Catch Her If You Can Page 5

  I extended an arm straight up and waggled my fingers in farewell to the guys. Then I hit the gas. The stars must have aligned just right because not a single flashing red light appeared in my rearview mirror as I cruised along. Soon, very soon, I made out the purple smudge of the Franklin Mountains just west of El Paso. Some moments later the city itself appeared in the distance. Downtown rose from the flatlands cut by the Rio Grande like steel-and-glass fingers reaching for the sky.

  Since I’m not into cooking if there’s a restaurant or fast-food joint within striking distance, I called my favorite Chinese place for a to-go order of dim sum, pork fried rice, and an extra crispy spring roll. I picked up the order and was sniffing the delicious scents emanating from the bag when I pulled into the entrance to my apartment complex. The place is typical Southwest, with lots of tile and adobe. Since it’s close to Fort Bliss, it’s also very military friendly. That makes for some lively Friday and Saturday nights around the pool.

  As I toted my gear bag and dinner along the walkway to my apartment, I could see happy hour had already kicked off. Several couples were engaged in an energetic game of water volleyball. Others sprawled on loungers with plastic cups in hand. A portable iPod player belted out a golden oldie by Johnny Cash. I was humming along with the Man in Black and hoping to make it to my front door unnoticed when the wife of one of the instructors at Fort Bliss spotted me.

  “Hey, Samantha!”

  “Hi, Janie.”

  “We saw you on TV.” She hooked an arm, waving me over. “Come tell us about this hit man you got crosswise with.”

  “Forget the hit man,” her husband countered. “I want to hear about the reward.”

  I weighed the invitation against my half-formed plans for the evening. They included dinner in front of the TV while I did a week’s worth of laundry and sorted through the junk mail that had piled up. A leisurely shower during which I would shampoo my hair and shave my legs in anticipation of Mitch’s visit early tomorrow morning. A blissful night of sleep uninterrupted by Pen’s snorts and snuffles.

  As opposed to a sparkling pool and a friendly crowd.

  No contest!

  “I’ll dump my stuff and change into my suit,” I called back. “Pour me a cold one.”

  “You got it.”

  The dim sum and fried rice went into the fridge. My dusty boots and ABUs hit the bedroom floor. The clip still clinging haphazardly to my wind-whipped hair got tossed aside. I felt almost human again in my flip-flops and skimpy two-piece, with an old UNLV T-shirt as a cover up.

  Several long, thirsty swallows of ice-cold Coors completed the transformation. Everyone poolside wanted the gory details. Not just about Duarte and his trophies. As I mentioned previously, drug wars and violence are pandemic along the border. The reward and Snoopy generated a good deal more interest among this mostly military crowd.

  Discussion soon progressed from the robots’s fuel consumption to possible battlefield applications. I was both relieved and pleased to have the crowd validate my gut instinct about Snoop’s potential. Now all I had to do was demonstrate it, I reminded myself when I left the gang at the pool some hours later and flip-flopped back to may apartment.

  That’s when I spotted a figure dressed in dark clothes trying to jimmy open the sliding glass door to my patio. I stopped dead, gaping in surprise, then gave an indignant yelp.

  “Hey! What the heck do you think . . . ?”

  That’s all I got out before he whirled and my stomach dropped like the proverbial stone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “CHARLIE?”

  “Hi, babe.”

  My former, unlamented husband gave me an all-too-familiar grin. Half cocky, half pure sex. The curly black hair, laughing blue eyes, and broad chest that went with it weren’t too shabby, either.

  Charlie Spade still had one smokin’ hot bod. All I needed was a single glance at his thigh-hugging jeans and the T-shirt stretched across the aforementioned chest to see he’d kept in shape since our quickie marriage and divorce.

  Those wide shoulders and cheeky grin didn’t do it for me anymore, though. I’d built up immunity to both even before I caught him with our over-endowed neighbor.

  “When did you get into breaking and entering?” I demanded, hands on hips.

  “I wasn’t trying to get in. Just look in.”

  “Could’ve fooled me!”

