“We’re off,” Andrew said, laughing as Emma hopped on his back. Her overgrown puppy of a son then galloped toward his monstrous F-250 with Emma squealing the entire way.
“Damn, they’re too young.” Tennyson sighed, even though she’d proclaimed they weren’t only weeks before. Mostly because she could see that Melanie thought their children were out of their minds to wed at such an age. Tennyson agreed. Those two needed time to season, but she wasn’t going to agree with Melanie. Besides, plenty of people, including her own parents, had married right out of high school, and they were still together. Sometimes it was best to grow up together.
Maybe that was why Melanie and Kit were still together. They had married right after college, a day Tennyson would never forget. She’d been living in SoHo, recovering from Rolfe’s overdose and the shock of finding out she was pregnant when she got the invitation. She’d stared at the cream vellum in utter disbelief. For one, she had no clue Kit and Melanie had gotten engaged. For another, she couldn’t believe their effing audacity. Pain had crushed her, and she’d stayed in bed for two days, eating ice cream, crying, and watching old movies featuring women who’d been cast aside getting their revenge.
Then she’d booked her flight to Shreveport for the wedding weekend. They’d sent the invite . . . and she was damned well going to show up.
Andrew tooted the horn as he backed down the driveway, and it jarred her from her thoughts about the past. She gave a wave, and nearly an hour later, she sprawled on the couch, her legs freshly shaved, sipping from a nearly half-empty bottle of her favorite wine. Andrew had texted that they’d run into friends and would be home later than expected. Not that he owed her any notice.
She’d skipped eating the salad, and the wine was already giving her that mellowness she craved. Maybe she drank too much each night, but damn it, ever since she’d divorced her third husband, she’d been lonely.
Not that she would admit it.
By the time the bottle was empty, she was utterly bored. Prada was snoring softly on the cushion beside her, not even bothering to be company to her.
She should have gone with Emma and Andrew. Or called a few old friends who she swore she was going to stay in touch with but hadn’t because she’d never planned to return here. Not that any of her old crew had reached out to her since she’d returned. Hell, they might not even know she was back in town. Melanie hadn’t, and that had been fun.
Tennyson rose, not waking the pup, and walked out back, where the pool shimmered in the dawning starlight. She wore a gorgeous silk caftan that fluttered around her ankles in the soft twilight breeze. Her hair had been colored, highlighted, and cut into a flattering shag that softened her pointy chin. Her painted toes dug into the blue slate as she walked around to the in-ground spa, dipping one foot in. She could slip the caftan off and slide into the water in just her Agent Provocateur bra and thong.
Or not. The lingerie was expensive, and no need to have the shock treatment Andrew had dumped in earlier damage the delicate lace and silk.
So she kept walking to the far side of the yard, admiring the oleander that would soon bloom. It would be perfect later in June for the shower. Invitations would go out on Monday. God, people were going to be so surprised by the personalized hand-lettered invites.
Something to her left caught her eye. On the side of the pergola covering the outdoor seating area was a large black duffel bag. Her heart sprang into her chest. Just days ago a suspicious backpack had been discovered in the stairwell of the Caddo Parish courthouse. Turned out a student left it, but the city had been cautious, deploying a bomb squad just in case. No doubt this was merely a bag left by one of the workers who’d come that morning to change out the pool pump.
But what if it wasn’t something left by a worker?
What if it was something more dastardly . . . something dangerous . . . something that should be checked by a good-looking officer of the law?
She laughed because she was a little drunk and a lot lonely.
Turning, she hurried back into the house, looking for her purse. Inside was her Chanel lipstick with the slight shimmer. Not totally trashy, but just enough to make her lips vibrant with desire. That was how the saleswoman had put it, and that silly thought made her laugh again. Then she pulled out the card she’d slid into the pocket of her wallet.
Officer Joseph C. Rhett. Hot Cop himself.
Ten minutes later, she fluffed her hair and pulled the door open. She may or may not have spritzed herself with her favorite Tom Ford scent.
Okay, she totally had.
“Officer Rhett, thank you for coming so quickly,” she said, summoning her best victim voice, perfected when she’d played Lois Lane in an off-off-Broadway mash-up called Superman Saves the Dame. Of course she’d been nude the entire play, so that could have had something to do with the vulnerability factor.
He blinked at her slightly overplaying her role. “Sure. It’s my job.”
“Of course it is. Come in, and I’ll take you around back where I found the suspicious package.” Prada toddled toward her, yawning with a yip. The pup went right to the door, and Tennyson’s heart soared with hope that Prada finally understood she was to do her business outside.
“What’s that?” Officer Rhett asked, stooping and extending his hand. Prada smelled his hand, and then, very ladylike, gave him a simple swipe of her tongue before squatting on the oriental runner and peeing.
“That’s my attack dog . . . one who seems to think the carpet is grass.”
Officer Rhett stood. “Attack dog, huh?”
Tennyson shrugged, scooped Prada from where she now stood, obviously empty of bodily fluids, and gestured to the back. “This way.”
“Is it a package? Or a bag? You said bag on the phone.” He stepped inside, his big body brushing slightly against her shoulder. He smelled good. Warm and woodsy. Like a real man would smell, not a well-manicured businessman with $500 loafers. This man was a Wolverine boots kinda guy. And she only knew about those because a guy in high school used to wear them.
“It’s a . . . bag. I think.”
Officer Rhett looked at her with suspicion. Maybe all cops looked at people with suspicion. “Let me take a look before I call for backup this time.”
He made her sound silly. She wasn’t silly. She was opportunistic. And lonely. And maybe slightly horny. Hey, it had been a long time, and Officer Joe looked mighty fine in his uniform. “Just come through here.”
She led him through the living area, out the solarium, and through the French doors that led to her back patio. She’d bought the house because of the outdoor area. The blue-gray slate stretched out to a gorgeous leveled pool with a large brick wall from which water cascaded. Beyond was the outdoor pergola with the stone hearth and small pool house. The slate also extended to the carriage/mother-in-law house, which was a minireplica of her house. On the other side was a once-lush garden that needed some TLC, but would be breathtaking once her landscape artist got ahold of it.
Officer Rhett looked around at the splendor, and she didn’t miss the appreciation in his eyes. He turned to her and arched a dark brow . . . which was sexy. Totally sexy.
“Over there.” She pointed, kissing Prada on the head and earning a doggy kiss in return.
When he turned toward the area by the pump, she quickly tugged her breasts upward in the lace bra and intentionally allowed the caftan ties at her throat to come undone. Prada seemed to understand and immediately started chewing the ties, widening the gap even more. This dog was finally being useful beyond mere cuteness.