Authors: Rita Herron
Tags: #Psychology, #Sex Therapists, #Marriage Counselors, #Contemporary, #General, #Romance, #Family & Relationships, #Marriage, #Adult, #Historical, #Authors, #Counseling, #Psychotherapy, #Fiction, #Marriage Counseling, #Love Stories
Under the Covers (45 page)
Hell's bells. The woman hadn't written one personal thing about herself, just an alphabetical listing of random words. The list made no sense.
As he read the other ads, all lonely pleas for companionship, a snort of disgust rumbled from deep in his throat. Just when he'd contemplated looking for a serious relationship with a woman, his boss, Hank had ordered him to write this silly piece. This was the fifth ad he'd responded to. And he hoped to God, the last. Then he could concentrate all his efforts on finding the elusive ABC robber before his competitor from the
Sun
outscooped him.
"Blast it, Gabe, you're letting the cases get to you," Hank had told him. "Take a lighter assignment. Have a little fun." Hogwash!
Hell, work gave him all the excitement he needed. And Hank called dating women through the personal ads fun? The man had been out of commission way too long. After four dates, Gabe had more than enough information to write an article. Sweet heavens, he could write a book.
Memories of the past few evenings splintered through his mind. He tried his best to banish them. Brenda the brainy mathematician had cut her meat into exactly eight equal-sized pieces. Miserable Moreen had sobbed about her ex and spilled wine on his pants, then tried to mop his clothes with her spaghetti-stained napkin. And Sandra the tattoo artist had offered to tattoo her initials on his butt. That night he'd had nightmares of a giant-sized drill coming toward his posterior while Brenda carved his anatomy into cereal-sized portions.
To top it all off, he'd lost an evening's sleep last night on a commuter flight tying up the loose ends of another assignment. Gabe gripped the door handle to his car with one hand and massaged his temple with the other, attempting to fight a headache. A yawn stretched across his face. He glanced at his watch. 7:00. He hoped to hell Casey was ready, so he could get this evening over with.
Forcing himself out of his Bronco, he strode up the driveway. A reflection of his image stared back through the glass in her front door. Gabe grimaced. He looked a mess. He'd gotten tied up in a shady part of town meeting an informant who'd practically assaulted him. During the brawl, he'd torn a couple of holes in his jeans, then his car had broken down and he'd had to change his tire, so his clothes looked even more rumpled. On top of that, the five o'clock shadow of his beard gave him a grungy look.
His poor grandmother would be ashamed if she saw him picking up a woman dressed like a bum. Casey would probably take one look at him and boot him out the door. He should have gone home and changed, but he'd run out of time and being punctual was one of his pet peeves. Maybe she'd ride with him to his house and let him shower.
Ever since he'd spoken to Casey this morning on the telephone, he'd had a premonition that meeting her would change his life. Whether good or bad, he didn't know.
Her southern drawl reminded him of soft lilacs, and he'd fantasized about the taste of honeysuckle as she spoke. He tried to imagine the color of her hair. Smoky brown? Fiery red? But his fantasies had been destroyed when a child's voice interrupted their conversation. The wild music blasting in the background alerted his senses, all screaming panic. This female is trouble. He might be considering a serious relationship with a woman, but a readymade family—that was something different.
His mind strayed to the robberies as he postponed knocking on her door. Five victims so far. The hits had begun with a victim by the last name of Angus. Now the thief had worked up to the letter F. All the robberies had occurred within the vicinity of Casey's house.
Gabe stopped on the wide plank flooring of the front porch. If a date with the alphabetically inclined Casey proved helpful to the robbery case or if Casey turned out to be the thief, then he could turn this fluff piece of journalism into a real investigative reporting article. His gaze rested on a hand-painted wooden bunny perched beside the door, and he suppressed a chuckle. Casey's wedgewood blue colonial house and the pansies lining the front lawn suggested a typical suburban home. And he had a feeling any woman hosting a big bunny and pastel-colored birdhouses on her front porch couldn't be a criminal.
But, then again, appearances could be deceiving. After working on undercover assignments for the Atlanta paper for three years, he knew firsthand that dangerous, sinister psychos often disguised themselves as very ordinary-looking citizens.
His fist tightened in midair, hovering above the red barn door as loud childlike music wafted through the open window. He pondered leaving. After all, he didn't know Casey. He could go home, watch T. V. and catch up on his sleep. Maybe, he could finish the article without suffering through another evening with a female who bored him beyond imagination.
Suddenly exhausted, Gabe swiveled to leave, but his conscience scolded him, his southern upbringing freezing him in his steps. His dear sweet Grandmother Maude's voice whispered reminders about gentlemen not breaking dates. "Sometimes, Grandma, I wish I'd never been born in the south," Gabe muttered. He sucked in a harsh breath, prayed for the night to pass quickly, then raised his fist to knock.
* * *
Damn.
Damn.
Double damn.
"You will never get Henry S.," Casey said, fighting a wave of anger. "You don't love him, Travis. All you want is his trust fund."
The sound of Travis Satterfield's sickening sneer turned Casey's stomach. "He's my son, not yours, Casey. The courts will side with me. He's my own flesh and blood," Travis taunted.
