Just as Tennyson was about to move to twist the bolt so the officer could get inside, the door exploded, smashing against the wall with a huge crash.
She screamed as a uniformed officer with a gun drawn moved into the room. He held the weapon out in front of him like they did in the movies. He had dark hair and wore a black belt with all kinds of equipment. He said, “Clear,” into a microphone on his chest.
He turned to look at her, a question in his blue eyes. Tennyson shouldn’t have noticed how hot he was, but she wasn’t dead yet, so she totally noticed.
She knew his questioning look meant he wanted to know where he should search. She pointed past the kitchen into the recesses that led to the bedroom, sitting room, office, and powder room.
He nodded and jerked his head toward the now open doorway.
She kept her hand on her mouth and moved behind him into the dark yawn of the night. The officer moved past the gleaming counter where her purse sat and crouched behind the counter. His gun remained trained on the empty space. Tennyson clutched the doorframe above the splintered wood of the jamb, too afraid to let the police officer out of her sight.
“This is the Shreveport Police. I need you to come out with your hands completely visible,” the man commanded.
Silence met his demand.
“If you do not come out with your hands visible, you will not like what comes next,” the man said. “Let’s do this the easy way.”
Tennyson watched with eyes wide as the man stood. He said a string of numbers and words into his microphone thing and then nodded when someone on the other end said some more numbers and something that sounded like “Proceed with caution.”
She yelped as someone tapped her.
Spinning around, she prepared to fight, but another officer stood there, her weapon drawn. Behind her was another policeman. The woman officer pulled Tennyson outside as she entered the house.
Tennyson stood, arms wrapped around her waist, though it wasn’t cold. She shook so hard she thought she might rattle. This was why she should have gone against her stupid inclinations and stayed in New York. She knew she made bad gut decisions. Always wanting to believe things would be as good as they were in her head before realizing that those decisions could . . . uh . . . land her in a casket. Moving back to Shreveport had been a mistake. Yeah, her boy would be here, but there were too many memories . . . and secrets . . . and Kit and Melanie.
Just as she had that thought, she heard a bark of laughter, and then the female police officer holstered her gun and said something into the mic on her uniform. Something that sounded like dispatch contacting animal control.
“What is it?” Tennyson said, drawing the attention of the officer.
“Ma’am, there’s not an intruder. Well, unless you count a raccoon as a burglar.”
“A raccoon?” Tennyson repeated. She stepped back in the house and stood surveying the opening to the back of the house with suspicion. It hadn’t sounded like a raccoon. Did they make that much noise? Oh God. What had it broken? Stephen’s ashes were on the shelf along with her priceless collection of lacquered makeup boxes. And where had she left the Tiffany candlesticks her grandmother had given her? Damn it.
The female officer cracked a smile. “Seems like you have a new pet.”
“I don’t . . . wait, it’s a raccoon in my bedroom?”
The good-looking police officer came out and shook his head. “I shut the door. Did someone call animal control?”
“Shut the door?” Tennyson asked, shouldering her way toward Tall, Dark, and Hot. “What about my things? It broke something. I have some expensive pieces in there. Can’t you go in and roust the thing out of there? Chase him back through the window or something?”
The officer whose name badge read J. Rhett turned bright-blue eyes on her. Bright-blue eyes that looked almost startling against his tanned skin. His gaze then dropped slightly to take her in, and she wished like hell she wasn’t wearing the stained T-shirt and no bra. “Ma’am, did you leave the window open?”
All three police officers were now looking at her like she’d committed the crime. “Well, I aired the house out. I thought I had closed and locked all of them, but I must have missed one. A friend called, and I sat down with my wine and . . .”
She could see in their eyes exactly what they thought of her—a stupid, rich blonde wasting their time. They’d be wrong on two accounts, though. Not that she would let anyone know her IQ was over 140, and she was pretty much mousy brown under her blonde hair dye. God forbid. People expected things of smart people, and blondes had more fun. And she’d given it the old college try on the fun.
“We’re out of here, Joe,” the woman said, raising her hand in a half-salute wave thing. “Gotta get that hit-and-run report on the captain’s desk.”
“Joseph,” the man uttered under his breath before returning the “later” wave.
“Thank you,” Tennyson remembered to call out as they disappeared through the French doors.
Joseph Rhett, hot cop that he was, didn’t seem to be pleased to be left with her.
“What’s on your face?” he asked, securing his weapon.
Tennyson lifted her hand and encountered the goopy charcoal mask that was half-dried and half-gummy. She’d forgotten about the stupid mask. “Uh, a purifying mask. It’s charcoal.”
He looked at her again, and damn her, she couldn’t help but tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Disaster wasn’t even the word for what she looked like. “You probably need to call someone to repair the lock on the door.”
Tennyson looked at the door. “You broke my door.”
“Well, I thought you were in danger.”
There was that. If a dangerous criminal had been in the house, would she be upset over the splintered wood? Probably not. But it wasn’t a burglar, and she was the person who’d left the damned window open. Wasn’t like she could blame the SPD when she’d caused the issue.
A crash came from her bedroom.
“Damn it,” she said, starting toward the bedroom. Officer Rhett caught her by her elbow. She turned. “I don’t want that thing to tear up my bedroom.”
“Raccoons are known to carry rabies and distemper.”
“Did it look like it was sick?”
He blinked. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I can’t have it tearing up my stuff.” She pulled her arm away and stalked toward her bedroom. She didn’t want to face a rabid raccoon, but she also wanted to sell some of the stuff the creature was likely rummaging through. The Colorado house was still on the market moldering even after she’d lowered the price, and the apartment in Manhattan was still without a lease. She’d paid cash for the Shreveport house, but it had wiped out one of her savings accounts. If she could sell some of the couture she never wore anymore, she could use that to pay the decorator’s bill.
Nothing wrong with upcycling. It helped the environment. And she wasn’t going to wear last year’s styles.
She threw open the door and damned if the raccoon wasn’t lying in the middle of her bed like a freaking sultan. It had rifled through her trash, leaving tissues and a tampon wrapper on the floor, and knocked over a goblet she’d left on the bedside table. The crystal pieces lay strewn on the wool rug she’d brought from the mountain house. The lamp had fallen, and the curtains she’d had custom made framed the six-inch crack the little bastard had somehow managed to climb through.