Hidden Witness. Beverly Long

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      Gavin coughed loudly. “Let’s finish up with the groom kissing the bride.”

      Chase felt his racing heart skip a beat. He looked at Lorraine. He no longer felt like a trained seal but rather a fish out of water.

      “Ready?” he said.

      “Ready,” she whispered.

      He walked close and bent his head, intending to merely brush her lips.

      “Make it look good,” Gavin said.

      She opened her mouth and he felt himself settle in. She tasted like chocolate cake and her mouth was warm and wet, and it had been a long time since a kiss had made his knees weak.

      But when it was over, he had to admit that this one had done just that.

      But he sure as hell wasn’t going to give Dawson the satisfaction of seeing it. “Is that a wrap?” he asked, making sure that his tone was nonchalant.

      He ignored the soft hiss he heard from Lorraine.

      “We need to hit the road,” he said. “I want to get to Ravesville before dark.”

      * * *

      DETECTIVE HOLLISTER WAS an amazing kisser. His lips had been warm, his breath sweet and his hands confident as they’d cupped her face. It was as if someone had hit a switch, kicking off an electrical charge that had started in her toes and rapidly spread through her body.

      She’d felt alive.

      And she’d been stupid enough to think that it had affected him the same way. Of course it hadn’t. And she suspected she should be grateful that he’d been an ass about it afterward because she had been about thirty seconds away from crawling up his body.

      That would have been a real photo opportunity.

      There weren’t going to be any more kisses. Not that Chase was probably inclined. He might have played the role of besotted groom, but she could tell that he hadn’t been thrilled to be participating in the farcical marriage. After their ceremony, he had quickly changed into jeans and a T-shirt and, if possible, had looked even hotter. But his attitude didn’t match.

      He was polite. Definitely. But she’d sensed his irritation when they’d had to kill thirty minutes at the salon. She’d looked through the tattered magazines spread about the various tables and he’d focused on his smart phone.

      Chief Bates had been insistent that they wait while the photographer ran a quick errand. He’d come back with a driver’s license for Lorraine Hollister that in every way looked real. She suspected they probably had a back room at the police station where credentials were fabricated on a routine basis.

      She’d looked at her picture. Who was this woman? This blonde Raney. She’d tossed it into her purse and they’d left without further delay.

      Chase had continued to be polite. Had carried her suitcase and opened the car door for her. Waited until she was buckled in before he took off. “Cool enough?” he’d asked ten minutes into the journey, nodding at the air-conditioning controls.

      Other than that, he hadn’t said a word.

      Which maybe worked okay for him, but it wasn’t helping her acclimate to her new life.

      “I can’t imagine that you’re any happier about this than I am,” she said finally.

      He shrugged, never taking his eyes off the road. “It’s important to keep you safe. I can do that,” he added confidently.

      “What’s the plan once we get to Ravesville? Should I be mentally preparing myself for a big wedding reception?” she asked, trying for humor.

      He turned to look at her. “Have you ever lived in a small town?”

      She shook her head. “I’m a city girl.”

      He looked back at the road. “Here’s how it works in small towns. On our way to the house, we’ll stop for dinner at the local café. Not sure of the name of it any longer but for as long as I was in Ravesville, there was always a café on the corner of Main Street and Highway 20. I’m sure it’s still there. I’ll casually mention my name and that I’m back in town to take care of the old house and that I’ve brought along my new wife. By the time we get to dessert, the story will have reached half the community and by morning, the other half will have heard.”

      “Fascinating,” she said.

      “Not really, just the way it is. After that, Lorraine, I hope that you’ll spend most of your time at the house, where it will be easier to provide protection.”

      “Raney,” she said. “I go by Raney. Not Lorraine.”

      He seemed to consider that. “What did Harry Malone know you as?”

      “He called me Lorraine. That was what was on my name tag. And because he was only at Next Steps a couple times before...well, before, he probably didn’t hear anybody refer to me differently.”

      There was a significant pause and she could hear the tires on the rough highway. Finally, he turned to her and said, “Raney it is.”

      She was relieved that he hadn’t pushed for more details. Even though she’d told the story several times, it still made her sick to talk about her time with Harry Malone. Pushing that image aside, she closed her eyes and focused on the way her name had sounded on his lips. Raney.

      As if he knew her. Which of course he didn’t. No more than she knew him. This was simply his job.

      And given that somebody had tried twice to kill her, she sure as hell hoped he was good at it. He’d sounded confident when he’d said he could keep her safe. “So how long have you been on the job?” she asked.

      He glanced her way, surprise in his eyes. “You know a lot of cops?”

      She shrugged. “A few. Why?”

      “Because when most people ask that question, they ask, ‘How long have you been a police officer?’ It’s a subtle difference but one that a cop notices.”

      She waited. She wasn’t ready yet to tell him about her work at Next Steps, about some of the people whom she’d helped, some of the people who had needed a hand. She’d virtually stooped, cupped her hands and given them a foothold. She was proud of her work, knew the impact she’d had.

      “I’ve been a cop for thirteen years,” he said. “Covered a beat for eight of those before I became a detective. I mostly work homicides.”

      “But you’ve done witness protection work before?” she asked.

      “I have. I know what I’m doing,” he said. She could tell that she’d offended him.

      “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that...”

      “I know,” he said, his tone gentler.

      “So you live in St. Louis?”

      “Yes.”

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