Bad Boy (An Indecent Proposal)(8)

I swallowed. “Any other questions? Is this some kind of interrogation?”

“Interrogation?” He frowned. “Who said anything about an interrogation? We’re just having a little chat.”

“If you’ll excuse me. I’m very tired.” I pulled away from the police guy’s grip a little too forcefully. His eyes narrowed on me. After a short glance to his friends, a pulse began to pound visibly in his left temple.

Someone couldn’t cope with rejection. Too bad.

“You gentlemen have a lovely evening.” I shot them a cold stare and headed out the door, aware of the venomous looks piercing a hole in my back.

Only after I was outside, I dared to exhale the breath I didn’t even know I had been holding. This could have ended badly, so I was glad that I was out of there. Shaking my head, I started to walk.

I couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel.

Night had fallen and the streets had filled with tourists. Making my way back to the hotel, I pushed my way through the gathered crowds. The moment I walked through the gate I felt a hard grip on my shoulder.

My heart stopped dead in my chest. I turned sharply, a startled cry lodged deep within my throat. But it wasn’t some random guy or a mugger.

It was the cop from before.

Alone; his friends nowhere in sight.

“Did you follow me?” I asked the police guy through gritted teeth, barely able to contain my flaring temper.

Who did he think he was, stalking me?

“Show me your bag,” he demanded.

“What? No way. It’s my bag.” I clutched it tighter against my chest, instantly fearing he might be about to rob me, even though that would make no sense. Why would a cop rob me? Unless he thought I had lots of money, which I didn’t.

“I said open your bag now.” His hand went to his holster, and my eyes widened at his threatening tone.

“Okay.” I spread out my palms. “Just relax, dude.” My fingers shook as I opened my handbag, exposing its contents for all the world to see. “See. Nothing special. I’m just a tourist. Not even a rich one.”

He inched closer to me and grabbed my bag out of my hands. I watched in horror as he began to spill its contents on the street: my calendar, my lipstick, a mirror.

“You don’t call this nothing?” He picked up something white.

A card.

On it was a stripper, or maybe not a stripper, but someone who was naked. And a number.

I stared at it, unsure. Where did I get that? I couldn’t remember.

“Interesting,” he said and flipped it over. Now I saw what he saw.

It was a card from some sex worker or a pimp.

Even though the text was in Spanish, I was sure that I wasn’t wrong.

“Um”—I stared at it, taken aback—“That’s not mine.”

“Does it matter? All that matters is that it was inside your bag.” A strange smile played across his lips.

My eyes narrowed as realization dawned on me. “You son of a bitch. You put it there.”

“I want to see you proving that, my little American friend.” His grin widened as he turned me around.

His hands on me sent my pulse racing, and not in a good way. My heart jumped into my throat. I opened my mouth to protest, but the shock coursing through me rendered me speechless.

“You’re coming with me.” His left hand wandered down my arm to my wrists and he held them in front of me as his right hand fidgeted at his back. “I’ll teach you to be reasonable.”

“Let go of me,” I screeched, struggling in his grip. I didn’t realize what he was doing until cold metal snapped around my wrists, the pressure both painful and surprisingly numbing.

I blinked in disbelief as I peered down at the handcuffs. Was he arresting me?

“What the—” My words died in my throat as I was pulled forward toward the waiting police car and pushed into the backseat.

“You need to come with us on suspicion of soliciting a client and working as a prostitute without a valid work permit,” the police guy said and slammed the door behind me.

Fuck!

I had heard of situations like this. People were wrongfully incarcerated. Or kidnapped. Or worse. Why the hell was this happening to me? My breath hitched as my throat constricted with panic.

“I didn’t solicit anyone. I’m a US citizen on vacation. Let me out,” I screamed and kicked in my seat, ready to draw as much attention to myself as possible. Onlookers had gathered around us, their cell phones suspiciously raised. The videos were probably being uploaded to YouTube that very instant.

My only chance.

I pressed my palms against the window and opened my mouth to explain my situation when the car sped off, siren blaring and all.

Crap.