  “I rang the doorbell, Sam. You didn’t answer, but the lights were on. I thought maybe you looked through the peephole, saw it was me, and went into hiding.”

  “Why would I hide from you?”

  Dumb question, I realized as soon as the words were out. There was only one reason he would show up on my doorstep unannounced.

  “You heard about the reward, didn’t you?”

  “Brenda did.”

  Brenda being our slutty ex-neighbor and Charlie’s current wife.

  “She saw your picture on TV. She said the photo made you look sort of bloated but . . .”

  “She’s one to talk!”

  He skimmed a glance down my bikini-clad length. “But it looks to me like you’ve shed a few pounds.”

  Guess that’s what chasing robots and other outlandish inventions in the desert heat will do for you. I appreciated the compliment but not the complimenter.

  “If you made the trip from Vegas hoping for a cut of that reward, you can jump in whatever you’re driving these days and head right back.”

  “The thing is, Sam, I’m in kind of a jam.”

  “Not my problem.” I waved good-bye and breezed toward the door. “Adios, Carlos.”

  “Geez, Samantha.” He dogged my heels. “We haven’t seen each other in more than two years. Least you could do is invite me in for coffee or a beer or something.”

  I rolled my eyes. That’s Charlie Spade in a nutshell. Completely oblivious to the fact that the last time we were together in the same room he came perilously close to being gelded.

  “Com’on, babe.” While I keyed the door, he rubbed the back of his neck and let a little boy whine sneak into his voice. “It’s a long stretch from Vegas to El Paso. One cup of coffee. That’s all I’m asking for before you send me on my way.”

  “The 7-Eleven on the corner is open all night. You can get a cup there.”

  I closed the door in his face, or tried to. His foot wedged in the crack.

  “Please, Sam.” The whine evaporated, replaced by a desperate note. “I’m in over my head. You gotta help me climb out.”

  I didn’t have to help him climb anywhere. I had a divorce decree to prove it. I started to remind him of our non-joined status when his expression stopped me cold. No question about it. The man was scared.

  My conscience doesn’t ping very often, but Charlie and I had exchanged bodily fluids two or three times a day during our first, heady weeks together. I couldn’t turn the man away without at least letting him cry on my shoulder for a few minutes.

  “Okay,” I conceded with something less than graciousness. “One cup of coffee, then you hit the road.”

  I almost changed my mind once we were inside the apartment and he looked around, smirking.

  “I see you’re still not real big on dusting.”

  I could have informed him that I just returned from a week in the desert and hadn’t had time to unpack, much less stir the accumulated dust. I would have been wasting my breath. As my former husband knows very well, comfortable and cluttered is a whole lot more my style than neat and tidy.

  Which is why officer training school darn near killed me, by the way. Not the aerobics or the marching drills or all the classes on military history and strategy. Those I whizzed through. What almost did me in were the idiotic room inspections. Beds had to be made so tight you could bounce a quarter off the blanket. Shoes had to be precisely aligned. Bras had to be cupped, panties folded into two-inch squares, slips and camisoles . . .

  Well, you get the picture. Not being the cupping or quarter-bouncing type, I conducted a special c
elebration when I finally pinned on my lieutenant’s bars. Academy grads toss their hats in the air at graduation. I tossed my bras and panties.

  They still get tossed. Onto chairs or floors or door handles. It’s my way of expressing the non-military side of my personality. The tossing extends to other objects as well but I won’t bore you with a detailed description of the items littering my apartment. Suffice it to say I’m very content in my surroundings.

  “The coffeemaker’s on the kitchen counter,” I informed my ex. “The coffee’s in the cupboard right above it. Why don’t you get a pot perking while I change out of this bathing suit?”

  “Hey, don’t change on my account.”

  His eyes did the skimming thing again. Mine did another roll.

  “Put the coffee on, Spade.”

  I went in the bedroom and shimmied out of the wet suit. The air conditioner was raising goose bumps all over, so I slipped into briefs, drawstring sweatpants that rode loose on my hips, and a red tank with a sequined Eiffel Tower—symbol of the Vegas casino where I used to work, not the French icon.

