Starting with June

Not the answer he’d expected. “You weigh what? One twenty-five? No match for a man.”

“My weight is none of your business. Was there anything else you wanted—besides to pester me, Mr. Rivers?”

This was not going as planned. “I apologize if I misunderstood earlier.”

“If?” She looked angry enough to spit. Red flagged her cheeks and chest, and fury burned in her eyes. “Don’t worry. I won’t give you the opportunity to misinterpret my Southern hospitality again.”

His teeth clicked together. He was trying to be nice. She wasn’t making it easy.

June snatched the basket quickly and with enough force to remove it from his relaxed grip. He hadn’t seen that coming. Then she stepped back, letting the screen slap shut, and closed the solid interior door in his face. The lock clicked.

“Guess you got tired of being neighborly,” he called out. “Thanks for the food.”

No answer. But then, he wasn’t expecting one—at least not a polite one. She was probably shooting him the bird through the door. He headed back to his temporary quarters. Antipathy between him and Blondie was a good thing. She wouldn’t ask questions about why he was here, and he wouldn’t have to lie. His mission was to help Roth, then get the hell out of Quincey. In. Out. Over.

June would have been a complication.

So why was he disappointed?

* * *

SAM ZEROED IN on his target—a ten-point buck—exhaled, slow and steady, then squeezed his trigger finger. His camera reeled off three rapid-fire shots. The deer stiffened, his ears pricking forward and the hairs along his back going erect. He searched for the adversary he hadn’t yet spotted and pawed the ground. Sam pressed the shutter button again. The buck’s head snapped up, his big dark eyes locating Sam in the tree above him. The deer snorted a warning, lifted his white tail, then bounded off through the woods. Beautiful.

Sam relaxed into his borrowed hide—a hunter’s tree stand that he’d come upon during his morning hike. In his line of work—former line of work—he’d seen a lot of nature as he’d crept up on his insurgent targets, and he’d learned to appreciate it, but during a mission, he’d never been able to take pictures. He’d been too worried about getting in undetected and out alive.

He checked his watch. He’d been perched in the tree for almost five hours. Time to call it a day. If he didn’t leave soon, it would be dark before he made it back. Not that darkness was an issue, but hunger was. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

He rose. Old injuries protested. They’d stiffened up while he’d sat practically immobile.

He turned and eased down the ladder, and only then did he notice the rain tapping on his jacket—he’d endured and tuned out far worse conditions. The rainy weather had worked to his advantage today. The people who should have been hiking the trails by the river on the Labor Day holiday had stayed inside. That meant he’d been able to explore Quincey’s surroundings without interference—and without his neighbor as a tour guide.

Using his compass, he hiked back toward his temporary quarters. Eight klicks. He circled the perimeter of the farm. From the edge of the woods he noted June’s diesel crew-cab truck still parked in the driveway. Diesel engines and sparkly sandals didn’t go together. He filed away the incongruity.

It didn’t look as though she’d moved her vehicle since he’d left just before dawn this morning. There were no tracks in or out of the gravel driveway and the rocks beneath her vehicle were dry. He returned the same way he’d left—on the blind side of his house where his nearest neighbor couldn’t see him coming or going unless she was looking out her window at his porch. He climbed the stairs, eyeing no-man’s-land—the strip of wet grass between his quarters and his neighbor’s.

June’s blinds were open and her lights on as dusk approached. He could see her clearly through the window. Her sports bra and low-waisted knit pants clung to her curves, revealing the narrowing of her waist and swell of her hips. Her pose was unmistakably yoga. Power yoga had become popular on base. One of his commanding officers had required the platoon to attend classes because the exercise supposedly improved physical training scores and helped with PTSD. Yoga hadn’t been a total waste of time—it had increased his flexibility. But Sam preferred relieving his tension through other means. Emptying a couple of dozen clips on the range. Swimming or pumping iron until his arms felt as if they would fall off. A good run. The latter had a purpose because it could save his life if he was detected and had to haul ass.

A pang of regret hit him. He wouldn’t be running for his life anymore unless his eye healed and he could convince brass to let him re-up.

