Jill Sorenson - Crash Into Me

He laughed with more derision than mirth. “Only my pride.”

As he staggered over to her living room couch, her gaze dropped to the seat of his jeans. They fit loose, but the muscles underneath appeared very firm indeed. “Is that where you keep it?” she murmured. “In your back pocket?”

Recovering his composure with remarkable ease, he made himself comfortable on her outdated couch, taking up as much space as humanly possible. “Why don’t you check and see?” he suggested, flashing her that signature, off-center grin.

Of course, her attention was drawn to his front pockets, and the well-worn fly of his jeans. Annoyed with herself for looking, and for liking what she saw, she went behind the kitchen counter to pour a cup of coffee.

“Why are you afraid of men?”

“Why are you afraid of women?” she shot back at him.

“Who says I am?”

She could hardly admit she’d been investigating him, or that she’d seen his evade-and-retreat routine all over the beach. But she needed him to reveal something about himself, to deflect the attention away from her. “Carly told me you don’t date.”

“Carly,” he choked, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to talk about Carly.”

“Fair enough,” she said, taking a sip from her cup. “Sure you don’t want some?”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

“You’re a regular goody two-shoes, aren’t you?”

He narrowed his eyes at the provocative remark. “I’m not afraid of women,” he said, studying her face. “Except maybe you.”

“You avoid them, don’t you?” She waited for his answer, sipping coffee.

When he hesitated, she wondered if he was thinking about his wife. He looked almost guilty, as if he’d just betrayed her memory. Perhaps he wasn’t as unflappable, or as innocent, as he pretended to be. “I’ve had a lot of them come on to me, on tour, at contests,” he said, staring down at his hands. “I got tired of it.”

“Tired of adoring women? That would be a first.”

“Sometimes it was more than adoring.”

“Really? Do tell,” she cooed.

“Don’t patronize me,” he replied, having no trouble reading her flippancy. “I’m not the one whose overreactions border on assault and battery.”

“You’re right. Forget I asked.”

Her casual dismissal of the subject irked him, as was her intention. “If I tell you, will you show me what you’ve got underneath that towel?”

“Not today,” she said.

His eyes roved over her body with undisguised interest. “On a publicity tour in Japan, a girl grabbed me and wouldn’t let go.”

“Grabbed you where?”

He gave her a pointed look. “Where do you think?”

She hid a smile behind her coffee cup.

“I’m kind of big over there, no pun intended, and until that day, I didn’t realize how popular I was. The crowd got a little wild, she got a good hold, some bodyguard pulled me the other way, and-” He saw her expression. “What? You think this is funny?”

She gave up trying to hold in her laughter. “Sorry. It’s not. It’s really not.”

“You’re damned right it’s not. I was out of commission for weeks.”

“No surfing?”

“I could still surf.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He paused, considering. “Something like that happened to you?”

“My story isn’t as cute as yours.”

He shrugged, leaning back to listen anyway.

Feeling a mild panic, she glanced at the clock on the coffeemaker. “You’re sweet, but I’ve got to be somewhere in an hour.”

His eyes widened with disbelief. Obviously, he wasn’t accustomed to being summarily dismissed. She was willing to bet no woman had ever told him he was sweet, or called him a goody two-shoes, or laid him out on the ground like a pile of bricks, either.

To his credit, he was persistent. But then, a man didn’t become a world champion by heading in when the surf got rough. “Sure you don’t want to drop that towel?”

“I’m naked underneath this towel.”

“I know.”

Keeping it carefully closed and firmly in place, she showed him to the door. On his way out he gave her a hungry look, the kind designed to melt a woman’s resolve. It took every ounce of strength she possessed to act unaffected.

Sonny didn’t exhale until she shut the door behind him. Willing her pulse to stop racing, she wondered how long it would take him to realize she hadn’t answered his question.

She never told him how she knew Carly’s name.

Otay Mesa Prison, where Darrius O’Shea had been an inmate, was the only maximum security prison in San Diego County. It was a sprawling expanse of concrete buildings and sun-baked earth, located near the depressingly dusty and appropriately named Brown Field, within a stone’s throw of the border.

Freedom beckoned from beyond heavy chain-link fences and snarling curls of razor wire, so close the prisoners could almost taste it.

Sonny was asked to turn in her service revolver and sign a release form before she went inside, a process she was familiar with, having visited jails before.

Her brother, Rigo, had been incarcerated for most of his adult life.

She didn’t care to be stripped of her weapon, especially considering the facility’s “enter at your own risk” policy. Like the U.S. government, Otay Mesa Prison refused to negotiate for hostages.

“I’d rather hold on to my SIG,” she said to a bored-looking guard.

“It could be taken from you,” he explained unnecessarily.

She studied the gun belt at his slim waist, thinking about how easy it would be to give him a swift, efficient demonstration of her skill. “Whatever,” she said instead, removing the holster at her hip and handing it over.

“Deputy Duncan will accompany you.”

She nodded at the other guard, who stood tall and alert. Military training, she noted as she preceded him down the hall.

Not that she needed backup.

Men who had been in prison for a long time had predictable reactions to visitors, especially females, so officials knew better than to parade her about. The tall guard led Sonny down a deserted walkway to a private interview room and waited quietly while the inmate she’d come to see was brought in for questioning.

Andrew Leeds had been convicted of armed robbery and aggravated assault more than five years ago. He’d occupied the cell next to Darrius O’Shea’s for the duration of his incarceration, and had reported his suicide.

Although Leeds was a young man, in his late twenties at the most, he was also a hardened criminal who resembled a typical long-timer in many ways. His head was shaved clean and his reddish blond facial hair, trimmed in an odd, intricate design. Webs of tattoos adorned his thick neck and snaked down the length of his brawny arms.

She kept her eyes on his face as she extended her hand. “Mr. Leeds? I’m Special Agent Vasquez.”

Leeds didn’t return the favor, dropping his gaze to give her body a thorough examination, but he did return her handshake.

Clearing her throat, she added, “Thank you for agreeing to speak with me.”

“My pleasure,” he murmured, taking a seat at the same time she did. The guard who’d escorted him stood sentry outside the door. When she inclined her head, Deputy Duncan joined him there. Leeds raised his brows and studied her anew, seeming impressed by her lack of concern at being left alone in a room with him.

She got right down to business. “What can you tell me about Darrius O’Shea?”

His eyes narrowed. “What do you want to know?”

“Did he talk about the murder?”

Leeds shifted back in his chair, bracing his hands on the edge of the table between them. A cocky-looking woodpecker twitched on the middle of his forearm. “Maybe.”