Explosive Alliance (Wingmen Warriors 9)

A flicker of hope started that maybe something positive could come from this fresh dose of pain after all.

"Of course. We should give it to the police." She would be more than happy to hand over the latest reminder of her past mistakes. She extended her hand to the lawyer. "Thank you for meeting us on a weekend."

"It's not a problem, Mrs. Haugen." He gestured them out of the vault. "Just call me or my paralegal if you need anything further."

She set her jaw and mentally prepped for another trip to the Charleston Police Department instead of an afternoon at Bo's before he left for his friends' wedding.

Her feet slowed along the marble tile. Time to be honest with herself. She hadn't come to Charleston for Kurt or even to read his damn letter. That had merely offered a convenient excuse for what she really wanted.

She'd come to Charleston for a chance to be with Bo, and she wouldn't let Kurt steal anything more from her. But now she had this letter to deal with, and turning it over to the cops would in effect turn over a new leaf for her fresh start.

Paige flattened her hands on the revolving door and pushed— whoomp, whoomp, whoomp—until she stepped out on the muggy street, Bo one whoomp behind her. She spun to apologize for yet another delay and stumbled against a rushing passerby. "Excuse me—"

Her arm was wrenched in the socket. By instinct, she tugged back even as purse strap bit into her arm. The force increased with her confusion.

"Paige!" Bo's shout sliced through at the same time a knife slashed the strap on her bag.

What the—?

The wiry teen in dark clothes and a ball cap sprinted down the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians with her purse clutched to his stomach. Bo shoved past her, launching himself after the thief, her purse...and the letter.

Screw coincidence. Bo slammed his Jeep door closed outside his three-bedroom rental house. Something was up.

So what if the break-in happened in North Dakota and the purse snatching in Charleston and neither culprit was caught. A pair of attacks in such a short time stretched believing.

Which also had him questioning the faulty fuel gauge and more recent malfunction that almost kept them from arriving in Charleston at all.

He wasn't letting Paige out of his sight.

And Kirstie? She apparently still had her secrets, but at least her uncles were watching her 24/7. He might have questions about them, but he didn't doubt for a second that either of them would die for that little girl.

Bo hitched his duffel bag onto his shoulder, passed Paige her small suitcase and snagged his guitar. At least Paige' wasn't dragging anymore. The slight stomp of her feet along the walkway to his one-story brick house telegraphed her anger over the incident—a good sight better than defeat.

The cops had taken their statements, not particularly concerned about a purse-snatcher with more pressing killings, rapes and a campus stalker on their agenda. She'd been firm

— go, Paige!—insisting on reconstructing the letters as best she could to be included in her husband's file. She wanted everything available if further incidents were linked to him.

Bo shoved his key into the lock and swung wide the door while she strode by with a hefty exhale. Framed vintage record album covers covered his otherwise bare walls, everything from Abbey Road to Jimi Hendrix to an autograph from his personal idol, Carlos Santana.

Little furniture filled the space, just a cheap-ass sofa long enough to stretch out on when he watched TV, and his perfect chair for jamming, parked next to a filing cabinet packed with sheet music. His largest piece of furniture rested along the opposite wall—a beat-up piano he'd bought at a clearance sale for a high school looking to upgrade their music department. Not fancy, but more than he'd owned growing up and everything he needed now.

Paige slung her sack bag onto the brown leather sofa. "What a long day, and it's not even suppertime."

He finally had her to himself and he didn't dare risk touching her since they had to be back out the door in a half hour. He dumped the two bags on the floor beside the couch.

"I'm here if you need to cry uncle again."

"Uncle?" She pivoted in his sparse living room. "How about a battle cry? I'm pissed.

Royally, totally pissed."

"Atta girl." He leaned against the sofa and watched her shine in spite of travel grunge and wind-tossed hair that happened to resemble sex-tossed hair to him.

Of course, now that the initial crisis has passed, he found everything reminded him of sex.

"Thanks. It's probably just the adrenaline talking. Well, and all that caffeine from the crummy police station coffee." She circled in his small living room. "This place isn't what I expected."

"How so?"