“Are you diabetic?”
“No. Hypoglycemic…which means…”
“I know, I know.” The usually in charge Betsy melted like ice cream in his arms. Under other circumstances good. This circumstance, bad. “Means you’re supposed to eat small meals throughout the day. Keep your blood sugar up. Why didn’t you stop to eat on the way back from St. Louis?”
He retraced his footsteps and detoured to the refrigerator, stood her on her feet and grabbed the bottle of juice. “Here. Drink this.”
“Glass?”
Why did women always need a glass? “Open the lid and drink some juice. Do you want me to make you a sandwich?”
“No. I’ll be fine.” Slowly, she shook her head while intermittently gulping down some of the orange juice.
Next stop would be his bedroom since most everything else in the house was torn apart with remodeling. He pointed her in that direction and steadied her as they went. He led her to the king-sized bed and sat her down. Backing away far and fast.
She rolled to her side, tucked his pillow under her head, and curled into a fetal position right in the middle of his slept-and-left rumpled sheets. “Tell me why I shouldn’t believe my eyes. And don’t give me any cock-and-bull story that they aren’t real.”
This sure wasn’t how he had imagined having Betsy in his bed. Not that he’d imagined it. Much.
In his dreams, she was soft and willing. Her sheer hazel-green eyes sparkling with laughter and desire. Her red hair spread across the pillow, free of the always-in-place band that loosely pulled it back every day. He liked the way escaped curls teased her face by mid-morning at the car lot, but the thought of letting his fingers tangle through the free silkiness ranked higher than winning a triathlon.
Another slight moan preceded Betsy opening her eyes. “I’m listening.”
“The photos are real.”
“See? Where’s my phone?” She tried to sit up, but plopped back down, covering her eyes with her arm. “I need to call Deputy Evans back and tell him I was right. You’re a drug dealer using Peyton’s for your operation.”
“Are you crazy?” What would possibly have given her that idea? “I am not a drug runner. Got that? Never have been. Never will be.”
“How can you tell me those pictures are real one second and that you’re innocent the next?”
“Because there’s real. And pretend real. Understand?”
She waved her hand wildly above her head as if to include the entire universe. “Well, whatever you’re into, my uncle will have your hide.”
That much was true. Sheriff Davis would have at least part of his hide if anything happened to his niece on his watch. Only one thing would save Cain from a good toss under the bus. Her uncle had come up with the idea to use Peyton’s, and he already knew all of Cain’s background with the DEA.
“Look, Betsy, I worked deep cover for the DEA. Deep means exactly what it sounds like.” He brushed his hands down the sides of his jeans. “Suffice it to say, what you see in the photos happened, but only as I worked the case. Trust me, if you went looking for that mug shot right now…it’s not out there. The very next day it was cleaned from the files by the DEA.”
He grabbed his cell phone from the nightstand, punched in the direct number to the police department and waited. Within seconds dispatch answered, and he didn’t let them get through their spiel. “This is Cain Connery. Give me Deputy Evans, ASAP.”
“What’s going on, Cain?” The always serious tone of Deputy Evans filled the phone.
“You need to get over to Peyton’s. We need to brush for fingerprints in Betsy’s office and at all the doors.” Cain paced. “And we’ll need to view all the security video inside and outside.”
“I’ll make sure the lab guys get on it right away. Why?”
“Someone snuck in and left Betsy a manila envelope filled with info from the last DEA job I worked. The one where I was arrested so my cover wouldn’t get blown.”
“I figured it was something like that when she called all hyped about arresting you. She okay?”
Cain glanced at Betsy, and felt his jaw tighten. At least she was sitting on the side of the bed now, although her cat-green eyes didn’t hold the sassy spark they usually flashed.
“Yeah, she’s okay. Anything else you want to tell Deputy Evans, Betsy?” Cain pushed the speaker button. If he really wanted to push her buttons, he’d flat out ask if she needed the deputy to come and arrest him.
“No.” Betsy headed to the adjoining bathroom, then looked back out. “Oh, I forgot to mention that one of my lookie-loo customers was at the dealership when I left. The guy who creeps me out.”
“You talk to him?”
