Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Samanthe Beck. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
10940 S Parker Rd
Suite 327
Parker, CO 80134
rights@entangledpublishing.com
Brazen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Heather Howland
Cover design by LJ Anderson/Mayhem Cover Creations
Cover photography by deagreez1/Deposit Photos
ISBN 978-1-64063-606-4
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition May 2021
For the fans of Bluelick, KY. Welcome back!
Chapter One
Hey, handsome, maybe next time you’ll let me fiddle with your nightstick?
The question, delivered with a smile and a wink, replayed in West Donovan’s mind as he steered his cruiser along Route 9. Thunderheads gathered above the treetops to the south, but the impending summer storm didn’t threaten his mood. Nonexistent traffic, a handful of miles, and a mere fifty minutes stood between him and end of shift.
An hour from now, he could be down at Rawley’s Pub enjoying a hot meal, a cold beer, and, if things went his way, a cocktail waitress with a little kink for cops. She’d been very friendly last Friday when he’d gone for happy hour with fellow officers of the newly established Bluelick PD.
As he’d settled his tab, she’d leaned in and whispered her not-so-innocent invitation. He suspected she’d called him handsome because she couldn’t remember his name. Not a problem. She might be bad with names, but he didn’t consider that a deal-breaker. He’d spent a notable portion of his adult life proving to all interested parties’ satisfaction that they didn’t need to be on a first-name basis to pass a few mutually entertaining hours together.
He glanced at the clock on the dash. He and Callie with a “C” could go at each other all night, and she could call him whatever she damn well pleased the entire time. His fingers tapped out a beat on the steering wheel as he contemplated the possibilities.
Thunder rumbled overhead. He rounded a curve just as the first fat raindrop splattered on his windshield, and the cruiser’s headlights caught a figure standing by the side of the road. It didn’t take law enforcement training to know everything about this particular figure spelled disaster—from the skimpy top sliding off slender shoulders, to the tiny skirt ending high on coltish legs. And the exclamation point on this living, breathing dress code violation? The extended arm with thumb cocked in the classic hitchhiker pose.
He slowed the car, and Hitchhiker Barbie broke into a hip-swaying happy dance, which got other portions of her anatomy bouncing.
He did not share her enthusiasm. Plans for a hot meal, cold beer, and obliging waitress slipped down a few notches on his timeline. He pulled onto the shoulder and killed the engine. Silently, he counted down the seconds until she realized she’d thumbed a ride from the po-po. Three…two…one.
The dance stopped so abruptly he almost laughed. Then she did the least logical yet most predictable thing possible. She picked up her stuff and took off in the opposite direction. Sort of. The weight of her bags prevented a quick getaway.
“Good call, genius,” he grumbled. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. Where the hell do you think you’re going?” He shoved his hat on and got out of the car. A cannon blast of thunder rent the sky. Seconds later, rain battered the pavement. The furious cadence drowned out his long-suffering sigh.
Catching her wouldn’t be a problem, but frankly, he was in no mood for a foot chase. He drew a breath and yelled, “Stop,” in the don’t-even-try-it tone he’d perfected over two years spent with the NYPD.
She skidded to a halt, dropped her things, and raised her hands cautiously to either side of her head—nice touch—before she slowly turned.
He closed in. Not fast, not slow, but at a deliberate pace intended to discourage her from succumbing to the flight instinct again. Maybe he looked a little too intimidating, because at about three feet out, she swayed.
Fuck. He moved quickly and managed to catch her before she hit the asphalt. Even as dead weight, there wasn’t much to her. When had she last eaten a decent meal?
His concern for her well-being escalated as he hefted her into his arms and her head rolled toward him. A pale cheek settled against his biceps at the same time a soft breast nestled against his chest then shifted slightly with each steady, unlabored breath she took. This imparted two important pieces of information. Normal respiration, which relieved a fractional measure of his initial concern, and, while young, she wasn’t a teen. Also a relief. No need to bring social services into the mix. He carried her to the cruiser and laid her boneless body across the backseat.
Her small build had fooled him into mistaking her for a minor. Also, her outfit practically begged for a week in detention. A decades old black-and-red Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers tour T-shirt someone had decided looked better as a tank top hung
