Her Sexiest Surprise. Dawn Atkins

was startled to see Chloe standing there, chewing her lip, wet hair plastered to her cheeks, holding a rain-peppered sack with purple flowers sticking out. What the hell? She’d brought him groceries? And flowers?

      Idle whined again. “You smelled her, huh? Like spring.” He grinned as he threw open the door.

      “I’m back,” she said with a shy smile. The wet-desert smell billowed in with her own scent, filling his head. They stood staring at each other, her eyes flitting here and there, his doing the same. Damn, she was pretty.

      And nervous, he noticed. Hmm.

      Idle squealed with delight.

      “Hello, buddy.” She leaned down to pat him with her free hand. “I brought breakfast,” she said, looking up at him.

      “You didn’t need to—”

      “I wanted to,” she said, then ducked her gaze. “The kitchen is this way?” She set off, not waiting for a reply.

      He followed and watched her put down the sack and take out the flowerpot. “Just for color,” she said, blushing pink, then hurried to empty the sack of eggs, glass containers with herbs and oil, a bottle of maple syrup, sliced ham, mushrooms and a waffle iron. “I figured you like a hearty breakfast, so I thought Belgian waffles with ham crisps. The batter’s ready. I just need twenty minutes to bake the crisps. That okay?”

      She was babbling to cover her tension.

      “I can wait.” He moved closer. Was she embarrassed about returning?

      “Good.” From the bottom of the sack, she lifted a white chef’s apron. When she looped it over her neck, her hands shook. Something was wrong.

      He tied her strings, then turned her to face him. “How come you’re all of a sudden my personal chef?”

      “I wanted to make up for leaving so fast.” But her face went pink and her eyes flicked up and left, signifying a fib. She reminded him of a suspect with something to hide or confess.

      “What’s wrong, Chloe?”

      “Wrong? Nothing’s wrong.” She blinked, flushed full red, and stepped away from his hands.

      “You’re red and trembling and you won’t look me in the eye. What’s up?”

      “Okay.” She sagged, sheepish. “I do need your advice.”

      “My advice? About what?”

      She studied him. “Maybe we should talk after breakfast.”

      Uh-oh. “Breakfast can wait. What advice do you need? And why me?”

      “I, um, noticed your photo. You’re a police officer, right?”

      “Detective,” he corrected, dreading what came next. Maybe she just needed a speeding ticket fixed. Not that he would do it, but he wanted it to be simple and small, something that wouldn’t make his sleeping with her an even worse idea than it already was.

      “That means you investigate crimes, right? That’s great.”

      Uh-oh. “Let’s sit down.” He led her to his couch and sat beside her. Noticing her goose bumps and damp hair, he wrapped the throw his squad mate’s wife had made for him around her shoulders.

      She didn’t seem to notice. She just looked at him, her big green eyes muddy with worry.

      “Exactly what crime are we talking about?”

      “Okay…” She took a deep breath and spoke in a rush. “Say someone got dragged into a robbery—just driving the car, with no knowledge of any theft—how much trouble would that person be in? And could they get out of it by talking to the police?”

      “You mean how would they be charged? That depends….” The familiar hum started in his brain as he got ready to sort lies from truth, meaningless details from crime-solving gold.

      “On what?”

      “Who’s involved, their prior arrests, the seriousness of the crime, what the D.A. wants. Just tell me what happened.”

      She stiffened at his tone. Too terse. He took her hands and softened his voice. “Just talk to me, Chloe. I can’t help you if I don’t know the whole story.”

      “Maybe I can go hypothetical? So it doesn’t get official?” Her lower lip quivered. He’d scared her and she didn’t trust him. Why would she? They’d been different people last night, both of them, lost in lust. This morning, he was a detective and she was either an informant, an accessory or, worse, a suspect.

      “If you want,” he said. “Give me the hypothetical.”

      “So, hypothetically, this person—it’s a man—he’s a driver for another man and this other man’s nephew asks the man to drive him somewhere. As a favor because he—my guy—owes the nephew. So my guy drives and the errand turns out to be a robbery—”

      “Was the victim present for the crime?”

      “No. It was a jewelry store after hours. Is that good?”

      “It’s better. That makes it burglary, not robbery. There are several classes with varying severity. Were weapons present?”

      “Weapons? I don’t know. My person didn’t have one. He just waited in the car to drive them back.”

      “That makes him—minimum—an accessory.”

      “Even unknowing and innocent? That sounds bad.”

      “Like I said, that depends. Go on.” There was obviously more to the story.

      “Okay…” Her voice was shakier now. “Now the bad nephew wants the driver to keep driving for similar jobs and my person is afraid to say no.” She stopped, her face full of fear. “Can you help me, Riley?” she said. “My person, I mean?”

      He couldn’t promise much. “Who is it, Chloe?” A relative, no doubt. Riley had seen it before. He’d sat down with parents whose son stole from neighbors to fund a meth habit, a single mom with a daughter turning tricks to buy designer clothes, a wife whose husband had embezzled from his job to cover gambling debts. They’d all seemed sad and bewildered and lost. It got to him every time. What had they done to deserve this? How could loved ones hurt each other so badly?

      “It’s my dad, Riley,” she said softly. “And the guy, the bad nephew, is Sal Minetti.”

      Enzo Sylvestri’s nephew. Adrenaline shot through Riley. “I see.” His mind raced, but he hid his reaction, needing as much information as he could gather first.

      “My dad’s a good guy. He tries. He was just doing a favor. He’s too generous. And Sal wants him to drive more and he’s afraid to say no. He can’t be arrested, can he?”

      “He could, yes, but if he comes clean, if he helps the case against the rest of the crew, sometimes the D.A. will deal.”

      “So if he talks to the police he’ll be okay?” Chloe lifted her big eyes to him like he was the Savior himself.

      “Like I said, it depends.” What could he tell her? The law was the law and he’d been around long enough to know that what a man confessed to was usually the first load of dirt he’d shoveled under the carpet. “Do you have a lawyer?”

      “Do we need one?”

      “There are public defenders, but they’re run pretty ragged. Not much time per case. Some are better than others….”

      “So, it’s serious? He’s in big trouble? You can’t make it go away?” Water gleamed in her eyes. She was about to cry? Shit.

      “Let me talk to my lieutenant. If they’re working on a case on Minetti, there might be wiggle room.” There would be interest, he knew. Hell, he was interested.

      “That would be great.