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 felt her face grow hot. What was this guy smoking? Wedding dress? Marriage license? Different name? “I’m not getting married,” she said. She’d been married. It hadn’t gone well.
Chief Bates looked as if he wasn’t used to people disagreeing with his plans. Detective Roy stepped forward. “Of course not,” he said. “Your cover for the next month while we await Harry Malone’s trial will be as Detective Hollister’s wife. You’ll be living at Chase’s parents’ home in rural Missouri, about two hours from here.”
Her head, maybe feeling light because she’d lost a lot of hair or maybe because she was in an alternate universe, swiveled on her neck. She stared at Tuxedo Guy. “We’re going to be married,” she repeated. “Actually, we’re already married, if the wedding was August 15,” she said, rather stupidly she thought, the minute the words were out of her mouth.
“I guess that’s right,” he said.
“And we’re going to live with your parents?”
He shook his head. “They’re dead. The house is empty.”
She rubbed her forehead. “What’s my new name?” she asked.
Chief Bates stepped forward. “In these types of situations, it’s better if we can keep your first name the same. Less confusion for you. In the event of an emergency, you’ll react to it better. We’ll list your maiden name on the wedding certificate as Lorraine Smith. It’s common enough. Then, of course, you’ll be Lorraine Hollister for the duration of this assignment.”
“Somewhere in Missouri,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Chief Bates said.
She clutched her wedding dress tighter. “I swear to God, if I ever get a chance at Harry Malone, I’m going to kill him myself.”
* * *
THE BLOND HAIR had set him back because it was such a dramatic difference from the picture he’d studied on the way over to the hair salon. In the photo, her brown hair had hung past her shoulders, her face had been pale and her eyes had been dark with fatigue. It had likely been taken the morning that she’d first been interviewed by the Miami police after her ordeal with Harry Malone had ended.
Today, she looked amazing. The hair was sexy, her skin was clear and fresh and her blue eyes were gorgeous. She would make a pretty bride.
Once Chief Bates had determined the plan, they’d swung into action. The chief had left to intercept Lorraine Taylor. Chase had been dispatched home to pack a suitcase and then to the mall to get a tux. He had met Dawson back at the police station and they’d picked up Gavin Henderson, who’d been busy in his own right. He’d been sent home to get his daughter’s recently cleaned wedding dress. All of them, including the chief, had been at her wedding five weeks earlier.
Dawson had managed to pull him aside before they’d piled into the car. “I know why you offered up the house in Ravesville,” he’d said. “And I appreciate it.”
“It’s no problem,” Chase had replied, lying. He hated the idea.
“Newlyweds?” Dawson had needled. “You going to be okay with that?”
Dawson was well aware that Chase wasn’t interested in marriage. Even so, because he was besotted with his own bride, Dawson had a tendency to overencourage Chase to commit and ragged his tail when Chase easily dismissed the idea. It had gotten to the point that Chase had stopped telling him about his occasional dates because the man made too damn big a deal out of them.
That, of course, had led Dawson to worry that Chase was becoming a monk. “You’re not getting any younger,” he said. “You might want to catch one while you’re still in your prime.”
He sure as hell wasn’t going to admit to Dawson that his leg now ached as though he was ninety.
The next month was going to suck but he’d make the best of it. He was pretty confident Lorraine Taylor felt the same way. When she’d said Missouri, it had sounded an awful lot like misery. She hadn’t slammed the door when she’d gone to change into the wedding dress but she’d surely