Dangerous Illusions (Code of Honor Book #1) Read online

  “How did I get lucky enough to be your test case?”

  “You want the truth?”

  At the man’s sober question, a caution flag began to wave in Colin’s mind. “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll give it to you anyway. I’ve known you two years, and we’ve worked together on several cases. Most of the other detectives talk about their families—spouses, children, parents, siblings. You’ve never mentioned anyone but your two friends, Rick and Kristin. That leads me to believe you either don’t have any family or you don’t stay in touch with them. None of my business. But whatever the reason for your lack of family connections, it seems to me if God sends someone your way who has partner-for-life potential, you’d be crazy not to follow up. I was happily single into my thirties, but believe me—marriage has much to recommend it.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You do that. And now I have a new case to tackle.” He rose, picked up his Starbucks cup, and disappeared out the door.

  Colin leaned back in his chair. He didn’t need a pep talk from Mac about marriage. He was more than ready to tie the knot if the right woman came along. Unlike his colleague, who was close to his brothers and parents and had grown up in a loving home, his own childhood had been fraught with angst and anger and soul-shredding grief. If it hadn’t been for Rick and Kristin, he wasn’t certain he’d have survived it. So the notion of creating a loving home of his own, of finding a woman who would fill his empty nights and share his daily joys and sorrows, was appealing.

  He wasn’t as certain as Mac was that Trish might be that woman. But he couldn’t deny the electricity on his end—and according to Mac, it sizzled on her side as well.

  So he’d make a few subtle overtures once the prosecuting attorney ruled, see if she was receptive to getting together socially.

  And pray that if God had orchestrated their meeting, as Mac seemed to think, he’d smooth the road ahead rather than put more obstacles in their path.

  8

  She was here, just as she’d promised.

  Craig melted into the shadows inside the door of the bar and gave the woman wearing the short skirt, spike-heeled boots, and figure-molding top an appreciative once-over.

  Nice.

  Better yet, she was friendly.

  Very friendly.

  His lips curved up as she tossed her mane of blonde hair and batted her fake lashes at the dude in a cowboy hat who was standing next to her stool. She knew exactly how to catch a guy’s eye—his included.

  In fact, thanks to her, he’d broken his rule and come back to the same dive twice.

  His smile faded. Anonymity was crucial to these nocturnal excursions, and the best way to maintain it was to move from place to place. Becoming a familiar face that patrons—or the bartender—would remember wasn’t smart.

  But one slip shouldn’t cause any problems. On a Saturday night, with the lights low, music blaring, and a shoulder-to-shoulder crowd wedged into every spare inch, there wasn’t much chance he’d be noticed.

  He didn’t plan to hang around the bar long, anyway. He’d buy her a drink or two, then wrangle an invitation to her apartment. It hadn’t taken much persuasion on Wednesday to convince her to skip out for some privacy. It never did with her type, if you knew how to turn on the charm.

  All at once, she caught sight of him. He smiled again and lifted a hand in greeting.

  Five seconds later, after blowing off the loser who’d been hitting on her, she wove through the crowd toward him.

  “Hi, handsome.” She sidled up close and linked her arm with his.

  “Hi, yourself. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Sure. I’ve been watching for you. I put my stuff on a table in the back corner to save us a cozy spot.”

  He let her lead him around the dance floor filled with writhing bodies and sat beside her at the small table for two. A waitress materialized, staying only long enough to take their orders.

  “So . . . did you have a good week, Joe?”

  He took a few pieces of popcorn from the bowl on the table. He’d given her no more than a first name—and a fake one at that. But she hadn’t been any more forthcoming . . . and Natalie might not be her real name, either.

  Didn’t matter.

  No one who came to this kind of place was interested in a long-term relationship.

  “Better since I walked in the door. You look great.”

  “You aren’t too bad yourself.”

  “I like your boots.”

  She stuck her leg out from under the table and wiggled her foot. “They’re new. A gift from a friend.”

  If that was a hint, she was out of luck. He had no intention of becoming more than a passing acquaintance.

  “So how was your week?”

  “Fine. Lots of customers at the salon. This is the season for manicures, apparently.”

  That’s right. She worked at some hair place.

  All at once, the band goosed the volume, and he winced. The sooner they got out of here, the better. He hadn’t driven to this dive to listen to bad music.

  The waitress delivered their drinks, and Craig took a sip. Watered down and overpriced, like last time—although Natalie appeared to be enjoying hers. And knocking it back at warp speed as she chowed down on the popcorn. The tab was going to rise fast at this rate.

  Too fast.

  “You want to dance?” He stood.

  “But . . . you just got here. Don’t you want to visit a little?”

  “After the dance. We can’t waste this song.” Whatever it was.

  “Okay.” With a shrug, she grabbed some more popcorn and rose, twining her fingers with his. “But let’s order another round first. The drinks’ll be waiting for us after the dance.”

  “Fine.” He signaled the waitress and doubled his tab.

  One dance, another drink, he’d make his move.

  The blaring song seemed to last forever, hurting his head. It was only endurable because of the way Natalie was gyrating against him. Like she couldn’t wait to ditch this place either.

  Good. They were on the same page.

