Married by Monday (The Weekday Brides #2)(18)
Author: Catherine Bybee

“That shouldn’t have happened,” she mumbled. He probably expected her to fight, but she was out of energy and at a loss of words.

“Shh,” he hushed her. “We’ve been sniffing around this for years.”

She nodded and didn’t trust herself to speak.

After a brief hug and a kiss to her forehead, he stepped back, keeping his hands on her arms.

Eliza adjusted her clothing and met his gaze. “What about you?” she asked when she caught sight of his aroused state.

“We’re good,” he assured her with a half smile.

Her eyes dipped as fatigue took over.

“I should go,” he said.

They’d pushed through enough boundaries for one night. And if he felt secure that she’d be here tomorrow, he wouldn’t feel the need to keep watch on her all night.

Chapter Eight

Sleep eluded him most of the night. Finally, at four in the morning Carter gave up and took a tepid shower. Beat the hell out of the freezing cold one he’d taken the night before. He’d do it all again. One taste of Eliza was not going to be enough. He knew it wouldn’t be. Maybe that was why he didn’t give into the urge to kiss her over the past two years. The verbal sparring was the only release of the sexual tension that had built.

Not anymore. During the few hours of rest he’d managed, he cleared his head of the emotions clogging his thought processes and realized what he needed to do was to learn Eliza’s secrets.

He shoved into a Friday casual suit, leaving the tie and jacket off until he needed to leave his house.

The kitchen wasn’t a place he spent much time, but he could manage a small breakfast. He set the coffee maker to brew and fired up his computer.

Searching for Eliza Havens before her eighteenth birthday had already come up empty. “You didn’t drop out of the sky,” he said to himself. He ran a search on her last name and surprisingly didn’t come up with much other than the media coverage from the day before and anything concerning Blake and Samantha. There were a few photos taken of different social events over the last couple of years. In each one, Eliza’s face was partially hidden from view. Even one of the two of them at Blake’s Texas wedding. It was almost as if Eliza knew the camera was pointed at her and she didn’t want her face seen.

Carter poured himself a cup of black coffee and out of habit turned on the television set to the news. The last he heard, the media coverage from the day before was still painting him in a dim light. Yet instead of doing whatever he could to grow his points in the polls, he was searching the net to uncover Eliza’s past.

What did he really know about her? He removed a legal pad from his desk and wrote her name at the top of the page.

Age? He didn’t know. He guessed it to be in her late twenties.

Parents? She never spoke of them. In fact, she never spoke of family at all. He placed a big question mark by the word parents.

Born? He assumed California. She didn’t talk about living anywhere else.

School? Carter ran a hand through his hair and tossed the pen on the desk.

Jesus, he knew nothing about her. How shitty was that?

After a couple more sips of coffee, he turned the page of the pad over and wrote down what he did know.

Eliza Havens, he scribbled her name and circled it twice.

He’d known her for two years. She’d been Samantha’s friend for several before that.

He wrote down other words that came to mind when her image flashed in his brain. Smart. Resourceful. Goal Oriented. Beautiful. Witty. Secretive. Carries a gun. He circled this twice.

Why would someone carry a gun? Law enforcement or federal officer, but that didn’t make sense. Up until yesterday, he’d not seen her around any official of any kind. Then those two detectives knocked on the door.

Carter dropped his hand on his desk. “Of course.” He wasn’t looking in the right place for answers.

It was just after five in the morning. Too early to call in favors.

He warmed up his coffee and started a search in the LAPD profile to see if he could recognize the faces of the men who showed up at his door.

An hour later, he had two names. Dean Brown and James Fletcher. Long time detectives in good standing with the department. They were under the heading of Special Operations. How generic could it get.

He picked up the phone and dialed a contact in New York.

“Yeah?”

“Hey Roger, it’s Carter.”

Carter had known Roger even longer than he’d known Blake. The two of them operated in different worlds now, but at one time, they’d been close. “Well hello, governor. How the hell are you?”

“I’m not the governor yet.”

“Give it time, give it time,” his friend chuckled. “What has you calling me?”

“Can’t a guy call a friend?”

“Ha! You’re too busy for friends. Especially those of us who never left New York.”

Carter could hear the busy station in the background of the call, phones ringing and someone swearing up a blue streak. Criminal or cop, it was hard to tell. Sadly, Roger spoke the truth. There were very few people Carter kept up with unless the involved climbing to the next tier of his career.

“How’s Beverly?”

“Good. Ready to pop any day.”

Carter cradled his head in his free hand. He’d forgotten all about her pregnancy. “Everything’s good though? The baby and mom are doing fine?”

“She’s great. Roger Junior should be here by the end of the month.”

“Do you know if it’s a boy?”

Roger huffed. “Doctor said the cord was in the way of a good view, but I’d like to think that cord was just my boy taking after his old man. Besides having a girl scares the crap out of me.”

Carter envisioned Roger and his two hundred plus pounds holding a six-pound infant. What a sight. “You’re going to be a great dad.”

There was a pause on the line. “So, why are you really calling? Need a little help counselor?”

Carter took his pen and flipped the pages of his desk calendar and scribbled Rogers name on a random date a couple of weeks away. He really did need to check on his friend and his expecting wife just to see how they were. “I do have a couple of questions you might be able to help me with.”

Roger didn’t seem pissed that he was right about a reason for the call. “Shoot.”

“I ran into a couple of LAPD detectives who work under the title of Special Operations. Any idea what that could be?”