Page 6 of Maddest Temptation
“Are you crazy!” he shouted hysterically.
“What is going on here?”
“This woman came out of nowhere, officer, the light was green, and she simply walked into the street.”
“Is this right, miss?” I turned slowly.
Officer? Officer!
Like a bucket of cold water, I stared at the man in blue standing beside me closer than he should have. He kept on approaching until he stopped inches from my face. I was not in the right frame of mind to have a conversation with a man of the law. Not now and not ever.
Instinct kicked in, and I bolted. To be fair, I blamed it on the heels, and the fact that the last time I ran, I was probably a six-year-old. I didn’t make it that far; in fact, I didn’t even make it to the corner of the street–which was inches away. Arms wrapped around me, pulling me back, and I hit the officer’s chest, hard. Like a cornered animal, I fought him knowing that if he managed to question me, he would realize I’d broken dozens of laws.
Paolo made it a rule, I could do whatever I damned well pleased as long as I kept away from the police. He would look the other way as long as I didn’t call attention to myself—as long as I didn’t get in trouble.
That rule echoed in my head as I kicked the officer and tried to run away again. It was probably the stupidest thing I’d ever done in my life. It was obvious he was larger and stronger than me. The fight was over before it even began. He restrained and cuffed me in seconds. When he shoved me inside the police car, I heard his partner laughing.
“We got ourselves a spitfire over there.”
“She fucking kicked me,” the officer who’d grabbed me complained. “My shin is bleeding.”
I tried to position myself better in the car, my hands and arms were starting to ache, a hundred tiny needles prickled my skin. It was uncomfortable as hell. The car smelled of sweat and leather, but something else caused my stomach to spin. It was strong and pungent. My head spun as they drove me away.
The cool air in the precinct hit my blazing skin, and I breathed in greedily. I stumbled on my heels as the officer who’d grabbed me—the one I apparently hurt—led me toward the front desk. His words barely registered in my mind as he spoke. My head was spinning so fast it felt like a carousel.
Spinning and spinning and spinning.
“You know there is no need for handcuffs, right?”
The officer glanced at me but kept on walking as he escorted me toward the cell. His meaty hand still wrapped around my arm.
“I won’t take my chances with you,” he grumbled; apparently, he was still pissed that I hurt him. What a crybaby.
“It was a mistake,” I agreed. “I shouldn’t have run; I know that now.”
He chuckled dryly. “Darling, that is the least of your problems.” He offered with a smile. “You should be more concerned about the charges I’m pressing and the amount of coke you had on you.”
“It was one kick,” I complained.
He shrugged. “Should have thought that through.” Jesus, what an asshole. I was sure I barely nicked him. There was no need for pressing charges, he knew it, I knew it.
When we stopped at the cell, his eyes lingered over my body, more specifically at the swell of my breasts. God hadn’t given me the ability to make sane decisions, but he had given me a pair of breasts and an ass to match. Apparently, he thought that was more important than my self-preservation.
Thanks, God.
Done with his leering, he unlocked the cell door and pushed me inside. He asked for my hands and remove my cuffs. I rubbed my wrists trying to get the blood flow back to them, and as I did so, I inspected the place.
My eyes landed on a woman who shared the cell with me. She looked my age, somewhere around her mid-twenties. Foundation—two shades darker than her skin tone—caked her face and dark mascara ran down her cheeks. She might have been pretty, but the makeup and the jaded look in her eyes robbed her of that. The fishnet pantyhose she wore was ripped at the knees, and one of her black heels was broken.
“Kimberly.” My cellmate greeted me like we were sitting down for coffee instead of being locked in a jail cell.
“Frankie,” I offered back, surprised by how relaxed and bored my voice sounded.
“I like your shoes,” Kimberly said as she sat up straighter against the wall.
“Thanks,” I smiled lightly. “They are Jimmy Choo’s.” I stared at the ground, or better yet at my lovely sparkly pumps.
It had been one of the many gifts I’d received from my late husband. A bribe. A way to apologize for bringing yet another mistress into our home. Paolo couldn’t help himself, and eventually, I grew complacent—which was my fault. I let him shower me with gifts, and sadly, I even grew to enjoy them.