  When the so-called music ended, she took his hand, guided him back to the table, and picked up the empty popcorn bowl. “Would you mind getting a refill, sugar?” She gave him a coy nudge with her shoulder.

  More popcorn would make her thirstier . . . but he had a bottle in the car again, as he had Wednesday. They could continue the party at her apartment.

  “I’ll be back in a minute.” He took the bowl.

  “I’ll be waiting.” She dropped into her chair and picked up the drink the waitress had delivered.

  By the time he shouldered through the crowd, got the refill, and returned, her drink was almost gone. Again.

  “You’re getting behind.” She tapped a finger next to his glass and took another handful of popcorn.

  Maybe if he downed his quickly, he could get them out of here before she wanted to order another one.

  While she dived into the popcorn, he finished his Scotch in several swigs.

  “The dancing must have made you thirsty.” She swirled the ice in her glass.

  “Yeah.” He scooted his chair closer. “It’s kind of noisy in here, isn’t it?”

  “Uh-huh. Crowded too.” She stroked a polished nail down the back of his hand. “It’s a lot quieter—and more private—at my apartment.”

  “You’re reading my mind.”

  “Except I’m still thirsty and I don’t keep a lot of booze in the place.” She ran a fingertip around the rim of her glass.

  Subtlety wasn’t her strong suit.

  “I’ve got us covered.”

  “I like a man who’s prepared.” She smiled and stood. “I’ll wait by the door while you settle up.”

  After slinging her purse over her shoulder and picking up her jacket, she sashayed toward the exit.

  Five minutes later, he rejoined her. “Sorry. I had to track down our waitress. This place is a zoo.”


  “Saturday nights are like that here.” She linked her arm with his. “But my place will be a lot more . . . intimate.”

  Exactly what he was counting on.

  “I’ll meet you there, like last time.”

  “Won’t work tonight. My car’s in the shop. I got a ride here with a girlfriend.”

  His mouth tightened. He did not want her in his car.

  But he did want what she had to offer.

  He’d just have to clean the car in the morning, remove any traces of her . . . just in case. And he knew how to do that. He’d had plenty of practice.

  “Fine. I’ll take you.”

  He let her chatter during the short drive, tuning out most of what she said, thinking instead of the fun ahead. After that . . . he had a few tasks to finish before he called it a night. But he should be out of here in an hour, hour and a half, tops. Like the last visit.

  She edged closer to him, straining against the seat belt, stroking his arm. Too bad he couldn’t hook up with her again. She might not be the sharpest tack, but she had a body that didn’t quit.

  Not worth the risk, though. There were plenty of bars in town when he needed another diversion—and plenty of other women happy to indulge in a no-strings evening of entertainment.

  “Home sweet home.” She pulled the keys out of her purse and dangled them from a finger as he parked and set the brake.

  “I’ll get the bottle from the trunk.”

  “I’ll wait for you to open my door.”

  He rolled his eyes as he slid from behind the wheel. You opened doors for ladies like Trish Bailey. Natalie—or whatever her real name was—didn’t come close to qualifying for that title.

  But he’d humor her—at least for the next hour.

  She swung her legs out of the car after he pulled her door open, letting her skirt hike up her thigh. After lingering a moment to give him an unhurried view, she stood and took his arm while they crossed the parking lot to her apartment. He kept his head down in case anyone was wandering around, but the lot was deserted, as it had been on Wednesday.

  Once they were inside the three rooms she called home, he waited impatiently while she moseyed into the kitchen for glasses. If it was up to him, he’d skip the drinking—but he doubted his companion would go for that. She liked her liquor.

  “I have pretzels. I’ll put some in a bowl and . . .” She frowned as she dropped her purse on the table. “Huh. I must have left my jacket in your car.”

  Another delay.

  “You pour the drinks. I’ll go get it.” He set the bottle on the counter and retraced his steps to the car, once again watching for lurkers. Not that he was recognizable in this getup . . . nor would anyone be able to decipher his mud-smeared license plates . . . but he’d rather not have any witnesses to his late-night sojourns.

  After retrieving the jacket from the floor of the passenger seat, he jogged back to the apartment, wiping the inside and outside doorknobs with his handkerchief before entering. Natalie had put on some soft music, lighted a few candles, and set their drinks on the coffee table along with a bunch of high-carb pretzels he didn’t want.

  “Thanks, sweetie.” She took the jacket and gave him a kiss.

  Now they were getting somewhere.

  He grasped her arm as she turned away. “Let’s try that again.”

  She didn’t resist.

  But when he took her hand and tried to tug her down the hall, she balked. “Let’s have our drinks first. I made the living room real romantic.”

  He tamped down his annoyance. If he ticked her off, the night was over.

  “Okay.” He changed direction, tucked her close as they sat, and picked up his drink. “To us.”

  She clinked her glass with his. “I like that toast.”

  While he guzzled his Scotch, she took dainty sips.

  Too bad she hadn’t nursed the drinks in the bar like that. It might have saved him a few bucks.

  “Why don’t you have another?” She fluttered her fingers toward the bottle on the coffee table.

