Razor's Edge: Men in Blue Book 2 Read online

  She clipped the corner of the fence that penned in her father’s thoroughbreds before zipping along the driveway toward the main entrance. As she barreled past the front of the house, she spotted her father waving his arms. His mouth gaped in his flushed face as he roared at her to stop. She accelerated instead. Up ahead, the gate shuddered, beginning to close.

  Isabella wrestled the shifter into third. The speedometer climbed as she raced toward the narrowing exit. There was no way she’d make it in time. She half-expected to smash into the wrought iron as she threaded the needle between the moving panels. It was a struggle not to scrunch her eyes and brace for impact.

  None came.

  She cleared the gate with inches to spare. A pursuer she hadn’t noticed couldn’t brake in time. He slammed into the deceptively strong tangle of metal with a terrible combination of a screech, a bang and the shattering of glass. Behind the steam rising from the destruction, some combination of her father’s and husband’s minions scrambled to clear the blockage. The walled perimeter effectively held them in.

  They shrank in her rearview mirror.

  The blockage wouldn’t detain them for long, but she only needed a head start. She considered driving straight to the police. However, both her father and husband made sizable contributions to the force. After what she’d witnessed the other night, she guaranteed they had at least a few cops in their pocket too. She couldn’t risk trusting the wrong person.

  They’d left her one option, and she’d take it. No matter the cost to her father’s businesses. She’d ruled out public humiliation earlier for his sake. His convenience no longer ranked on her list of priorities when the devil had his ear. She would never return to that man—either of them. If only her mother were alive…

  Isabella punched the glowing phone icon on the steering wheel, uncaring if her father somehow listened in on the conversation. He couldn’t stop her now.

  “Call.”

  “Please say the name of the person you’d like to reach.” The car’s onboard computer prompted her to use the voice-activated controls in a tone entirely too pleasant for her current state of mind.

  “Channel 9 News, bitch.”

  “Nametag not found. Please try again.”

  “Channel 9 News. Please.”

  She prayed this car had an equivalent, or better, system than her own. When ringing filled the cabin, she grinned.

  “Newsroom.”

  “This is Isabella Buchanan Carrington. I’m on my way to your studio to announce my separation from Malcolm Carrington. Please have your anchor reporter on site. If you hurry, we can make an exclusive on the eight o’clock news.”

  She figured the clerk had never received a tip like hers before when the commotion of the newsroom droned on in the background for a solid ten seconds.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this a prank?”

  “No. Now pay attention or I’m calling Channel 6. I don’t have time to waste. Would you care to explain that to your boss?”

  “Jake!” The panicked man bellowed in her ear, but she didn’t care. “Get Steven on the phone, I need him in here now for breaking news.”

  “I’ll be there in—” she revised her estimate as she jammed the pedal to the floor, “—twenty minutes. It’d be best if you kept this to yourself until then.”

  “We’re sure as shit not going to leak it and end up scooped.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No lady, thank you.”

  Chapter Two

  Isabella thumbed past the now-famous snapshot of her interview on the front page as she skimmed to the help wanted section of the Sunday paper. She’d hunkered down in this weekly hotel for three days, expecting someone to come for her at any moment. Every clanking pipe, honking horn or scratching rodent in the wall made her jump a mile high. So far, they’d left her in peace.

  Her adamant statement complete with bloody lip, torn clothes and an iron resolve she hadn’t known herself capable of had convinced enough people of her sincerity that Malcolm hadn’t been able to make his move. Yet.

  With her husband and father temporarily off her case, she needed to figure out a plan. Fast. The stash of money she’d pilfered wouldn’t get her very far despite the shoestring budget she’d drafted up. She scrubbed her palms over her face. How could she have stayed oblivious to the enormous cost of survival relative to average wages, even in their mid-Western city, until yesterday?

  How did most families make ends meet?

  Isabella tapped her pen against the extremely short list of her marketable skills.

  Charity event planning.

  Personal shopping.

