Bad Boy (An Indecent Proposal) - J.C. Reed Page 0,16

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