  Charlie was sitting at the kitchen counter when I returned. He was playing with a stick of the Wrigley’s Big Red gum he always has on him since he quit smoking. The uncharacteristic droop to his shoulders stirred a grudging sympathy.

  “So what’s the story?” I asked as I rounded the counter to retrieve two mugs from the cabinet. “What kind of hole did you dig yourself into?”

  “I borrowed some money.” He peeled back the foil paper, folded the gum, and popped it in. “The guy who loaned it to me wants it back. With interest.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifteen thousand.”

  “Fifteen thousand!”

  “Yeah,” he said miserably. “I know.”

  I’d never seen him play anything steeper than the quarter slots during our brief marriage, but Vegas has a way of sneaking up on you.

  “Gambling debts?”

  “Doctor bills.”

  “But I thought . . .”

  He has a good job, or did. With full medical coverage.

  “Aren’t you still working for Anderson Construction?”

  “Yeah, but their insurance doesn’t cover cosmetic surgery.”

  I stepped back, blinking in surprise, and conducted a quick head-to-toe.

  “I probably shouldn’t ask, but inquiring minds want to know. What did you have altered?”

  “Not me. Brenda. Her back was hurting her something awful ’cause of all that weight she carried up front, so her doc recommended a breast reduction.”

  I couldn’t contain myself. I didn’t even try. This was too, too delicious. Planting my hands on the counter, I let loose with loud, raucous whoops.

  “I know.” Charlie popped his Big Red and gave me a sheepish smile. “Kind of ironic, isn’t it.”

  “Kind of?”

  I hooted for several more moments before sobering up enough for a thought to occur. You can’t live and work in Vegas without becoming friends with at least one topless performer. I’d bummed around with several. Thus I knew breast surgery usually ran closer to five thousand than fifteen. When I mentioned as much to my ex, he nodded.

  “Yeah, I know. But Brenda figured as long as she was going under the knife, she might as well get a tummy tuck and butt lift, too.” His grin slipped out, cocky as ever. “I gotta tell you, Sam, the woman looks good. Really good.”

  “Just what an ex-wife wants to hear about the woman who got it on with her husband,” I drawled.

  Like Dr. Penelope England, Charles William Spade is immune to sarcasm. That’s one of the traits I like best in both of them, dammit.

  I didn’t want to feel sorry for the dope. And God knows, I would have cheerfully consigned Brenda Baby to an eternity of backaches and sagging butt cheeks. Yet pity tugged at me when my former husband’s grin faded and he stretched a hand across the counter to cover one of mine.

  “Help me get the loan sharks off my back, Sam. Please.”

  “I wish I could, Charlie. Honestly. But this reward . . . I wasn’t the one who took down number two on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. I may not be able to claim any of the reward money.”

  “The news reports said you could.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s an added complication. I was on duty at the time of the shooting. The military has all these rules about gratuities and gifts and such. A reward could fall into the same category.”

  “The shooting happened, like, three days ago. You haven’t checked out these rules?”

  “I was too busy checking out penalties for war crimes.”

  “Huh?”

  I was in no mood to try and explain Snoopy’s flesh-eating tendencies.

  “Never mind. Look . . .” I hesitated, knowing I would kick myself for this in the morning. “If anything breaks on the reward, I’ll do what I can to help you, okay?”

  “Thanks, babe.”

  “You’re welcome.” I filled the two mugs and shoved one at him. “Now drink your coffee and hit the road.”

  He cradled the mug in both hands to blow away the steam. He had strong hands, I acknowledged reluctantly. Big and tanned, with blunt-tipped fingers and trimmed nails. He knew how to use them, too. We’d had some wild times in those first days and weeks and months. I remember once when we . . .

  “. . . on the couch?”

  I jerked my gaze from his hands to his face. Heat crawled up my neck. Were my thoughts that obvious?

  “What?”

  “It’s too late to hit the road. How about I spend what’s left of the night on your couch? I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

  “No.”

  “Why not? What’s the big deal?”

  “Think a moment. How would you explain spending the night with your ex-wife to your current wife?”