  Modeling.

  She figured she was royally screwed but browsed through the job ads regardless. She’d clean toilets if she had to. Any honest living beat crawling home to Malcolm and his deceitful, humiliating, perverted ways. Not to mention the other women who needed her help.

  She shuddered.

  Painter, secretary, landscaper, clerk…she could learn these trades, if someone would give her half a chance. So far, every establishment she’d contacted had disregarded her interest. One woman had outright cackled, assuming the call was a joke. “Yeah right, like that bitch would ever slum it enough to dirty her hands. She might break a perfect nail.”

  Tears had filled her eyes. Mostly because the woman wouldn’t have been so far off from the truth less than a year ago. Others had rejected her because they didn’t want their business turned into a circus with her as the starring freak.

  She understood their concerns, but the neat stacks of hundreds she’d stuffed under her mattress—ignoring the gummy stains there—wouldn’t last her more than half a year, even at her new standard of living. Plus, it would take far more than surviving to break free from her husband and fix the evil things he’d done.

  Though she’d checked her accounts, she hadn’t been one bit surprised to find each of them frozen. There had to be something she could handle. Determined, she turned the page.

  The moment her eyes landed on the double-sized ad, she knew she’d found the perfect solution. This she could do. Here her personal drama would work in their favor.

  Isabella grinned wide enough to crack her lip open a little. She didn’t pay any attention to the iron tang. Already she formulated a plan. She’d need the right outfit, makeup, shoes… these things she knew about.

  And Channel 9 owed her big time.

  Isabella appraised her reflection in the mirrored doors of the station’s elevator. The woman she spied was a far cry from the terrified girl who’d ridden up to the newsroom with her back to the corner mere days ago.

  A slinky red dress with matching fire-engine lipstick, five-inch heels, brilliant blue eyes enhanced by drastic cosmetics, hair curled and piled sky high to make her appear taller—she meant business. The bell dinged, signaling her arrival. She forced her fingers to uncurl. She embraced the persona of the dignified lady her father had bred her to be.

  The strut she had perfected by the time she had turned thirteen came in handy as she traversed the hallway as though it were a haute couture runway.

  Chin up. She didn’t deign to acknowledge the heads that turned from all directions as she passed by. Whispers accompanied her progress like the brush of silk skirts on one of the ridiculous ball gowns her father and husband had insisted on often for public appearances. She followed the sexy beat of Latin music to an open studio for her grand entrance. Hand on hip, she tossed her mane over her shoulder. She stood, waiting for the producers to notice her.

  It didn’t take more than half a second.

  Activity in the room froze as people turned to gape. All conversation hushed. When she could be heard without raising her voice, she said, “I’ll be auditioning for the instructor slot on the Pro-Am dance show. Latin round first?”

  Two women to her right shot her death-ray glares then packed in their legwarmers. She ignored the vicious curses they slung at her when they deserted the studio. In their place, she
’d be pissed too.

  “Baby.” A short, middle-aged man sporting enough gel for someone with five times his thinning hair grinned. She shied away from his outstretched arms and the double kiss he tried to plant on her cheeks. “You’re a dazzling local celebrity embroiled in a scandalous divorce. No audition’s necessary. Our ratings just shot through the roof.”

  Isabella concentrated on keeping her stiletto glued to the floor instead of kneeing the pompous asshole in the balls for his glee over her heartache.

  “I will not accept this position without a proper audition.” He had no clue if she could dance, never mind instruct someone else.

  After the loss of her mother, who’d died when Isabella was eleven, her father had been determined to raise her as a proper lady. Part of her training in all things sophisticated had included ballroom dancing. The lessons her father had required were the single thing she’d enjoyed about the endless schooling in etiquette that had accompanied her traditional education.

  She’d dedicated years to pleasing her father, making him proud. But it seemed ten times as important to ensure she deserved this opportunity. Especially because she hadn’t danced since her wedding day. Malcolm had forbidden her from partnering with any other man, and he had a sense of rhythm on par with a drunken goat.