Casey swallowed a nasty retort. "I have legal custody, Travis. Bev gave it to me before she died and I adopted Henry S. I have papers to prove it."
Travis snorted. "To hell with papers. I'm still his father. Haven't you watched the news lately? Blood relatives always win."
Casey silently cursed him. "Some father you are. He's two years old and you've never even seen him. How do you think the court will look at that?"
Travis' heavy breathing filled the line. Casey knew he was thinking about her statement—this could take all night. Travis Satterfield had the brains of a rutabaga.
"I'll say I wanted to see him and you denied me visitation rights."
Casey chewed her fingernail, then pulled her ear from the phone. She thought she heard a light knock at the door but Henry S.'s laughter boomed up the hall.
"You'll be sorry if you don't cooperate with me," Travis warned in a nasty voice.
Casey pressed the phone back to her ear. "Drop it, Travis. Henry S. is happy. Find the money to pay off your debts somewhere else." Then Casey slammed down the phone, effectively shutting off his next words.
Henry S. squealed. Casey took off running.
"Oh, Henry S., what have you done now?" Casey shrieked, dashing for the bathroom. "I had to call the plumber because the potty's stopped up. I hope you didn't flush...." Her words died as she peeked inside.
Quickly, she snatched a handful of towels from the linen closet and piled them on the floor to catch the overflowing toilet water before it reached the hall carpet.
Henry S. patted one bare foot into the river of water and wiggled his toes.
Casey lunged for her son. "Don't step in it, buddy!"
Henry S. giggled. "Cold."
"Oh, Henry S.," Casey said, twisting her hair into a knot on top of her head. "What did you put in the potty?"
Henry S. flashed a proud smile. "Ba... woons," he said, the word barely audible as he stuck his tongue out to show off a prized piece of red gum.
"Balloons?" Casey asked. "But we don't have any balloons. I used them all for your birthday party last month."
Henry S. pointed to a small box floating in the corner of the bathroom. Casey groaned as she recognized the package of what used to be neon green condoms. "I forgot Brick and Shelia left those in the cabinet," Casey muttered, heaving an exasperated sigh. "I swear, Henry S., you were put on this earth to try my ability not to cuss. I'll have gray hair before I'm thirty if you don't stop all this mischief."
Henry S. chuckled. "Mommy's hair pwetty—purple."
Casey frowned while tugging on a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves. "Purple and orange thanks to you, little one. Whatever made you want to put Kool-aid in Mommy's hair while Mommy was napping? I was only asleep for ten minutes. I just hope it comes out before Mommy's date tonight."
Henry S. giggled and pointed to Casey's mouth. "Bwue lips, Mommy."
Casey stole a glance at herself in the mirror, rubbing frantically at her lips. "Yes, Mommy has blue lips and so do you. That jawbreaker was awful. I'll have to scrub the skin clean off my lips or put on twenty coats of lipstick to cover this up. Gabriel Thornton would probably run like a jackrabbit if he saw me right now."
"Wabbit," Henry S. said. He waved his chubby hands above his head imitating floppy ears and dashed into the hall.
"I want wabbit."
Casey groaned. "Don't touch the paper-mâché rabbit on the table, Henry S. It still has to dry!" Even as she said it, she knew her pleas not to touch her newest art project were in vain. Throwing another towel on the already soaked mound, she darted after her son. Suddenly, she stopped as a loud pounding on the front door drew her attention.
"Great jumping junipers!" Casey said. "It must be the plumber. Now, Henry S., please don't get into anything else." Casey glanced around her den at the toys and laundry littering the floor, then frowned at her tattered quilted robe.
The pounding grew louder.
"I can't believe I'm letting anyone see me like this," she muttered, racing toward the front door. "Even a plumber."
The doorbell chimed. Casey glanced at her watch. An impatient plumber, too. "Thank the stars it's only six o'clock, and I can change before Gabe gets here." The doorbell chimed again. "Hold onto your underwear! I'm coming." Jerking open the door, Casey momentarily forgot her disheveled appearance as she stared into the deepest charcoal gray eyes she'd ever seen.
The man took a step backward, a shocked expression shaping his wide mouth into a gaping hole.
Drawing on his finely honed investigative skills, Gabe stifled his horrified first impression by schooling his face into a mask of granite. This was Casey McIntyre? A pint-sized woman with purple and orange hair, blue lips and the ugliest excuse for a bathrobe he'd ever seen. And what was that green gunk on her face?
She looked like a cross between a punk rock singer and a bag lady. This was his date? Lord help him. Southern gentleman or not, forget it, Grandma Maude! Assignment or not, to hell with you, Hank. There were a few things a man just shouldn't have to do.
Multi-published, award-winning author Rita Herron fell in love with books at the ripe age of eight when she read her first Trixie Belden mystery. She has sold over sixty novels, worked for several major publishers, and loves writing romantic comedies as well as spinning dark romantic suspense tales filled with murder and mayhem.
For more on Rita and her titles, visit her at
www.ritaherron.com
. You can also follow her on
www.facebook.com/rita.herron
and twitter
@ritaherron
.
Table of Contents
Excerpt from SINGLE AND SEARCHING by Rita Herron
