Read Online 18 Explosive Eighteen by Janet Evanovich - Free Book Online
Authors: Janet Evanovich
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get your car. What about you?
Is Lula rescuing you again?”
“No.”
Another moment of silence. “Am I?”
“Would you like to?” I asked him.
EIGHT
THE BLACK 911 PORSCHE TURBO eased to a stop in front of Buggy’s house, and I angled into the car. Ranger was wearing the Rangeman uniform of black T-shirt and black cargo pants. He was armed, as usual. And also as usual, there was the subtle, lingering, tantalizing hint of his Bulgari shower gel.
“As long as we’re together,” I said to him, “would you have time to get me into a locked house in Hamilton Township?”
“I have a four o’clock meeting. Until then, I’m al yours.”
I gave him the address and told him about Joyce.
Twenty minutes later, Ranger parked next to an electrician’s panel van in front of the Mercado Mews model home, and we walked a block and a half to Joyce’s town house. Best not to have your car sitting in front of a house you’re breaking into. We rang the bel and knocked on the front door. When no one answered, we circled to the back of the house, and Ranger stood hands on hips, looking at the bul et holes in the door to the privacy fence.
“It was locked,” I said to Ranger.
“So you shot it?”
“Actual y, Lula shot it.”
Ranger pushed it open, and we went into Joyce’s yard. I closed and locked the gate behind us, and Ranger tried the back door. Locked. He removed a slim case from one of the pockets in his cargo pants, selected a tool, opened the door, and Joyce’s security alarm went off. He pul ed me into the house and locked the door.
“Start working your way through the house while I watch for the police,” Ranger said. “You probably have ten to fifteen minutes.”
“Then what?”
“Then we hide and wait. There are no signs of forced entry into the house, so the police wil walk around, look in windows, test the doors, and leave, probably.”
I started in the kitchen, going through cupboards and drawers, snooping in the refrigerator, trying to ignore the alarm. I’d just finished the kitchen when Ranger signaled that the police were here. He pul ed me into a broom closet and closed the door.
It was pitch-black in the closet. The alarm timed out, and the house went silent.
“How wil we know when the police leave?” I asked Ranger.
“There was a Rangeman car in the area. I have them watching a couple blocks away, and they’l cal when the police leave.”
His arms were around me, holding me close against him. He was warm, and his breathing was even. Mine was more ragged.
“There’s something hard poking into me,” I said.
He shifted slightly. “It’s my gun.”
“Are you sure?”
“You could check it out.”
Tempting, but I didn’t want to encourage anything that might lead to nudity and compromising positions should the police decide to break into the house and open the door to the closet. Although, the longer I was pressed against him, the less I cared about the police.
Here’s the thing about Ranger. He leads a dangerous lifestyle. He’s scarred from past life choices, and he’s dealing with serious issues. I have no idea what those issues are, because Ranger holds them private. I suspect no one wil ever know what drives Ranger. What I know with certainty is that I’l never be more than a loving amusement for him.
He’l care for me as best he can, but I’l never be his priority. I’ve come to believe his priority is to repair his karma. And I respect that. It’s a noble priority.
Problem is, while he’s repairing his karma, I’m lusting after his body. Morel i is a wonderful lover.
He’s fun. He’s satisfying. He’s super sexy. Ranger is magic.
Ranger’s phone rang, giving the al clear. I moved to open the closet door, and he tightened his hold on me. His mouth skimmed along my neck. His hand slid under my shirt to my breast. And he kissed me.
“That’s not your gun, is it?” I asked him.
“No,” he said. “It’s not my gun.”
When I final y tumbled
Is Lula rescuing you again?”
“No.”
Another moment of silence. “Am I?”
“Would you like to?” I asked him.
EIGHT
THE BLACK 911 PORSCHE TURBO eased to a stop in front of Buggy’s house, and I angled into the car. Ranger was wearing the Rangeman uniform of black T-shirt and black cargo pants. He was armed, as usual. And also as usual, there was the subtle, lingering, tantalizing hint of his Bulgari shower gel.
“As long as we’re together,” I said to him, “would you have time to get me into a locked house in Hamilton Township?”
“I have a four o’clock meeting. Until then, I’m al yours.”
I gave him the address and told him about Joyce.
Twenty minutes later, Ranger parked next to an electrician’s panel van in front of the Mercado Mews model home, and we walked a block and a half to Joyce’s town house. Best not to have your car sitting in front of a house you’re breaking into. We rang the bel and knocked on the front door. When no one answered, we circled to the back of the house, and Ranger stood hands on hips, looking at the bul et holes in the door to the privacy fence.
“It was locked,” I said to Ranger.
“So you shot it?”
“Actual y, Lula shot it.”
Ranger pushed it open, and we went into Joyce’s yard. I closed and locked the gate behind us, and Ranger tried the back door. Locked. He removed a slim case from one of the pockets in his cargo pants, selected a tool, opened the door, and Joyce’s security alarm went off. He pul ed me into the house and locked the door.
“Start working your way through the house while I watch for the police,” Ranger said. “You probably have ten to fifteen minutes.”
“Then what?”
“Then we hide and wait. There are no signs of forced entry into the house, so the police wil walk around, look in windows, test the doors, and leave, probably.”
I started in the kitchen, going through cupboards and drawers, snooping in the refrigerator, trying to ignore the alarm. I’d just finished the kitchen when Ranger signaled that the police were here. He pul ed me into a broom closet and closed the door.
It was pitch-black in the closet. The alarm timed out, and the house went silent.
“How wil we know when the police leave?” I asked Ranger.
“There was a Rangeman car in the area. I have them watching a couple blocks away, and they’l cal when the police leave.”
His arms were around me, holding me close against him. He was warm, and his breathing was even. Mine was more ragged.
“There’s something hard poking into me,” I said.
He shifted slightly. “It’s my gun.”
“Are you sure?”
“You could check it out.”
Tempting, but I didn’t want to encourage anything that might lead to nudity and compromising positions should the police decide to break into the house and open the door to the closet. Although, the longer I was pressed against him, the less I cared about the police.
Here’s the thing about Ranger. He leads a dangerous lifestyle. He’s scarred from past life choices, and he’s dealing with serious issues. I have no idea what those issues are, because Ranger holds them private. I suspect no one wil ever know what drives Ranger. What I know with certainty is that I’l never be more than a loving amusement for him.
He’l care for me as best he can, but I’l never be his priority. I’ve come to believe his priority is to repair his karma. And I respect that. It’s a noble priority.
Problem is, while he’s repairing his karma, I’m lusting after his body. Morel i is a wonderful lover.
He’s fun. He’s satisfying. He’s super sexy. Ranger is magic.
Ranger’s phone rang, giving the al clear. I moved to open the closet door, and he tightened his hold on me. His mouth skimmed along my neck. His hand slid under my shirt to my breast. And he kissed me.
“That’s not your gun, is it?” I asked him.
“No,” he said. “It’s not my gun.”
When I final y tumbled
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