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the backyard as the sun danced in the leaves of the giant oaks. Every room held dozens
of memories for her and images of Hunter, in her bed, her shower, asleep in the living
room, waiting for her on the front porch, were beginning to overlay those of Davis.
But Hunter had touched down so lightly in her life, like a wild bird of prey, talons
outstretched just above a branch, wings beating against the air. Despite the
accumulation of memories, he left no permanent imprint other than a toothbrush in the
bathroom. That was it. No clothes, no magazines, books, DVDs, certainly no pictures or
other personal effects. Erasing his physical reminders from the house would take five
seconds. She d opened the doors, tried to make him welcome and yet he hovered,
poised to fly in an instant.
Best not to think about what that meant on an emotional level, because as Claire so
frequently and rightly reminded her, this was casual. But it was three months of casual.
But they were no longer using condoms. But he told her the most heart-wrenching story
of child abandonment she d ever heard, letting her into a side of him he hadn t yet
shared. Her brain compulsively worried over the dichotomy, the lack of a tangible
presence in her life and the clear emotional connection she felt growing between them.
She felt. Not he felt. Keep some defenses up, Lacey.
The wine trickled through her veins, heightening her anticipation. She looked at the
clock, creeping closer to seven, and listened to the sounds of a dreary fall night. The rain
hadn t lessened, rather settled into a steady pattering against the windows. Cars drove
by on the street outside, the tires splashing through puddles before fading into the
distance.
The mail included several invitations to upcoming holiday events, addressed to Ms.
Meyers and guest. Carrying the glass of wine she went back to the mudroom and
retrieved her BlackBerry, intending to add the parties to her calendar. She d deal with
the guest part later.
Three hard thumps rattled her sturdy front door in the frame, startling her on her
way back to the kitchen and sending her heart rate soaring. The wine swayed in the
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Anne Calhoun
glass before she very carefully set both the glass and the BlackBerry down on the table
behind the sofa. The moment of truth was here. Fantasy was about to become reality.
The fist took up pounding on her door again, five& ten& fifteen steady, insolent
beats adding a layer of annoyance to the rising heat in her blood. Dressed in her work
suit, her hair wavy and tousled around her face, her feet clad only in silk stockings, she
hauled the door open.
What on earth? she began as she opened the door, then the words guttered in her
throat.
Hunter stood in front of her, his face blank and unreadable. Drops of rain, glittering
in the porch light, clung to his cropped brown hair and open hip-length black leather
jacket. He wore jeans, motorcycle boots and his badge and gun on his belt. A black t-
shirt clinging to his muscular chest and abdomen matched the three days worth of
stubble on his jaw and the dark threat in his eyes. For all intents and purposes he
looked much as he had the first night she brought him home, except never in a million
years would she have taken a chance on such a hard-edged man.
Of all the incarnations of Hunter she d seen waiting on her front porch, this was the
first to send a frisson of fear through her veins. But it was Hunter and to fulfill her
fantasy, he d brought his best game, playing the part of the man he wasn t a
dishonorable cop who d use his power to take advantage of someone smaller, weaker,
virtually defenseless. In that instant she decided she d be everything she wasn t, an
uppity, rich, connected divorcee, convinced she was, like Vince Jameson, above the law.
Ms. Meyers? His gaze flickered over her, not the caressing look of a lover but
rather the eyes of a cop, ticking off details. Something about her appearance must have
made her look like an easy mark, because as she watched his demeanor went from
dangerous but professional to just plain dangerous.
Yes, she said, using her most disdainful voice, the one she saved for
uncooperative lenders dragging their feet on due diligence.
Officer Anderson with the police department. A waitress at Caffe Grazie claims
you had sex in their bathroom.
She had, fabulous sex, but it was far too early to confess. What of it? she said, not
denying it, striving for bored, elitist as she shifted her weight to one hip. Did she see
anything?
No, he said, but she says she saw an unidentified man follow you into the
bathroom. Then she heard noises characteristic of a sexual encounter. Specifically, she
heard you begging for more.
Her response was automatic. It certainly wasn t me, she said, still snippy, letting
her eyes roam over him as insolently as he d examined her. I never beg. Sorry you had
to come out on such a nasty night.
Let him figure out how to deal with that, she thought as she stepped back to close the
door, but he wedged his booted foot between the door and the frame, preventing it
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Liberating Lacey
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