  “Geez, Sam. It’s not like you and I are gonna jump into bed with each other.”

  “You got that right. Now finish your coffee and leave. I have plans for tomorrow morning that don’t include you.”

  “We’re just talking a few hours here.”

  “You are not spending the night, Charlie.”

  His blue eyes lost their spark. Shoulders slumping, he nodded. “All right.”

  Okay, okay! I know what you’re thinking. I’m a spineless wimp. That’s what I was thinking, too, as I stalked to the closet, retrieved a pillow and blanket, and threw them onto the sofa.

  I went to bed too tired to shave my legs or shower off the chlorine from the pool. I sincerely regretted both omissions when I woke the next morning to the scent of yet another pot of coffee and the murmur of male voices.

  Grimacing, I glanced at the digital clock beside my bed. Six twenty. Terrific! The one morning Mitch had to get off patrol early. Before I’d had time to send Charlie on his way or spiff myself up for a reunion.

  I pulled on the tank and sweats I’d discarded last night and padded to the bathroom. The image that greeted me in the mirror produced a groan. But there wasn’t much I could do about it at this point except splash water on my face, scrape the fuzz off my teeth, and drag a comb through my chlorinated hair.

  I’m not a morning person to begin with, and the sight of my former husband and current lover sitting across from each other at my kitchen counter, shooting the breeze, didn’t do much to brighten my day.

  “Good morning,” I mumbled, not real sure of the protocol for occasions like this.

  “Hey, babe.”

  That came from Charlie. Mitch’s greeting included a smile and the crinkly thing at the corners of his eyes I liked so much.

  “ ’Morning, Samantha.”

  “I see you two have met.”

  Nodding, Mitch rose to pour me some coffee. He was in his Border Patrol greenies but had shed his utility belt. It was draped it on the back of his stool, along with his floppy brimmed boonie hat. I could see the effects of his long night in his face. Dark gold bristles were sprouting on his cheeks and chin. The squint lines framing his ha
zel eyes cut deeper than usual.

  The first time I’d met Border Patrol Agent Jeff Mitchell, he’d reminded me a little of Charlie. Same approximate height, same broad shoulders, same ropy muscles. The resemblance didn’t score him any brownie points at the time.

  Only after I got to know him did I learn to appreciate the difference between a grown man and an overgrown adolescent. Mitch possesses an inbred sense of duty and a strength of character my ex has yet to develop.’Course, he’s almost ten years older and a century more experienced than Charlie. Maybe there’s hope for Spade yet.

  “You look tired,” I observed as Mitch handed me a mug.

  “I am.”

  The kiss he dropped on my mouth said just the opposite, however. I felt the sizzle all the way down to my bare toes and couldn’t wait to send Charlie on his way. Easier to think than do, I soon learned.

  “Your husband’s been telling me about his problems,” Mitch commented, hooking a hip on his bar stool while I propped my elbows on the countertop and cradled my coffee in both hands.

  “Ex-husband.”

  I experienced an odd twinge as I stressed the point. Mitch is divorced, too. For almost four years now. Yet on the rare occasions he mentions his former spouse, he generally omits the prefix.

  “I told Charlie I might be able to help him.”

  “You’ve got a spare fifteen thousand lying around?”

  I wouldn’t be surprised if he did. Mitch works long hours and lives a pretty Spartan existence when not on duty. I’ve been trying to domesticate him. Even got him to spring for a leather sofa a few months back. We needed one big enough for us both to get horizontal. The rest of his place is still pretty bare, though.

  “Mitch knows someone in Vegas,” Charlie volunteered. “He says this guy might be able to ease some of the pressure on me.”

  I’d lived and worked in Vegas. I knew darn well that cold, hard cash was the only way to ease the kind of pressure he was talking about.

  “Right,” I drawled. “And I’ve got this beachfront lot in Florida I’ll sell you cheap.”

  Charlie wouldn’t quite meet my eyes. Not a good sign, I knew, but I didn’t say anything more until he finally departed. When the door closed behind him, I turned to Mitch.