced my business card. I
demand your respect.”

Derek tapped the pad against his palm.
Finishing the vehicle theft grid could wait. While he didn’t buy
into Lacey’s business-card definition of respect, she deserved his
attention and protection as much as any other Rosewood citizen.
Even if he wasn’t technically on-duty.

“Just a minute,” he told her. He got up and
strode to the counter. “Harding. I need a ride-along. You
available?”

“Sorry.” The guy plunked on his hat. “Just
got a call.”

Biggs backed away, hands raised. “I need to
write a report.”

Derek nodded.
Typical
.

He glanced back at Lacey. She stood at his
desk, clenching the shopping bag and nibbling her lip.

He drew in a breath. Okay, then. He’d poke
around her design studio, call in the crime scene techs if
necessary. Volunteer an hour of his time toward her peace of mind,
tops.