Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane #2)(2)

Morgan glanced sideways at the big man in the driver’s seat.

Lance might have left the police force and joined a private investigation firm the previous summer, but he was still all cop—from his black cargo pants to the severe cut of his short blond hair. The blue flannel shirt he wore open and untucked concealed his weapon but did nothing to hide the impressive set of muscles that filled out the gray T-shirt beneath it. Below the rolled-up cuffs of his sleeves, his forearms bulged.

And if his physical appearance wasn’t threatening, the flat glint in his blue eyes gave him away.

He looked dangerous, like he meant business.

If the lowlife they were trying to serve got one look at Lance, he’d run, and the firm would have to start looking for him all over again. It had taken them three days to track the rat down.

As a former assistant district attorney turned private attorney, Morgan owed Lance’s boss big-time. Last month, Sharp Investigations had done her a huge favor and worked a criminal defense case without compensation. And if that wasn’t enough, Sharp had offered to rent her an empty office in his duplex when she’d decided to open her own practice.

“He will not open the door to you,” she said. “Which is why Sharp specifically asked me to help out with this case.”

Lance frowned and turned his gaze on her. A deep sigh of resignation rolled through him. “You’re right. But I don’t like the thought of you getting within ten feet of that scumbag, not with his record.”

Tyler Green owed his ex-wife thousands in child support. He was the deadest of deadbeat dads. He’d also been arrested multiple times for burglary and assault, though the charges had been plead down from a felony to a misdemeanor each time. To stay one step ahead of process servers and avoid paying his ex, he’d quit his job and moved out of his apartment, mooching his way through the households of family members and friends, never staying in one place long enough for the court system to catch up with him. But all good things had to come to an end. The ex had hired Sharp Investigations to find him so she could get him into court.

Lance’s mouth flattened. “Maybe he won’t open the door for you either.”

“There’s only one way to find out. I’m just your average suburban mom.” Morgan hoped Tyler mistook her for one of the neighbors. She was crossing her fingers that he’d open the door, she’d hand him the subpoena, and the firm would get paid.

Lance’s gaze raked over her. “You may be a mom, but there is nothing average about you.”

She fluffed her hair, opened the buttons of her black trench coat, and reached for the tray of brownies in the back seat. “There’s a much better chance Tyler will open the door with me standing on the doorstep.”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Lance said in an unhappy tone.

Morgan stashed her lipstick back in her tote. Her coat sleeve rode up with her movement, revealing the edge of the fresh pink scar that ran from her wrist to her elbow: an ugly reminder that working with criminals could be dangerous. The stitches had been out for several weeks, but the wound still looked raw and ugly.

Lines deepened around Lance’s mouth as he lifted his gaze from the scar to Morgan’s face. There was more between them than a professional relationship. How much more was yet to be determined. He was the first man who had tempted her since her soldier husband had been killed in Iraq two years before. But with three young children, making time for a man was a challenge on a good day. And over the past few weeks, Morgan’s eighty-five-year-old grandfather had been increasingly unsteady. Extra doctor appointments, tests, and worry were taxing Morgan beyond the normal level of crazy that was her life.

She touched Lance’s thick forearm. She’d meant the contact to be reassuring, but the arm under her hand was tense. Who knew a forearm could be so masculine?

“I’ll be watching,” he said, grim-faced.

“I didn’t doubt it for a second.” She gripped the door handle.

“Give me a minute to get into position.” Reaching under his flannel shirt, Lance checked the weapon at the back of his hip then got out of the vehicle.

Morgan wiped her damp palms on her jeans, took three deep breaths, and stepped out onto the pavement. Carrying the brownie tray, she walked toward number seventy-seven.

Lance crouched behind a shrub at the house next door. Peering through the foliage, he’d have a clear view of her on the doorstep.

She carried the brownies down the sidewalk and up the driveway. Climbing two concrete steps to the front stoop, she rang the doorbell. After a solid minute of silence, she raised the brass door knocker and rapped three times. For another thirty seconds, no one responded.

But she could feel someone watching her.

Footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. A few more seconds passed. Morgan imagined him looking through the peephole. She held her breath while the person on the other side of the door debated. Then the dead bolt slid with the quiet snick of metal on metal, and the door cracked with a soft squeak of its hinges.

Tyler peered through the opening. Barefoot, he wore jeans and a white undershirt very well. The photo in his file hadn’t done him justice. His six-feet-plus frame was fit and lean, and he was good-looking in a scruffy, bad-boy way. The arrogant smirk on his face said he knew it. His gaze traveled from Morgan’s face to her feet and back up again. He opened the door all the way, stepped into the doorway, and leaned lazily on the jamb.