to Chase. “Congratulations, Detective Hollister. You just got married. Lorraine Taylor can pose as your wife.”
By the time the plane had landed and Luis was hustling her through the airport, Raney had a headache that wouldn’t quit. They exited into a wall of very warm, humid air.
“I thought the Midwest was cooler than Florida,” she said.
Luis didn’t respond. He was busy looking at his phone. Then he signaled for a cab.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, sounding irritated. “I just got a text with a street address from my contact.”
“That makes me feel very secure,” she said drily. Sweat was gathering between her breasts and the hot sun made her feel sick to her stomach. “You’d think they’d at least spring for a car,” she said grumpily.
Again Luis did not respond, which surprised her. In Florida he’d been polite, almost chatty. He’d been quiet on the plane. Now he seemed edgy. It made her feel off balance.
The cab drove for about thirty minutes before finally pulling into an empty spot behind a brown UPS truck. The driver was out of the vehicle, stacking boxes high on a cart.
It dawned on her that she was just another kind of package. She’d been wrapped up and sent halfway across the country, to be handed off into someone else’s care. And they were going to cart her somewhere else and put her on a shelf for a month.
She looked at the sign in the nearest store window. It was a frozen yogurt shop. At least things were looking up. “Is this it?”
Luis didn’t answer. He was watching the street closely. They got out of the cab and hadn’t walked more than three feet before a big man, probably close to the age her father would have been, fell into step next to them. He had a plastic bag looped over one hand.
He nodded at her and spoke quietly to Luis. Luis extended his hand and the men shook. Luis turned to her. “This is police chief Bates. He’ll take over from here.”
“Great,” she said.
“We’re happy to have you in St. Louis,” the man said. “Thank you, Officer Vincenze.”
Luis nodded at the chief and looked at her. “Good luck,” he said before turning quickly away. He got back into the same cab they’d arrived in. Chief Bates waited until the cab had pulled away from the curb before turning toward her.
“Rest assured that we’re going to keep you perfectly safe,” he said. “Right now we need to get a few things taken care of.”
“What things?” she asked.
“I’ll answer all your questions,” he said. They walked past the frozen yogurt shop. Turned a corner. Walked another block. Turned another corner. Second store in, he stopped. “But first, let’s just step inside here.” He opened the door to what appeared to be a hair salon. The lights inside were dimmed and there were no customers. Just a woman standing behind the high counter.
“Morning, Marvin,” the woman said.
“Ms. Taylor, this is my sister, Sandy. Work your magic, honey,” the chief said to the woman.
The day was getting stranger by the minute.
An hour later, Raney’s shoulder-length brown hair had been chopped off and she was a platinum blonde. Without the heavy weight, her hair had a natural wave that surprised her. She liked that she could tuck the wispy strands behind her ears. She also had to admit that the new hair color made her light blue eyes pop in a way that eye shadow had never managed. It was a startling change and she had trouble taking it all in.
“She’s done,” Sandy said. They were the first words she’d spoken since she explained that she was going to lighten up and trim her hair. Sandy was clearly a master of understatement.
The chief, who had looked ridiculous perched on one of the small chairs in the waiting area, stood up. “Everybody else should be here soon.”
He was right if “everybody” was three men. She could see them through the glass window. One was in his midfifties with a camera around his neck, carrying what appeared to be a big bag of dry cleaning. The second was a handsome black man dressed in a nice gray suit. The third man, and the one who held her attention, was in a tux and carried a small suitcase with him. He was tall.
If Sandy planned to trim him up, she didn’t have much to work with. His dark brown hair was already cut short, maybe not military short but pretty close. It showed off his chiseled good looks.
The chief opened the door and locked it behind them. The room was suddenly filled with testosterone. Raney, who was still sitting in the stylist’s chair, felt at a disadvantage. She stood up quickly, tried to take a step, got the heel of her sandal caught in the lower rung of the chair and pitched forward.
Tuxedo Guy caught her before she landed on her face. His grip on her bare upper arms was secure but light. He gently pushed her upright and she passed within inches of his body.
He smelled delicious, an earthy citrus that evoked images of a tropical rainforest.
“Okay?” he asked, his voice low, sexy. His skin was very tan and his eyes were an odd shade of brown, almost amber.
“Ah, sure,” she managed. She’d been off balance since leaving Florida and the past fifteen seconds hadn’t helped. Who was this man?
“Ms. Taylor,” Chief Bates said. “You need to get changed.”
Huh?
The man with the camera extended his dry cleaning in her direction. She automatically reached out, noting the bag was heavier than it looked.
Sandy pointed to a door. Raney stood her ground. “Maybe you’re thinking that someone has explained to me what’s going on, but nobody has. And I don’t think I’m changing my clothes or anything else until somebody does.”
The black man looked at Chief Bates. Tuxedo Guy was staring at her, and she thought she caught a glimpse of appreciation in his eyes.
“Of course,” the chief said. “I apologize. I’m just anxious to get you to a safe place. This is Officer Henderson. He’s a photographer for the police department. This is Detective Roy and Detective Hollister.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Why do I need new clothes? I have my own,” she said, inclining her head toward her suitcase, which was still sitting near the front door.
“There’s a wedding dress in there,” the chief said. “You need to put it on and Officer Henderson is going to snap a few pictures of you and Detective Hollister as the happy bride and groom. He’s assured me that he’s managed to manipulate the date on his camera so if anyone digs into the pictures, they’ll believe they were taken several weeks ago, on August 15. We’ve filed a license with the county clerk’s office dated that same day in case someone bothers to check. Under a different name, of course.”
She