  What if she’d forgotten everything?

  She might try and fail, but things that were given could easily be taken away. Of that, she was certain. And she was damn tired of being beholden to people.

  “I’ll go last.”

  The producer shrugged. He reclaimed his folding chair at the single table in the room, facing the stage. Most of the other women trickled out. A smattering stayed to fight, unwilling to quit or hoping to see her choke. She could respect their determination.

  The music resumed, and a candidate started her choreographed routine. Isabella appreciated the technique and lines of the obviously seasoned dancer, but she thought the movement lacked some fluidity and connection to emotion. As the dancers performed, her confidence increased. She could do this.

  “Isabella Buchanan Carrington.” The stagehand read her name off the list.

  Showtime.

  Isabella stood with her back to the room. She closed her eyes, shook out her muscles and rotated her stiff ankle as she waited for the music to begin. Thank God for ibuprofen. The introductory strains filled the space yet she didn’t move, allowing the melody to imprint on her. Smooth and sensual, the Spanish rumba flowed through her. She synchronized her breathing to the phrases then leaned into the beat.

  Her hips swayed to the sultry guitars before her arms joined in. Her abdomen rolled, accenting the percussion of the drums. The song called to her, sad and sweet at the same time. She opened her heart and allowed all her longing to pour out in her movement.

  What would it be like to have a lover as achingly passionate as the music implied? Someone who lifted her up instead of tearing her down. Someone she could whisper her fantasies to at night without fear of recrimination or humiliation. Someone she could commit herself to heart and soul.

  Isabella imagined such a man and how she could partner with him. Moving in unison or rocking in delicious counterpoint, together they’d set the night on fire. She leapt into the air, transitioned into a fouette then ground her pelvis in an instinctive lure for her imaginary lover.

  As the music quieted, so too did her movements. She smiled to herself as she swayed, wishing she knew the satisfaction of sharing pillow talk and quiet moments filled only with physical exhaustion and absolute contentment. All things she considered a delicious fairytale.

  But that didn’t keep her from dreaming.

  She sighed, releasing the last of her labored breaths into the quiet room. Terrified to open her eyes, she wondered at the lack of commotion that had followed the other auditions.

  At the first resounding clap, her lids flew open. Suddenly everyone joined in, applauding her impromptu performance. Her knees went weak, dropping her to the stage as the crowd in attendance—as well as several people in the hall who’d gathered around to watch—rewarded her honest expression. Their approval meant more to her than she could have imagined.

  The woman she’d observed earlier jumped onto the stage and approached with her hand outstretched. She helped Isabella to her feet and whispered, “You deserve this. I’ll be watching the show and cheering for you.”

  “Thank you.” She squeezed the woman in a brief hug as they headed toward the producer’s table.

  “Welcome to Dance With Me. You’ll be paired with your celebrity amateur for your first rehearsal Monday morning. The winning instructor will receive a two-year lease on a building downtown to open their own studio. Good luck.” The producer shook her hand with a wink. “I think you’ll do just fine.”

  “I quit!”

  Chief Leigh chuckled.

  “For Christ’s sake! I’m a cop, not some twinkle-toed ballroom dancer.” Razor gawked in horror when his superior officers didn’t flinch. They were dead serious.

  “Listen, kid. You don’t have a lot of options these days. Your cover is blown. We can’t use your baby face to bust drug rings in the schools anymore. Not since you’ve been plastered all over the news this last year.”

  No one mentioned the reason why. They pitied him too much to talk about how fucking stupid he’d been—how he’d let his dick lead the way straight to hell.

  After five months in rehab, thanks to the two bullets he’d caught with his chest and the one that had skimmed his thigh, James “Razor” Reoser had reported back to duty only to find the department planned to farm him out on some feel-good publicity stunt as a hometown hero. Some damned hero. Maybe they didn’t trust him with real police work anymore.

  He wouldn’t blame them.