  He inspected her half-empty glass. Why not? At the rate she was drinking, he had a few minutes to kill. Two drinks here, plus the diluted ones at the bar, wouldn’t put him over the legal limit for the drive home.

  As she finally drained the last drop from her first glass, he was finishing his second. And beginning to feel mellow.

  Instead of waiting for him to make the next move, she rose, picked up the bottle, and held out her free hand.

  He didn’t need a second invitation.

  And what followed was as enjoyable as the first time. So enjoyable that he let himself drift off to sleep afterward. What could a few minutes of shut-eye hurt before he drove home?

  Except when he opened his eyes, sun was streaming through the window.

  What the . . . ?

  He bolted upright, only to have the room tilt.

  “Morning, sweetie.” Natalie entered, fully dressed, hair brushed, makeup perfect. She held out a glass of OJ. “I’d give you tomato juice if I had some. It’s better for a hangover.”

  “I never get hangovers.” But this sure felt like one.

  “Uh-huh.” She gave him a condescending smile. “This might help.”

  He waved the glass aside. Man, he must have drunk a lot more than he remembered. Or else the stuff he’d had at that bar had been more potent than he’d thought.

  “What time is it?”

  “Nine.”

  He spat out an oath and swung his legs to the floor. He had places to go on Sunday morning.

  “Are you leaving already?” Her face contorted into a pout.

  “Yeah. I never intended to stay the night.”

  “You weren’t in any condition to drive.”

  “I am now.”

  She watched him tie his shoes. “When will I see you again?”

  “Depends on how busy the week is.” No reason to tell her the truth. It was easier to just disappear.

  “I’ll be at the bar again on Wednesday. Or sooner, if you can get away.”

  “I’ve got a lot on my plate for the next few days.” He stood and pulled out his keys. “You want to give me your phone number? I could call you after I have a better handle on my schedule.” Could . . . but wouldn’t.

  “Sure.” She picked up a pen off the nightstand and scribbled some numbers on a scrap of paper while he took in the rows of shoes through the open closet door behind her. This woman gave Imelda Marcos some serious competition. “I’m pretty flexible.” She held out the paper.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” He shoved it in his pocket, grabbed his glass and the bottle of Scotch from the nightstand, and strode toward the kitchen.

  Nudging the faucet on with his elbow, he rinsed his glass and wiped it clean with a dish towel.

  Natalie watched him from the dining nook. “Aren’t you the neatnik.”

  “I told you on my first visit—I don’t like germs.”

  “No problem. I like men who clean up after themselves.”

  He ignored that and headed for the front door.

  “Hey!”

  At her indignant summons, he turned.

  “Aren’t you going to say good-bye?”

  “At the door.” He waved a hand in that direction and kept walking.

  She followed.

  “So . . . thanks for a nice evening.” He leaned down and kissed her.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back—making it clear she was ready for more if he was.

  For a fleeting instant, he was tempted.

  But in the end, he eased back. He’d already broken a cardinal rule by seeing her twice. He needed to get out before she got any ideas.

  “I’ll be waiting to hear from you.” She fiddled with a button on his shirt as she scrutinized him.

  “I’ve got your number.” He tapped his pocket.

  “Be sure to use it.” She opened the door.

  “Yeah. Well . . . see you around.” He slipped around her an
d jogged across the parking lot.

  Not until his car was in gear and rolling away did he look back. Natalie was standing on the landing of her unit. She lifted a hand. He didn’t respond. The hours with her had been a pleasant interlude—but it was over.

  As he accelerated back to his own place, fighting the aftermath of too much liquor, the woman from the sleazy bar vanished from sight . . . and mind. He had other, more important matters to focus on.

  Like figuring out ways Matt could ratchet up his strategy to convince Trish she should leave her parents’ foundation in her accommodating accountant’s very capable hands. His coffers were emptying, and Matt’s income wasn’t sufficient to refill them without a boost from a certain client’s charitable fund. For a CPA who’d been in international banking, the man had settled for a sadly ordinary life.

  What a waste of talent.

  But he wasn’t going to squander his abilities. That’s why he’d embellished his original plan during his weeks of surveillance. Thanks to Trish and her mother, it was going to end up being an immensely profitable endeavor that solved two problems at once.

  And one of these days soon, he’d be on easy street . . . with or without Trish’s cooperation.

  “Trish!”

  At the summons, Trish stopped in the vestibule of the church, moving out of the line of congregants waiting to greet Reverend Howard as Matt closed the distance between them.

  “Good morning. I didn’t see you come in. Did you sit in the back today?” He’d been joining her in her pew every Sunday since Mom died, but perhaps he’d finally accepted that she had no romantic interest in him and had decided to keep a discreet distance.

  That would be the answer to at least one of her prayers.

  “Yes. The last shall be first and all that.” He grinned.

  “I see you’re rid of the brace.”

  He flexed his fingers, grin fading. “Right. As of Friday. The wrist is healing well.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Also, thank you for sending over the 990s. I haven’t had a chance to review them yet, but it’s on my list for this afternoon.”

  “Happy to be of service. And by the way, thanks for the heads-up about a possible call from that detective. He did contact me. I still can’t believe the police harbor any suspicions about you. That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”