Page 35 of Shane
Didn’t matter if he knew her well or not. Shane liked her inside his comfort zone. He shifted his feet, strengthening his stance to better hold her. As sharp as she was, she wouldn’t stand like this for long. Certainly not once she felt what was going on beneath his zipper.
“You can trust me. I’m good,” he answered.Good at holding you.
Everlee didn’t step away. Didn’t ease back or move her fingers from his head. Didn’t act the least bit annoyed that he might be taking advantage of the situation. Which he was. He thought that twinkle in her eye meant she’d wised up. Instead, she leaned her head into him with a sigh. Which put her cheek against his chest, the top of her head under his chin, and her hair in his nose. He inhaled a bellyful, thankful for this small reprieve of—what was that delightful scent? Smoked coconut and ash? Yeah, he’d stand here all day and night if it meant breathing her in.
Her hands shifted to his shoulders, her thumbs stuck in the hollows above his collarbones, her fingertips fluttering like gentle butterfly wings over his shirt. “I thought I got you killed. I’m so sorry, Shane.”
“Not hardly.” His voice was husky for some reason. Must be the smoke. But there was no way Shane could ignore the feminine body snuggling against him. He circled her tighter inside his arms and let himself enjoy the moment. Because that was all this was—a moment, not a lifetime. An event that wouldn’t last nearly long enough, nothing to take too seriously. Nothing to misinterpret. There would be no kiss, no magic moment where time stopped. Everlee was only making an emotional scene because she was as shook up as he was and because she was tracking a suspect. The damned hard truth, but still—the truth.
Even as he luxuriated in the warmth of her body against his, Shane kept his eyes open. The place was crawling with emergency responders, every one of them busy, but most obviously bigger, wider males. The EMTs who’d helped him were now standing over the charred remains the firemen had pulled from the house. A van marked CSI had arrived on scene and was parked between two firetrucks. That added three more people to the scene, all males. DFW’s Medical Examiner was right then backing into Bremmer’s driveway. That added two more uniformed professionals, one a tall and fit Black woman, the other a skinny white guy in round Harry Potter glasses, both in light gray uniforms. But no sight of Tuesday Bremmer.
Shane let his gaze scroll over the scene, dismissing first responders one by one. He was a trained spotter. This was what he did. He would find Bremmer.
Oddly content in the middle of the mayhem, he let his nose drop deeper into Everlee’s sweaty hair. His nostrils flared at the sweet scent of shampoo against her scalp. Even mingled with the sting of ash and smoke, it was still the distraction he needed. Was she feeling the same peaceful sensation? Shane wondered as he held Everlee while he parsed and quartered the scenes around them.
Yellow police tape fluttered from temporary orange barricades set along the opposite curb. Several officers patrolled the perimeter of the quiet crowd, talking to some, nodding to others. Again, those officers were males. The neighbors looked concerned, and Shane wanted to think that concern was for their new neighbor. That someone standing here gawking tonight was actually worried about Tuesday Bremmer, not just their property.
One of the local news channels had a reporter on site, but she’d been sequestered far from the fire with the civilians on the opposite curb. Even now, she was going from one of Bremmer’s neighbors to another, sticking her mic in their faces and asking questions. Cocking her head. Actually listening.
Interesting.
Shane stiffened at what he was seeing. There was no accompanying cameraman trailing her. For that matter, there was no support team anywhere in sight. He hadn’t seen any news vans. He’d only assumed there had to be at least one, which most people would assume when they saw someone who looked like a reporter with a mic. But if a real reporter was here, she wouldn’t be across the street talking with spectators, would she? No, she’d be puffed up with self-righteous ego, demanding to speak with someone in command, the fire marshal maybe. She’d be loud and rude and throwing around her First Amendment rights to free speech and to print sensationalism—or lies—which seemed to be what the press did best these days.