  But why were Mason Clark and Tyler Lambert in on this meeting? They’d been at the core of the fiasco that had landed his ass in the hospital for months. Thank God his fuck-ups hadn’t cost them, or their woman, their lives in the end. He never could have survived that.

  “They’re screwing with you, Razor.” Ty broke the tension, letting him off the hook. “There’s more here than some bullshit assignment.”

  The chief nodded. “If you think you’re up to it…”

  “I am.” Razor didn’t need the man to finish.

  “I have one last undercover op for you.” His boss retrieved a manila folder from his desk and handed it over. “You’ve heard about Mrs. Isabella Buchanan Carrington leaving her husband?”

  “Uh…yeah.” Razor scrubbed his hand through his hair as he tried to recall the society news. Not exactly his usual cuppa. In fact, he fast-forwarded through those stories to reach the local sports scores on his DVR most nights. But the second the captivating woman’s picture had flashed on his screen a few days ago, her interview had fascinated him. Or at least he’d studied her luscious mouth as she recounted her sob story.

  Disgust had rolled through his gut when his cock stiffened for the first time AG—after Gina. All for a damsel in distress who’d probably staged the whole drama to leech cash out of the sucker she’d married while she schemed to run away to Mexico with the pool boy.

  “She’ll be your partner on the show.”

  His stomach cramped.

  “Is this some kind of sick test? To see if I can keep my hands to myself?” Razor hated that they might think him incapable of remaining impartial. More, he feared they were right.

  “Not exactly.”

  “That’s not very reassuring,” he grumbled.

  “Let’s say there are advocates in the administration for your early retirement.”

  “Fuck! I’m twenty-four, sir. I’ll be the only retired rookie in history.” Just when he thought his destiny couldn’t decay beyond miserable. Now he’d have unemployed to add to crippled and gullible.

  “It’s not going to come to that. You need to regain your edge, that’s all.” Mason clapped his giant hand onto Razor’s slighter shoulder. He always felt like a freaking
hobbit compared to the hulking man. “You’ve got this. Ty and I will have your back.”

  “Tyler, brief him.” The chief monitored the city playing out on the other side of his seventh story window.

  “Isabella Buchanan Carrington. Age—twenty-two. Height—five-foot-two. Blond, amazing sky blue eyes, I’m guessing 32C…”

  “Ty!” Mason wasn’t in the mood to fuck around.

  Razor appreciated his focus. Regaling the movie-star looks of his new mark couldn’t possibly help.

  “Yeah, yeah. She comes from money. Lots of money. Married more money. We’ve been after Malcolm Carrington for years, but had no luck proving he’s supplementing his inheritance with dirty deeds. Yet, his tastes run to more expensive shit than he should be able to afford. And, believe me, that’s saying something. He’s been involved in Buchanan business for years. The night Isabella turned eighteen Carrington was spotted wining and dining her at The Summit. Gossip columns billed them the perfect couple despite the fact he’s nearly fifteen years older than her.”

  Razor couldn’t imagine that kind of lifestyle. Hell, he’d have to save for the next five years to have an appetizer at the swank restaurant. He supposed extravagance helped when attempting to snag the hottest, richest lady in the state. Hell, maybe the country.

  “When she turned nineteen, Carrington proposed in front of a quaint gathering of five hundred guests at Rolling Greens, the country club both he and pops belong to. The platinum couple was engaged for a year and married the day before her twentieth birthday.”

  “This guy was on a schedule, huh?” Razor blew out a sigh.

  “Seems like it. Didn’t hurt that she was set to inherit some of her mother’s cash either, I bet.” Mason’s disgust for Carrington rang through the room.

  “Set to?”

  “Seems when her mother died in an accident at their mansion, a clause in her will left her share of the wealth to the daughter. Unless Isabella were to marry into a family better off than hers—hard to conceive of—in which case old man Buchanan could keep the dough to support himself in retirement. Like the bastard needs it.”