Double crap.

Remember when I’d said earlier that I doubted any other man could be worse than Chase? Well, I wished I hadn’t said that. Turned out that wasn’t true at all.

Shit.

Why did I have to go for the little black number I was wearing?





Chapter 7





“You have one phone call,” a chubby guy in his late forties said in broken English.


I peeled my aching butt off the cold, concrete floor and marched purposefully for the bars, biting down a snarky remark.

The detention cell had been my residency for all of three hours and already it felt like I had spent most of last month in here. It wasn’t just the pungent smell of urine and bacteria that made me want to get the hell out as soon as possible. It was also the fact that not only did no one want to listen to my story of how I couldn’t possibly be a hooker; they actually weren’t particularly in a hurry to help me prove my innocence.

One phone call.

Make it count, Hanson.

I followed the chubby police officer to a desk and tried not to grimace as my fingers curled around the grubby headpiece of an old phone that had probably seen more unwashed hands than a public toilet door knob.

Who could I call?

I had gone over that decision for hours, mentally scrolling through my limited options, then discarding of each one as I trudged along. Eventually I knew there was only one person who’d run down doors to get me back on US soil.

One person who’d probably get every newspaper and television channel involved to make my story heard and get me the hell out of this hell hole.

Not least because this was all her fault.

She hooked me up with Chase Wright in the first place.

She thought it was a good idea to marry a stranger, albeit a hot one. And then, when I called her from the airport and asked where she’d disappear to if she wanted to hide, she came up with effing Acapulco Beach.

I dialed my friend Jude’s number, which I knew by heart and listened to the ringing sound until it went to voicemail.

Apparently she was too busy to answer, or so her voicemail said.

Trust Jude to miss one of the most important phone calls of my life.

“Hey, Jude. This is Laurie again,” I whispered, silently imploring her to pick up. “I know how this sounds, but it’s not a prank. I’m still in Mexico, in prison. You need to get me out as soon as possible. Call my lawyer and—”

The line went dead. Confused, I looked from the finger that had just interrupted my call to the smirking police officer.

“Your time’s up.”

“But I wasn’t done. I—” I swallowed hard and clamped my mouth shut in the knowledge that the guy was most certainly not up to date with my criminal status. I knew I had done nothing wrong, but he most certainly didn’t. And even if he did, I doubted that he cared.

“Fine,” I mumbled and followed him back to the detention cell, where I curled up on an uncomfortable chair and pulled my legs to my chest, thinking the chair was less dirty than the stained and sticky tile floor.





Chapter 8





The doors seemed to open and close at regular intervals. Women came and went, some cursing, some mumbling, others quiet as zombies. I had tried to talk to the guards several times, then eventually gave up as I realized I wouldn’t get more than a glare and a few words I didn’t understand.


“Hanson.”

Through the fog of tiredness engulfing my brain, it took me a while to grasp that the strange pronunciation was my name. I struggled to my feet and almost toppled forward, inwardly cursing the fact that I hadn’t moved from my perched position in what had seemed like hours. With no windows and no working cell phone, I had no idea how much time had passed, but I was thankful for the attention.

Someone was ready to talk to me.

Finally.

“Coming,” I croaked, my throat sore and dry.

A hand wrapped around my upper arm and I was guided into the same hall as before. But instead of turning toward the cluster of offices, we walked past those, through barred doors into—

The entrance area.

Holy shit.

My gaze swept around me in a frenzy.

Were they really letting me go, just like that?

“Here’s your stuff. You’re free to go.” A female police officer pushed my handbag into my hand and quickly retreated, her gawk nervous, frightened even.

Jude hadn’t come, but she had done it.

A miracle had happened.

Or she had really pulled all the strings.

I couldn’t wait to get to the hotel, pack up and leave, because I couldn’t get home fast enough to the safety of my boring, jobless and penniless life, and forget all about the little, embarrassing incident I knew I wouldn’t tell anyone about.

A smug smile spread across my face. In spite of the stiffness in my bones, I almost danced out the sliding doors into the hot Mexican—