The Sweetheart Game Read online

  Summer liked the way his eyes crinkled in the corners when he smiled.

  The man was too good-looking to be a dangerous criminal, but then again, not all criminals had ugly scars. She had to remember that all his kindness could be a ruse to get her into his basement to chop her up.

  She needed some space to figure this out. It was time for him to go. “Thank you again for helping me but I think I should get some rest.”

  Jason nodded. “Let me give you my number so you can call if you need anything.”

  Drat. Limited contact with Mr. Sexy was the key to keeping a professional distance. “Sorry, I don’t seem to have my phone. I’ll have to send up smoke signals instead.”

  He glanced around and reached out. “Look, I found this under your hip.” He pulled her phone out. Sometime during his visit to the kitchen, she’d managed to retrieve her cell. She tried to get the phone back but he held it away and swiped the screen. And grinned. “911? You took the leg removal comment seriously?” He typed in his number.

  Her cheeks warmed. “You are a stranger who threatened me with a saw. I don’t think plugging 911 into my phone was an unusual response to a possible dismemberment.”

  “Call me if you need anything. I’ll be around.” He walked to the door. “It was nice meeting you, Summer.”

  He then paused, and turned back. “Oh, and if you wanted to get my attention, there were easier ways. Next time, just bring brownies.”

  Also by Cheryl Ann Smith

  BRASH & BRAZEN

  The Sweetheart Racket

  The Sweetheart Game

  and coming in May 2017:

  The Sweetheart Kiss

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  The Sweetheart Game

  Cheryl Ann Smith

  LYRICAL PRESS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Summer liked the way his eyes crinkled in the corners when he smiled.

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Teaser chapter

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  LYRICAL PRESS BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 by Cheryl Ann Smith

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Lyrical Press and Lyrical Press logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  First Electronic Edition: January 2017

  ISBN: 978-1-6018-3738-7

  eISBN-10: 1-60183-738-0

  ISBN-13: 978-1-60183-741-7

  ISBN-10: 1-60183-741-0

  This book is dedicated to the men and women who keep our country safe. Thank you.

  Chapter 1

  Summer O’Keefe, former kiddie pageant star and Miss Precious Universe, fired NFL cheerleader, and private investigator, saw movement in the backyard garden of the Nealy house next door from her third floor window, and she immediately jumped to an ominous conclusion.

  A shadowy shape stood near the seven-foot-tall bean cage shaped like a Christmas tree and her imagination overrode common sense, convincing her that a slobbering perv was waiting for her lights to go out so he could press his icky face against her bedroom window and watch her sleep.

  All this without a speck of evidence to back it up.

  Unfortunately, the wood and metal frame kept her from getting a clear view to justify her suspicion, and the shadow was too far away to confirm that he was indeed a creepy peeper and not a trick of moonlight and oak tree branches. But she was sure someone was there. She felt it in her bones.

  Snick. Thump.

  Snick. Thump.

  Pause.

  “What the heck?” The shadow was making too much noise for someone trying to lurk around a winter-ravaged pumpkin patch for a chance to peep at her in her skivvies. Still, she wasn’t about to let go of the peeper theory altogether.

  Snick. Thump.

  “Who else would be out at this hour other than a troublemaker?” It was almost midnight on a Monday night. Only raccoons and college students wandered around this late. Most of her neighbors would be asleep in preparation for work tomorrow. Or having sex.

  Sigh. She missed sex. She was probably the only person on the block with cobwebs down there. Maybe that was why her mind shot right into the gutter?

  Snick. Thump.

  “Okay, this is getting weird.”

  Could it be a thief, someone out to steal garden tools, or Mrs. Johnson’s garden gnomes from her yard directly behind Summer’s? She did have quite a collection of the creepy little figurines. She wouldn’t put it past drunken college students to make off with an armful of the plaster and plastic eyesores, as a prank gleefully hatched in their alcohol-soaked brains.

  It wouldn’t be the first time. Mrs. Johnson had wept and wailed to Summer over their shared fence about the time she’d come home from the International Gnome and Pink Flamingo Yard Art Convention to find herself five gnomes short.

  The police had been called and everything.

  Snick. Thump.

  Squinting, she leaned forward and peered out. From what she could see, Mrs. Johnson’s yard appeared quiet. A second flash of movement caught the corner of her eye near the Nealy tool shed and then nothing. In an instant, the shadow had vanished.

  “Drat.”

  Feeling like a woman who spent too much time looking for criminals under every rock and behind every bush, she clearly needed a new hobby. Something light like collecting ceramic bunnies or maybe even . . . garden gnomes.