June shifted from a low lunge to a shoulder stand, then rolled smoothly down into a boat pose. She held the V shape steadily, toes pointed up, arms forward with nary a wobble. That explained her flat abs. Tight. Strong. He’d underestimated her muscle tone.

He shook himself. What in the hell was wrong with him, standing here on his porch gawking at a woman working out? His knuckles bumped the gun on his hip as he dug his keys from his pocket. He didn’t have a concealed-carry permit for this state, but he wouldn’t be here long enough for the paperwork to clear, and there was no way he’d go into foreign territory unarmed. He’d better mention that to Roth. He’d have to open carry when he wasn’t wearing his police issued weapon, and he wasn’t sure how Quincey’s citizens would take that.

He unlocked his door and entered his lodgings. His gaze immediately swung to the window but he kept out of sight and didn’t turn on the overhead light. June had her legs spread wide and her breasts pressed to the floor between them. The woman was flexible. That took his brain down a path it definitely did not need to travel. Undeniable hunger burned in his gut. It was unfortunately not an appetite that could be satisfied with a bowl of the stew he’d left simmering on the stove before he’d gone out this morning.

It was not one that would be satisfied—period—during this assignment. But she provided one hell of a view.

* * *

JUNE PUSHED OPEN the station door Tuesday morning feeling as if she’d been away for months rather than exiled for three days. Thank heaven her vacation was over. It felt good to be back in uniform and back to her home away from home with her family by choice rather than blood.

Unfortunately, Madison, her friend/landlord, had returned sometime last night after June had gone to bed, and her house had still been dark when June left this morning. Getting answers about the new tenant would have to wait until lunchtime when June could swing by Madison’s office to see if her friend had any details.

But on a positive note, June had managed to avoid Sam this morning. His cottage had been dark when she’d left for her prework run, and his Charger had been gone when she’d returned. If she was curious about where he’d gone at such an early hour, well, it was none of her business as long as he stayed out of trouble. If she was lucky, she wouldn’t see him all day. Nevertheless, she’d locked her doors last night and this morning—something she’d rarely done since returning to Quincey, and she’d silently locked Madison’s while her friend slept.

The other two deputies were already at their desks. That surprised her enough to make her toe catch on the tile with a noisy squeak. Once in a while the chief beat her in, but usually she was the first to arrive. She liked coming in early while the building was quiet and then preparing and sipping her coffee while she reviewed files and bulletins that had come in overnight. She had a lot of ideas about bringing the antiquated filing system up to current-day standards, and her new boss seemed receptive to them.

“Morning, Justice,” Alan Aycock, the oldest and most chauvinistic of her fellow deputies, stated.

She’d given up long ago on convincing them to call her June rather than by the name her father and his cronies used. “Good morning, Alan. Mac. What’s going on? Did I miss a memo about a morning meeting?”

“Nah. Chief hired a new man. He starts today,” Mac replied. “We wanted to check him out.”

How had she missed hearing that? “When did he tell you that?”

“Yesterday. You gonna make the coffee?” Aycock asked. “We’ve been waiting.”

“You go ahead. I have to clock in and check the bulletins.” She ignored his sputtering and headed for the old-fashioned time clock. It was original to the building, which was only a few years short of historic. That meant it was temperamental.

“What’s in the bag?” Aycock pestered.

“You’ll find out after you make the coffee.”

She heard him grumbling. Then his chair squeaked as he pushed to his feet. “Do I use four scoops or eight?”

“Depends on whether you want to read through it or drink it.”

She’d learned early on not to pander to Alan’s passive-aggressive personality. If he could get out of doing something by doing it wrong, then he would. But to her way of thinking, a man was never too old to learn new tricks. Like how to make coffee. And other than that and his chauvinism, he wasn’t a bad guy. He’d raised his two kids single-handedly after his wife had run off with the propane deliveryman. The kids had turned out all right. Both were on the high school honor roll. You had to give him credit for that and for being a fair deputy.

“Hope you enjoyed your time off,” he groused.

“Been a long time since you worked a holiday, hasn’t it, Aycock? Years? Right?”

