much. Behind her, the second shutter slid down. Sam moved on.
“Plus expenses.”
“Expenses?” She spun away from the house to face the man who was fast losing his neighborly appeal. “What expenses?”
“All right. Five hundred an’ we’ll eat the extra costs if there are any.”
She could move into a first-class hotel for that price. “Stop!” she called.
Dick cupped a hand to one ear as though he had suddenly gone deaf. She motioned to Sam who paid no attention and kept right on working. Another shutter slid from a window.
Stephanie stomped the ground, frustration mounting when her foot sank soundlessly into the spongy grass. She shouted loud enough to make herself heard above the noisy drill.
“I said stop! I am not paying you a dime. Get off my property, and do it now.” Even as she issued the order, she wondered what she would do if the two men refused.
What would they do? She didn’t think she wanted to know the answer and, thanks to the green-and-white cruiser that pulled to the curb behind good ol’ boy Dick’s truck, she wouldn’t have to find out. Her very own cavalry had arrived wearing the uniform of the Cocoa Beach police. Despite the hat pulled low and eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, she recognized Brett Lincoln’s tall frame and muscular chest.
Her breath caught. Adonis had never looked so good.
B RETT KEYED his mike.
“Dispatch, this is Lincoln requesting a 10-28 on a Ford pickup bearing Tennessee license plate XAP 195.”
After a pause, Doris responded. “Tennessee license plate XAP 195 registered to a 2001 Ford Ranger. Red. Owned by R. J. Johnson. No wants, no warrants.”
Which only meant R. J. Johnson had not been arrested in the Sunshine State. Brett sniffed the air. Beneath the salty tang of the ocean, he smelled trouble.
“Doris, I’ll be at the Henson place for a bit.”
“Roger that.”
No banter. No playful flirting. He missed it but Doris, like the rest of the police force, was feeling the strain of thirty-six stormy hours.
He had managed one brief, uncomfortable nap on a folding cot. With no pillow or blanket, the only way he had slept at all was by imagining Stephanie Bryant ensconcedin the storm shelter and wrapped in the cocoon of his sleeping bag. Now she was back. How she had gotten through the roadblock and onto the beach he did not know, but he had heard Dispatch verify her street address…before the roads were safe or the power lines up on their poles. He had been fighting the urge to swing past ever since.
From the look of things, he had given in just in time.
Brett’s blood chilled when the brunette stomped her foot and argued with two men he did not recognize. Emerging from the cruiser, he caught her eye and gave his head a slight shake.
She was a smart one, that Stephanie Bryant. She did not betray his presence while a drill whined loud enough to cover his nearly silent approach. He didn’t speak until his hand rested on his nightstick and he stood directly behind the apparent leader. Only then did he let his voice carry.
“Good afternoon.”
The whine died instantly as Brett’s thoughts flashed to tomorrow’s prospective headlines—Cocoa Beach Officer Killed By Electric Screwdriver. “Not today,” he breathed. He motioned said screwdriver to the ground.
“Miss Bryant. Gentlemen. How is everyone?” He asked the question without letting his eyes drift from the leader who spun to face him as soon as the man realized they had company. Brett had jotted down height and weight estimates before he left the car. Now he noted the three-day beards, rumpled clothes and sturdy athletic shoes. Thug Number One wore his sandy blond hair in a fashionable cut that hung over his blue eyes. Number Two had a shaved head. Brown eyes. No visible tattoos. The men looked like any two of a thousand returning homeowners. “Shutters giving you trouble?”
“A bit.” Stephanie gestured. “I was trying to remove the storm shutters when these
“Plus expenses.”
“Expenses?” She spun away from the house to face the man who was fast losing his neighborly appeal. “What expenses?”
“All right. Five hundred an’ we’ll eat the extra costs if there are any.”
She could move into a first-class hotel for that price. “Stop!” she called.
Dick cupped a hand to one ear as though he had suddenly gone deaf. She motioned to Sam who paid no attention and kept right on working. Another shutter slid from a window.
Stephanie stomped the ground, frustration mounting when her foot sank soundlessly into the spongy grass. She shouted loud enough to make herself heard above the noisy drill.
“I said stop! I am not paying you a dime. Get off my property, and do it now.” Even as she issued the order, she wondered what she would do if the two men refused.
What would they do? She didn’t think she wanted to know the answer and, thanks to the green-and-white cruiser that pulled to the curb behind good ol’ boy Dick’s truck, she wouldn’t have to find out. Her very own cavalry had arrived wearing the uniform of the Cocoa Beach police. Despite the hat pulled low and eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, she recognized Brett Lincoln’s tall frame and muscular chest.
Her breath caught. Adonis had never looked so good.
B RETT KEYED his mike.
“Dispatch, this is Lincoln requesting a 10-28 on a Ford pickup bearing Tennessee license plate XAP 195.”
After a pause, Doris responded. “Tennessee license plate XAP 195 registered to a 2001 Ford Ranger. Red. Owned by R. J. Johnson. No wants, no warrants.”
Which only meant R. J. Johnson had not been arrested in the Sunshine State. Brett sniffed the air. Beneath the salty tang of the ocean, he smelled trouble.
“Doris, I’ll be at the Henson place for a bit.”
“Roger that.”
No banter. No playful flirting. He missed it but Doris, like the rest of the police force, was feeling the strain of thirty-six stormy hours.
He had managed one brief, uncomfortable nap on a folding cot. With no pillow or blanket, the only way he had slept at all was by imagining Stephanie Bryant ensconcedin the storm shelter and wrapped in the cocoon of his sleeping bag. Now she was back. How she had gotten through the roadblock and onto the beach he did not know, but he had heard Dispatch verify her street address…before the roads were safe or the power lines up on their poles. He had been fighting the urge to swing past ever since.
From the look of things, he had given in just in time.
Brett’s blood chilled when the brunette stomped her foot and argued with two men he did not recognize. Emerging from the cruiser, he caught her eye and gave his head a slight shake.
She was a smart one, that Stephanie Bryant. She did not betray his presence while a drill whined loud enough to cover his nearly silent approach. He didn’t speak until his hand rested on his nightstick and he stood directly behind the apparent leader. Only then did he let his voice carry.
“Good afternoon.”
The whine died instantly as Brett’s thoughts flashed to tomorrow’s prospective headlines—Cocoa Beach Officer Killed By Electric Screwdriver. “Not today,” he breathed. He motioned said screwdriver to the ground.
“Miss Bryant. Gentlemen. How is everyone?” He asked the question without letting his eyes drift from the leader who spun to face him as soon as the man realized they had company. Brett had jotted down height and weight estimates before he left the car. Now he noted the three-day beards, rumpled clothes and sturdy athletic shoes. Thug Number One wore his sandy blond hair in a fashionable cut that hung over his blue eyes. Number Two had a shaved head. Brown eyes. No visible tattoos. The men looked like any two of a thousand returning homeowners. “Shutters giving you trouble?”
“A bit.” Stephanie gestured. “I was trying to remove the storm shutters when these
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