  “You’re seeing things,” the rational, if often disregarded part of her brain, told her. Taking one last look, she reclaimed her seat at her computer. If someone was out for gnomes, Summer wouldn’t be sad to see them go. If he was looking for a place to relieve himself from too much drinking, she was happy that it wasn’t her bushes he’d chosen to target.

  Ugh.

  “Summer, let it go.” Her computer chimed with a new message. The gnome thieves were forgotten as she jumped back into the game. The Hunters were waiting.

  JBeam: HSN are you still there?

  Hotsummernites: I’m still here. Okay, I’m two terrorists and one assassin down this month. Anyone else?

  Jbeam: I have one kidnapper and a terrorist.

 
Sexyvixn: You both have me beat. I got nada.

  Poefan7: I’ve got one Ponzi scammer and a foreign dictator.

  Summer, aka Hotsummernites, aka HSN, clapped her hands and did a funky-geek dance in her chair with a lot of arm waving and feet stomping. She’d won again for the fourth month in a row! Of course, it would be rude to be publicly smug. These were her friends. But a little chair spin was not out of order, she thought, as she whirled into a three-sixty. After all, no one could see her do it.

  Hotsummernites: Well done everyone!

  JBeam: You are smokin’ HSN!

  Hotsummernites: Thanks JBeam. I’ll add our captures to the board and send the info on to the appropriate agencies. See you all on Sunday!

  Poefan7: Night HSN.

  Her stomach did a little hitch. Although she’d never met Poefan7, or seen a picture of him, there was something about the way he messaged that was oddly sexy. She grinned. Yes, she was indeed a dork.

  Hotsummernites: Night Poe.

  A chilly breeze slid through the crack under the open window and she rubbed her goose bump–covered arms. Logging over to the leader board, she wrote out all the captures and sent off emails to her contacts at the FBI, CIA, and Interpol, as well as a couple of others. She belonged to an anonymous group that hunted international and domestic criminals on the run, for fun. They called themselves unoriginally, “The Hunters.” The club was made up by a dozen fellow geeks who dug through crimes and rooted out criminals through extreme deep-web investigations. They only knew each other by their code names for safety.

  Her day job was as the cyber PI for Brash & Brazen, Inc., a female private investigation firm. Summer loved working with her friends, and adored her boss, Irving. Life was good, albeit a bit lonely. The only man in her life was a cyber crush online. Poe.

  Sad.

  Really sad.

  Twenty minutes later, she finished up, glanced at the clock, and logged out. It was after one. She’d be drained tomorrow if she didn’t get to bed.

  Walking to the window, she looked out toward the Johnson house. All was quiet in Gnomeville. She shrugged, slightly disappointed that all the gnomes were safely tucked in.

  The figure was probably just a shadow and the snick, thump the sound of the garden shed door blowing open and closed on rusty hinges. Over the last year, poor health had kept Mr. Nealy from anything but basic gardening, so the property and shed had fallen into disrepair.

  She’d tried to help revive the weed patch, but he brushed her off, thanked her sweetly, and decided to let the garden grow over. No more garden goodies in the fall for his neighbors.

  The bright moon caught her attention and drew her eyes up. It was beautiful in the night sky. She stood and enjoyed the view for several minutes before a yawn reminded her to get to bed. Movement below stopped her.

  A hooded human shape carrying what looked like a stuffed black garbage bag, crossed the Nealys’ yard and circled around behind the bean cage. This time she wasn’t overtired.

  Her senses zipped into overdrive. She hadn’t been seeing a trick of moonlight earlier. Someone had been out there. Was out there. Her heart skipped.

  The person dropped the bag and reached for a shovel.

  Snick. Thump.

  Snick. Thump.

  The strange sound had been him, or her, digging a hole in the dormant garden. And she had a feeling he wasn’t getting an early start tilling the soil for rutabagas.

  With dark clouds passing over like harbingers of doom to block the moon and add to the creepy-factor of the situation, she quietly shoved up the pane and leaned out for a better look. Darn the bean cage.

  She tried to make out the grim reaper’s face beneath the black hoodie to confirm it was either Satan’s minion, or the newly arrived grandson from Mr. Nealy’s old framed photo, but it was too dark and too far away to make a match. She’d rather the visitor was the latter, but if he was in fact the former, that would be cool, too.

  Lord, she was losing her mind.

  Snick. Thump.

  Fearing he’d look up and catch her spying, she reached and flicked off the light on her desk. It wouldn’t be respectable to be caught spying, as her grandmother had told her many times. “If one wants to spy, don’t get caught,” Nana had said with her thick Texas drawl. As if spying was okay if the spied-upon was unaware, and the spy stayed respectable.

  And Texas-born Summer was always respectable.

