Pamela Tracy - Pursuit of Justice

Rosa’s foot hammered down on Officer Sam Packard’s instep. His grip loosened. She pulled away and managed to assume a position of flight. He had her on the ground in two seconds and finished giving the Miranda to the back of her head.

“I’ll pay you a thousand dollars to let me go.”

A bribe! She’d offered him a bribe! His eyes darkened. “Lady, it’s worth a thousand dollars just to find out what’s going on.” He pushed her toward the street where his cruiser’s lights flashed.

She clamped her lips together, and Sam knew he’d get no information from her at the moment. Sam liked challenges, and right now the woman-who smelled like peaches and shot like John Wayne-promised to be an entertaining puzzle.

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

PAMELA TRACY

lives in Arizona with a newly acquired husband (Yes, Pamela is somewhat a newlywed. You can be a newlywed for seven years. We’re only on year four) and a confused cat (Hey, I had her all to myself for fifteen years. Where’d this guy come from? But maybe it’s okay. He’s pretty good about feeding me and petting me) and a toddler (Newlymom is almost as fun as newlywed!). Pamela was raised in Omaha, Nebraska, and started writing at age twelve (A very bad teen romance featuring David Cassidy from The Partridge Family). Later, she honed her writing skills while earning a B.A. in journalism at Texas Tech University in Lubbock, Texas (And wrote a very bad science fiction novel that didn’t feature David Cassidy).

Readers can write to her at www.pamelakayetracy.com, or c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

Listen to my cry for help, my King and my God, for to You I pray. In the morning, O Lord, You hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before You and wait in expectation.

—Psalms 5:2–3

To my husband, Donald Osback,

who watched as I wrote during our honeymoon,

as I edited during road trips, and who

continuously models what a “hero” really is.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

Flashing lights, on a plain, brown sedan, blinked an unwanted command.

She momentarily closed her eyes, willing the image in the rearview mirror to disappear. When she opened them again, the cop remained. There’d been a time, she remembered, when cops drove cop cars, a time when plain, old, everyday vehicles didn’t suddenly sprout flashing lights. Taking a deep breath, she glanced at the speedometer and tried to control the urge to flee.

Every time she saw a cop, she wanted to floor it and veer out of sight. Since she usually obeyed the speed limit, the cop always went around her in pursuit of some other offender. But, no, not this time. The speedometer and rearview mirror informed her that this time, this cop was definitely after her.

She hesitated a moment too long. The traffic signal in front of her switched from yellow to red. She hit the brake and only her seat belt kept her from serious injury.

Run the light!

Now!

Her fingers gripped the steering wheel. There’d be no time to get to the trailer and grab her suitcase. No time to pick up her cat.

Checking the rearview mirror again, she watched as the patrol car gained on her bumper. Instinctively, she adjusted her hat, trying to cover her face, and watched the cop motion her toward the side of the road. He was that close.

No, no, no.

Her foot, already poised for the escape she so desperately desired, brushed the gas pedal.

Floor it!

But there was always the chance the cop would just hand over the speeding ticket and be done with it. She slowly pulled off the street and into a deserted grocery store’s parking lot. The front passenger tire bumped over the curb.

Great, just great.

She willed her fingers to cease trembling as she turned off the engine and slipped a bulging manila folder under the passenger seat. She carefully opened the glove compartment and took out the Arizona driver’s license which displayed the likeness of Lucille Damaris Straus complete with a tight smile and short, choppy, black hair.

Please let this be a speeding ticket.

She should never have purchased this car. Statistics showed that red cars were pulled over for speeding more often than cars of any other color. And a Mustang just begged for attention. The car had gotten away from her today.

Why hadn’t she been born an economy car kind of girl? Life sure would have been simpler.

She’d spent the last two years being careful, watching the speedometer, stopping longer at red lights than necessary and making sure she never forgot to use her turn signal. Then, somebody at work fell behind on car payments, house payments, child support, whatever, and needed to sell the Mustang cheap. She half purchased the vehicle in order to help the man. She’d half purchased it because she liked the car. But, no matter, truth was she’d messed up, started feeling safe, given in to impulse and a lead foot.

Bad timing.

The cop finally stepped out of his vehicle. Great, he wasn’t even in uniform. Lucy didn’t want to follow his rigid movements in her rearview mirror. What she wanted to do was stomp on the gas and leave him coughing in exhaust fumes. But, if she did that, there would surely be a problem. If she waited, there might be a problem.

He strode toward her, adjusting his sunglasses and walking ramrod straight. No doubt about this man’s physique. He looked sort of like the Ken doll she’d had as a child. A second look told her that Ken did not hold a candle to this cop—the muscles of his arms about burst out of his sleeves.

Great, and probably he had that Ken doll good-heartedness, too. He wouldn’t fall prey to tears, apologies or coy looks. This one had already started filling out some sort of ticket and most likely had radioed in her license plate number.

The driver’s license stuck to her damp palm as she took a deep breath. Of all places to get arrested, Gila City was on the bottom of her list, and it was a long list.

The cop rapped on her window. “Ma’am, step out of the car, please.” The afternoon sun bounced off his mirrored glasses, giving him a peculiar insect sort of look. She wondered if the glasses were protection against the come-hither attitude of females who wanted to avoid speeding tickets. Well, she wasn’t one of them. She opened the door but didn’t step out. Swallowing before speaking, she tried to sound in control. “Is something the matter, Officer?”

“I need to see your license and registration.”

“I have them right here.”

“I’ll take them.” His voice was textured steel. “Please step out of the car and take off your glasses.”