He stiffened at the reminder that she always covered for him and his complexion turned ruddy. “Yes. Which was nice... Time with the kids and all that.”

“Thought so.” She went through her morning routine by rote, clocking in, then depositing the homemade donuts in the break room. The station door opened as she returned to the main room. Roth, the chief, walked in followed by Sam.

Sam in a uniform identical to June’s.

Shock glued her feet to the floor, and her stomach did a loop-the-loop up her throat and down again. It was small consolation that when Sam’s eyes—the first time she’d seen them without sunglasses save his DMV photo—fixed on her, the same dismay registered on his face.

“Deputies, I’d like you to meet our newest officer. Sam Rivers.”

Sam’s unblinking gaze held hers, then skimmed downward, taking in her badge, her equipment-loaded duty belt and her polished shoes, then returned to her face.

“Sam, this is Alan Aycock, my senior deputy, and Mac Morris.”

Sam’s attention abruptly shifted elsewhere. June used the reprieve to gather her composure while Sam shook hands with each of the men. But her break was short-lived.

“You’ve already met Justice Jones,” Roth added.

Sam paused a fraction of a second before extending his hand to June. “You told me your name was June.”

His grip was warm and as firm as his accusatory tone. He held on a second longer than necessary, then released her, but the tingle traveling through her tissues lingered. “My friends call me June, but you can call me Justice or Jones since we’ll be working together.”

A slight tightening of his lips was the only sign that he’d understood her insult. “Justice because you’re a cop?”

“Justice was my mother’s maiden name. It’s Southern tradition to tag daughters that way.”

“Jones is a native of Quincey,” Roth continued. “She’ll be showing you the ropes.”

June’s and Sam’s heads snapped toward Roth’s.

“Me?”

“Her?” they chorused in horrified unison.

“That’s right. Sam, you’ll ride along with Jones until you get a feel for Quincey. Then you’ll get your own cruiser.”

“But, Chief—” June protested. Something dark and dangerous in the boss’s eyes severed her words. “Yes, sir.”

Roth tossed her a key ring. “Jones, would you get Sam’s weapon and badge from the safe? The mayor will be here in a few minutes for his swearing in.”

She took advantage of the excuse to escape to the solitude of the back room and regroup. Her day—heck, her month, her year, her life—had just taken a nosedive into the manure pile. Her obnoxious neighbor wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Having him as her shadow was the last thing she wanted, but as the officer with the least seniority, she had no authority to complain.

She was stuck, and she didn’t like it one bit. Maybe Piper—

No. She would not put her friend in the middle and cause friction between the newlyweds. She would get through this. One way or another.

Without shooting the new deputy.

CHAPTER THREE

SAM FELT AS IF he’d been ambushed by his best friend and the betrayal stung. He stabbed Roth with a hard stare. “Can I speak to you in your office?”

Roth nodded and strode into his space, closing the door behind Sam.

“You set me up.”

“No. I dropped you into position without bias so you could get a feel for June without either of you knowing who the other one was. I didn’t even tell Piper you were coming, and trust me, I’m gonna catch hell for that. But those three women—Piper, June and Madison—are as tight as cellmates. What one knows, they all know. It helped that Madison was out of town. You met her when you had dinner with Piper and me.”

“Back up. You wanted me to get a feel for June without bias?” Roth’s words and matter-of-fact tone rolled around in Sam’s head until the answer sifted through. This wasn’t about getting Sam laid. “You think she’s a dirty cop?”

“What do you think?”

Sam considered her bright eyes and straightforward conversation, the flowers littering every surface of her porch, the toy box, her goody basket, ruffled bikini and ridiculous sandals. Crooked? No. Too sweet and naive for her own good? Definitely. Sexy—

Do not go there.

“No.”

“Good.” Roth rubbed the back of his neck. “I hope you’re right because of her connection to my wife, but I don’t trust anyone at this point. Keep your eyes open. Again, I apologize for the deception, but I didn’t see any other way.”

“How old is Jones?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“I would have guessed twenty-one at the most. How long has she been with the department?”

“Four years, almost five. Less time than the corruption has been going on.”

“Where was she before that?”