  “Darn. Who is he?” She concluded by his carriage that the figure wasn’t the elderly Mr. Nealy, yet it was a man nevertheless. She was pretty sure the senior had been moved to an assisted living facility by his grandson, whom she hadn’t yet met, but saw a picture of on Mr. Nealy’s desk. Could this mystery gardener be Jason Parker, the grandson? If it was, why was he digging around the garden at midnight?

  Hooked, she couldn’t look away. Thank goodness for the moon or snooping would be nearly impossible!

  After digging into the dirt about two feet, the man jammed the head of the shovel into the ground, shoved the bag into the hole, and pressed it down with one foot. Taking up the shovel again, he filled the grave halfway and stomped the earth flat by marching over the grave like a drum major in a tall hat.

  Now she was beyond curious and into suspicious. What was in the bag that was so important it had to be buried under the cover of darkness?

  Only a man with something to hide would act so suspiciously. He must be hiding something. Toxic pollutants? Stolen loot? A body?

  Wait, she hadn’t actually seen Mr. Nealy move out. And there were rumors that the senior had squirreled away a large retirement fund. Could Jason have turned on his grandfather, chopped him up, and was now hiding body parts in the garden?

  Shuddering, she turned away from the window and weighed the probability of her actually catching a murderer in the act. The odds were against it. Still, weirder things were known to happen. She did watch a lot of Investigation Discovery.

  “Don’t be silly,” she scolded herself before her imagination turned the man into a serial killer. “There is a good explanation, I’m sure. What you need is confirmation.”

  There was only one thing left to do. Get a closer look. Squashing down misgivings, she eased the window all the way open and went for it. After hooking one leg over the frame, and taking a deep breath for courage, she slowly went out the window in her shorty pink PJs and fuzzy bunny slippers.

  How hard could walking around on a roof be anyway? She’d seen college boys do it all the time, and while carrying beer cans and collapsible camp chairs. Her fitness training was top notch, and she loved James Bond movies. If anyone could successfully accomplish some rooftop recon, it was her.

  The sound of her heartbeat whooshed so loudly that he had to hear. But he kicked more dirt into the hole as she crept across the narrow and slanted second floor roof, arms outspread for balance. He seemed unware of her presence.

  See. Easy. Now to find a place to sit.

  Turning back, she saw the man fill in the hole, tuck the shovel into the garden shed, and close the door. He paused and looked up at her window. Moonlight gave her a brief glimpse of his face beneath the hoodie. That same light left her open to be spotted. She flopped belly down onto roof, half onto a patch of damp leaves from the huge oak nearby and the other half on slippery mildew-y shingles.

  Had he seen her? The office light was out and the dying streetlamp was a few houses down, so probably not. But she waited for a full minute before pushing up to her knees to peer over the edge of the roof. There was no sign of him.

  The advantage of living in a very tall three-story house with an attic turret for office space was that she could see for several blocks either way. Spying on her neighbors was no problem. Being a floor down gave her an advantage of being closer to the garden.

  Until now she hadn’t had a reason to spy, or to climb out a window. Most of her neighbors were just normal people.

  Still, she wasn’t a snoop at heart, well, except for the whole hunting criminals
thing. And she believed in personal space. Most of the time. This strange occurrence warranted at least some minor investigating.

  Right?

  Wrong. Still, it was too late to back out now. Perched on the roof, she was kind of committed. Sadly, there was nothing to see. The man was gone and the bean cage still halfway blocked the view of the hole.

  “Drat.” She moved slightly and her foot slipped on the leaves. She looked down her body to see green slime on her top. Yuck. She’d have to pitch the PJs.

  “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.” She moved her foot to a dry shingle to brace herself. The effort proved futile and her body shifted slightly downward, the slimy leaves turning into a slippery ski ramp.

  “Oh, no.” She dug her fingernails into the roof but the shingles didn’t give an inch. The effort produced the same success as a declawed cat on a scratching post.

  The feel of shifting plant refuse beneath her sprawled body caused a squeak of panic. She was two stories up!

  That was her last clear thought as gravity propelled her down, down, down, and over the edge of the roof into a vortex of darkness.

  Chapter 2

  The gods in heaven and all of the angels playing their harps and singing were looking out for Summer that night as she caught the edge of the gutter one-handed and stopped the downward plunge to her death. Or at least a full body cast of broken bones. She swayed like a pendulum, her fingers clutching the gutter, while fire and brimstone from the gaping and toothless mouth of hell below her vanished and her vision cleared. The leafy yard appeared as crickets chirp-laughed at her dilemma from somewhere in the bushes.

  Okay, she was being a tad melodramatic, but impending death did that to a person.

  “Now what?” Summer whispered to herself as four fingers from a most likely ruined manicure, and a bunny face hooked on a shutter kept her from the rest of the fall. She was still too high up to jump, and she’d never passed the pull-up test in gym class, so lifting herself back up onto the roof was out.