Lance rolled Tyler onto his face, pulled his arms behind him, and planted a knee in the small of his back.
Leaning close to the deadbeat’s head, Lance said, “You wife beaters have one thing in common. You can’t fight someone who fights back.”
“Bitches all stick together,” Tyler spat over his shoulder.
“She kicked your ass.” Lance glanced at Morgan. “Nice shot.”
Morgan was on her knees, one hand on her neck; the other held her cell phone. Lance assumed she was calling 911. After giving the dispatcher the address, she slid the phone back into her pocket, sat on her heels, and wheezed, “The police are on the way.”
“Get off me,” Tyler screamed into the grass.
Lance shook his head and shifted a little more weight onto his knee. The air—and the fight—went out of Tyler like a deflated tire.
“You just assaulted a lawyer, dumbass,” Lance said. “She’s going to put your sorry butt in jail.”
With Tyler immobilized, Lance turned to Morgan. “Are you all right?”
She rubbed the base of her neck and swallowed. “Yes.”
“You sure handled him.” Lance massaged the achy spot on his thigh where a bullet had ended his police career the year before. The wound had healed as well as it was going to, but his sudden sprint had pulled at the scar tissue.
Morgan climbed to her feet and brushed off her knees.
Five minutes later, a sheriff’s department cruiser arrived, and a deputy got out. Scarlet Falls was a small town. Its modest police force frequently relied on the county sheriff or state police for backup.
She showed the deputy the legal paperwork and summarized the incident.
The deputy handcuffed Tyler and hauled him to his feet. Blood smeared his face and soaked the front of his white T-shirt. The deputy loaded Tyler into the back of the cruiser and took brief statements from Lance and Morgan.
“I’ll need you to sign formal statements.” He nodded at Morgan. “I’ll want pictures of those bruises too, but first I need to take him to the ER.”
The deputy drove off.
Lance was quiet as they went back to the Jeep, but the residue of anger and worry rolled through his body as he steered her to the vehicle and opened the passenger door.
Turning to face him, she placed a palm in the center of his chest. “I’m all right, Lance.”
He lifted her chin and swept her hair aside to examine her neck. “I’m sure you’re hurting worse than you’ll admit.”
Red patches were already forming on her pale skin.
“Bruises heal,” she said.
“That doesn’t mean I like to see them on your lovely neck.” As long as they worked together, Lance was going to want to protect her. Though she was tall, a slim frame and delicate features made her look almost dainty. Even with her attempt to dress casually, she was perfectly feminine, with little glittery earrings and black hair that shone like a shampoo model’s.
But he’d keep his inner guard dog on a tight leash. She was no helpless female, even if her ability to defend herself always took him by surprise.
As did the ache in his heart every time he laid eyes on her. What he felt for her, even in this fragile, early stage of their relationship, floored him. They’d only shared a few—albeit scorching—kisses. But he couldn’t deny his attraction went far beyond the physical.
Relief got the better of him. He moved suddenly, cupping her face in both hands and kissing her hard on the mouth. When he lifted his head, her blue eyes were dark and wide. “I know you can handle yourself. But I still wanted to rip Tyler’s head off for hurting you. It was all I could do not to strangle him.”
She smiled. “I’m sure he appreciates your restraint.”
“You probably broke his nose.” He grinned.
“I didn’t mean to break anything. I practiced those self-defense drills so many times growing up that my reactions are pure muscle memory.”
Morgan’s father and grandfather had been NYPD detectives. Her dad had been killed in the line of duty fifteen years ago, but clearly the lessons he’d taught his kids had stuck.
She pulled a blue, flowered scarf from her massive purse, in which she seemed to keep everything but a side of beef. She tied the scarf in a fancy knot around her throat to cover the bruises. But he knew they were there.
Her phone buzzed.
“Is that your sister?” he asked, remembering that Morgan’s sister was taking their grandfather to the cardiologist that day. Stella was a detective with the Scarlet Falls PD.
“No. His appointment isn’t until this afternoon.” Morgan read the display. “It’s Sharp. He says to hurry back. We have a client.”
After the danger they’d faced in the last case they’d worked together and this morning’s incident, Lance hoped the new case would be nice and boring.
“He says it’s a hot one,” Morgan said.
“Of course it is.”
Chapter Four
Morgan led the way into Sharp Investigations. The PI firm occupied the lower half of a duplex on a quiet street a few blocks off the main drag of Scarlet Falls. Lance’s boss lived in the upstairs unit. Downstairs, the two-bedroom apartment had been converted into professional space. Morgan had taken over the spare office. Though they were separate entities, private attorneys often required the services of PI firms. Being under the same roof was convenient, and the rent was cheap. With a brand-new practice, Morgan’s cash flow was tight.
A few sharp barks greeted them. Rocket, the white-and-tan stray dog Sharp had recently adopted, rushed them, wagging and snuffling at Morgan. A bulldog mix of some sort, her sturdy body was filling out nicely with regular meals.
Sharp met them in the foyer. “The client’s name is Tim Clark.”
In his midfifties, retired Scarlet Falls police detective Lincoln Sharp was fit and wiry. He wore his more-salt-than-pepper hair buzzed short. After twenty-five years on the force and another five running his own private investigation firm, Sharp sized people up with gray don’t-mess-with-me eyes that didn’t miss a thing. His lean, hawkish features looked tough, but Sharp was a total marshmallow on the inside.
“Clark?” Morgan crouched to greet the dog. “The name sounds familiar.”
“It should,” Sharp said. “His wife disappeared last Friday. It was on the news.”
“Now I remember.” Morgan recalled the news report. Young mother vanishing into thin air, her car found in the middle of nowhere.
The case had made headlines only briefly, until a police shooting over the weekend had garnered more public attention.
Morgan and Lance followed Sharp into his office, and he introduced them.
In his late twenties, Tim Clark had messy brown hair that fell to his shoulders. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, and his button-up shirt was as wrinkled as a sheet of aluminum foil that had been crumpled into a ball and smoothed out again.
He stood to shake their hands. “Thanks so much for seeing me. I should have called for an appointment, but honestly, I haven’t been thinking straight.”