“She trained and worked with Raleigh PD before moving into the rental house on Madison’s farm—a farm that June inherited from her grandfather, then sold to Madison. She applied for a job with Quincey PD, and Piper’s dad, the former chief, hired her on the spot, cutting through the usual red tape like a hot knife through butter. That caused a little friction in the department, I’ve heard, and it raised a lot of questions for me as to the presence of corruption in this department.”

“Is she qualified?”

“I wouldn’t jeopardize your safety by partnering you with an incompetent.”

“An incompetent under investigation.” Everything in Sam wanted to retreat. Roth must have read it on his face.

“Jones graduated in the top five percent of her class. C’mon, Sam, you’ve had women in your platoon before. You’re no sexist pig like the other two out there.”

That raised his hackles again, but only because he didn’t like to think of his sisters being treated unfairly. “This isn’t about her being a woman, Roth. How am I supposed to investigate her when we live twenty feet apart and she brings me food?”

“You’re not a hostage dependent on her. A few brownies won’t give you Stockholm syndrome. And don’t feel too special. June feeds all of us. How else do you think I knew she could cook? The close quarters puts you in a perfect position to see who comes and goes at her place. I’m not asking you to date her. Just keep your eyes open.”

“You’re a native, too. Why can’t you show me around?”

“I’ve been away too long, and, of course, I arrested one of their own. Never mind he was caught red-handed moving moonshine. I pissed off a lot of people by calling in the ATF instead of handling the situation discreetly in-house and giving him a gentle tap on the wrist. Locals don’t trust me yet.

“Aycock and Morris worked with that deputy for more than a decade. That makes their conduct the most suspect. The Feds questioned them and don’t think they were directly involved, but I need your help deciding whether they looked the other way, if they’re good liars or not smart enough to see what was right under their noses.”

“Your father-in-law wasn’t.”

“That’s different. Lou and the dirty deputy were buddies. Lou trusted too much and ignored the obvious—something Butch White used to his advantage.”

Sam shook his head. “It’s strange hearing you defend a man you once cursed, the same man who ran you out of Quincey and threatened to lock you up if you ever returned or contacted his daughter again. But pairing me with June—not a good idea. She’s my neighbor...”

“You’ll deal with it. As a female, June is less likely to be part of the good-ol’-boy network. But she’s lived in Quincey long enough to know how this town operates and to possibly have been contaminated by all the I’ll-scratch-your-back-if-you-scratch-mine crap.”

Sam still wanted no part of being strapped to his pretty neighbor. “Let me recon solo. It’s what I do best.”

“You should have realized by now that Quincey’s like a fishbowl. Our fine citizens have been watching your every move since you drove into town. You don’t fit our typical tourist stereotype. That’s one reason we didn’t get together before this morning. Here, solo, you’d be suspect. But June is Quincey’s sweetheart. With her by your side, folks will let down their guard. Give it a month, Sam. Then you’ll have your own car or you’ll be finished with the assignment. Can’t you handle four weeks—less if you provide evidence to who’s dirty and who isn’t sooner?”

Sam gritted his teeth. What choice did he have? He’d made a promise. “Affirmative.”

“Good. Then let’s get you sworn in. Our esteemed mayor has arrived.”

The sarcastic bite to the word esteemed caught Sam’s attention. “Not a fan?”

“He’s a big fish in a little puddle. Likes to throw his weight around. What do you think?”

They’d both had their share of abuse of power—usually the short officers with big mouths and bigger egos. “Roger. Trust him?”

“He’s a butt-kissing politician.”

Negative. “’Nuff said.”

Roth yanked open his office door. “Jones, bring Rivers’s gear. We need a witness. You’re it. Let’s get this show on the road. We have work to do.”

* * *

THIRTY MINUTES LATER June closed her cruiser door and turned to face the man riding shotgun. Her goal was to make the loop around town, introduce Mr. Bad Attitude to as many people as possible, then dump him back at the station.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were the new deputy?” she demanded.

“I didn’t know you were with Quincey PD.”

“How long have you known the chief?”

“What makes you think I do?”

Anger and exasperation vied for supremacy. “Can’t you just answer the question? Your evasions are really irritating.”