If that reporter actually was Bremmer, she was damned nervy—and smart. Despite the hour and the hubbub, she’d partially hidden her face behind extra-large sunglasses that hid her eyes and most of her cheeks. Her long, brown hair, streaked with chunky blonde streaks and parted down the center, fell casually over her shoulders. She acted perky and interested, friendly, like the typical girl next door, not stressed or worried. Dressed in a dark-pink trench coat that looked more brown than pink beneath the flashing lights, and matching heels that put her at nearly six feet tall, she smiled generously at her neighbors like they were best friends. At least, they should’ve been. Maybe one or two were friends, but there was something off about the reporter.
A pain tweaked Shane’s heart at the very real possibility that Bremmer was like him, acting as if she were fine, while in reality, she had no one in her life who really cared, no one to go home to. That she’d been fighting the world alone, without anyone at her six since her parents died. He’d been like that after he’d lost his mom. He knew how grief and tragedy made a person act rashly, without thinking of themselves or the repercussions of the rash choices they made. That rule about holding off on making major decisions until a year after a death or a major life event was damned straight advice. Should’ve been a law, not just a good idea.
The hem of her trench coat fell below her knees. The belt was undone. The flapping sides of the coat covered a plain white t-shirt and a good portion of stone-washed jeans, the kind with those trendy horizontal slashes everyone was wearing these days. If that was Ms. Bremmer, she sure had a lot of guts to fake interviews while her home crackled and burned behind her. While someone else died in her home. Unless that person had already been dead. Guess there was always another possibility. But the dead body certainly fit her MO. Even if whoever that person was had already been dead, it was a damned solid plan. Plant a body. Watch it burn. Then waltz away and create another identity. Anyone who watched crime shows on TV knew it’d take months, maybe years, for the forensic evidence from a fire to be processed, longer for DNA. If there were any. By then, Bremmer’d be Mrs. Somebody Else and on her way to another insurance scam.
“Got her,” he told Everlee with a certainty born of a man who knew damned well what he was seeing.
Sure enough, Everlee looked across the street despite her telling him not to. “Where?”
“On the curb. Your two o’clock. The reporter in the pinkish, brownish trench coat. See her? Over there by that mother and her two kids. Reporter but no cameraman. Want to bet she’s our target?” Shane set Everlee away from him, turned, and took his first step toward Bremmer.
“Let’s find out,” Everlee replied evenly. If she’d felt anything during their close encounter, she wasn’t feeling it now. “I’ll go long, big guy. You go short. Don’t let her see you coming.”
“Copy that,” he said as he walked toward the woman he absolutely knew was Ms. Tuesday Bremmer. He could feel it. Take away those outlandish heels, which were a damned good disguise all by themselves, and that long trench coat, and he guesstimated her height at five seven, her weight a hundred or so pounds. Just like her file said.
To maintain a casual meander that wouldn’t attract Bremmer’s attention, Shane paused at the rear gate of the ambulance and made it look as if he were looking inside for someone. What he really wanted were his pistols back. But the medics had taken them the moment they’d arrived and handed them off to the police. Who knew where they were now? He sidestepped a couple fire hoses on his way across the street, keeping his head down but his eyes on his target.
Someone’s little girl squealed, “Mommy, look at that funny man!”
My God, people had actually brought their children to watch their neighbor’s house burn. And they were catching what was essentially another person’s worst nightmare on their cell phones like it was nothing but a circus event.
To disguise his disgust at this new generation of entitled voyeurs, Shane made a silly bow at the little girl, which allowed him to track Bremmer as well as Everlee. She’d taken the long way up the block, and was right then on the opposite sidewalk, walking straight for the lying reporter.
“You’re funny!” the little girl yelled.
“Wait until you see my next trick, little lady,” Shane jokingly replied.
That brought the phony reporter’s head around. Shane looked her in the eye, at least into her glasses, and knew—he just knew—he was looking at Tuesday Bremmer.
She knew it, too. Bremmer dropped her fake mic, kicked out of her mile-high heels, and ran like the wind—straight into Everlee. Shane took off after her, dodging spectators and neighbors. By the time he caught up, Everlee had Bremmer face down on someone’s freshly mown lawn. Her knee was in Bremmer’s back while searching her for weapons.
“Good take down,” Shane said.
Everlee looked up at him, breathing hard, her eyes bright and shining. “Yeah, not bad if I do say so myself. Thanks to you, she never saw me coming.”