“What makes you think I’m dodging?”

She battled an urge to bash her head on the steering wheel. “You answer every question with a question. But the answer you’re seeking is—when you’re with the chief, your body language isn’t that of two men who just met.”

“You’re a body-language expert?”

Cocky bastard. “Let’s just say it’s a hobby. Where did you train?”

“Marine Corps.”

“Mar—” And then it hit her. “You’re Roth’s friend. The one who—” Lost his career over an eye injury. Piper and Madison had mentioned him. But Sam had the sunglasses back in place, so June couldn’t check for visible damage. “You just got out,” she amended when he stiffened.

“Affirmative.” His head turned toward her. There was no reflection in his lenses despite the sun rising behind her back. But then, a sniper wouldn’t want to give away his position with a glint in the sunshine, and Sam, according to the stories she’d heard from Piper, had been a scout sniper like Roth.

“How much visual impairment do you have?”

Tawny brows slammed down behind his shades and those soft lips compressed into a firm line. “Enough to lose my job, but not enough to keep me from doing this one.”

Dear Lord, please keep me from beating this man to death with my baton.

“What made you become a cop?”

“Roth needed help. Do you put everyone through an interrogation or am I special?”

June was the patient one in her family, the peacemaker, the temper soother, the freakin’ Rock of Gibraltar. If her siblings could see how close she was to totally losing her control at this moment, they’d be shocked.

“You’re carrying a loaded weapon and supposed to be watching my back. That makes you pretty darned special—to me. I don’t doubt your skills as a Marine or at handling weapons since you and Roth are still alive, but have you had Basic Law Enforcement Training or worked as an MP?”

“Negative. As the chief knows. But I don’t engage without intel. Roth sent me BLET textbooks and Quincey’s regulations. I’m prepared.”

Textbook trained. No practical experience. Sam must be desperate for a job. And Roth...well, he was a really good friend to Sam. Sympathy battled frustration. Sam might be an obnoxious ass, but his career had been taken from him, and he was struggling to find a new place. The way veterans were treated was shameful. As her godfather had been, Sam would be a fish out of water until he found his footing. That went a long way toward explaining his defensive behavior and bitten-off responses.

She could help him adjust. But to do that she had to accept that he wasn’t going to be an equal partner for a while. He’d be like a rookie, a liability, and she was responsible for making sure nothing happened to the chief’s pal until Sam was ready to work on his own.

The real challenge would be helping him without smacking the inconsiderate, rude jerk upside his handsome head. No small task. But she, the mediator and voice of reason in the Jones clan, was up to it.

She hoped.

* * *

OVER THE PAST three hours Sam had been grilled by what seemed like half the population of Quincey. He felt like a carcass—after the buzzards had finished their meal. Capture and interrogation would have been easier because at least then he wouldn’t have had to be polite.

June checked her mirrors, then pulled the cruiser back onto the road again. Sam spotted yet another citizen a quarter mile away “checking her mail,” and June, predictably, lifted her foot from the gas pedal.

“Are we going to stop every fifty yards?” Sam groused.

“The chief ordered me to introduce you to the people you’ve sworn to protect and serve.”

“My sisters are less nosy.”

The smirk on her face was unmistakable.

“You’re enjoying this,” he accused.

“Oh yeah.” She flashed a blinding white smile. His heart jolted—but only as a result of her driving through a pothole that should have broken the front axle. The irregular rhythm had nothing to do with the mischievous sparkle in her green eyes.

“How old are your sisters?”

He had a feeling she hadn’t missed one thing the citizens of Quincey had tortured out of him. “Forty-four, forty-one and thirty-nine,” he bit out through clenched teeth. He’d managed to avoid answering June’s questions, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to tell the octogenarian at their last stop to mind her own business.

“And you’re what? Thirty-seven? Thirty-six?”

Did he look that old? He tried not to be insulted. But hell, he was. “Thirty-one.”

“Big age gap. I would never have guessed you’re the baby.”

Something in her tone stiffened his spine. “Why?”

“Youngest children are usually charming people pleasers, and you are definitely not, Deputy Rivers. Were you a surprise baby?”