Free I Think I Love You by Stephanie Bond Page A

scoured the retail frontage until she spotted a faded sign for a pawnshop. Bars covered the store windows, and a dented Ford Pinto sat in the grubby parking lot. She parked carefully, then set her car alarm. A bell sounded as she entered the shop. A skinny redneck-looking guy gave her the once-over and a curt nod, then turned back to a young man looking at cameras. Justine pretended to browse the jewelry cases until the camera purchase was made and the other customer left.
    "Can I help you?" the grungy guy asked. He needed dental work. Badly.
    "I'm looking for a handgun."
    He made a rueful noise in his throat. "Computer is down, and we can't sell handguns without a background check. System should be up and running tomorrow, though." He thumped on the jewelry case. "Meanwhile, we got some great-looking watches."
    She pulled up her jacket sleeve and unhooked her own great-looking watch. "Want another? Solid gold."
    His eyebrows went up.
    "It's yours for a thirty-eight revolver and a box of shells. No paperwork."
    He inspected the watch with a magnifying glass, then weighed it. He looked impressed but concerned. "I could lose my license."
    "I can keep a secret."
    He squinted. "You a cop?"
    "Do I look like a damn cop?"
    He looked out the window and considered her ride. "Guess not." He regarded her for a few more seconds, then set the watch aside and disappeared into a back room. Several minutes later he emerged with a zippered handgun case and a box of shells. She removed the revolver from the case, then inspected the cylinder and the sights.
    "You know how to use that thing?"
    "Uh-huh." She opened the ammo box and loaded six rounds in the cylinder, then clicked it home.
    The man was starting to squirm. "You ain't gonna shoot me, are you?"
    She eyed him. "Not unless this thing jams on me in a pinch."
    He held up one hand. "Nah, it's sweet. Just came in yesterday. Not even on the books yet."
    Justine returned the gun to the case and zipped it. "Good. Nice doing business with you."
    "Hey, lady."
    She stopped at the door and looked back.
    He held up her watch. "This is a righteous piece. Is it a family heirloom?"
    Justine hesitated, then decided what did it matter if one greasy guy in the world knew the truth? "No. I stole it when I was a teenager." She smiled to herself but didn't stick around for his reaction.
    After locking herself in her car, she removed the weapon and placed it on the seat within reaching distance. Her jacket came off and provided adequate coverage. Anger had replaced her fear—nutty Lisa Crane wasn't going to take another undefended shot at her. She had a life to live, even if no one else thought much of what she'd done with it so far.
    Despite her response to Lando, his observation about her penchant for married men rankled her. As if to say that she had some deep-seated motivation for pursuing men who were unavailable. She scoffed—married lovers were the best gig going. Romantic getaways, expensive gifts, great sex, and she didn't even have to share her closet. She always knew where she stood with married men, what to expect. It was the women who bought into that "'til death do us part" crap who were fooling themselves. Men were faithful only until something better—or different—came along.
    Take Dean Haviland, for instance.
    She smoked three cigarettes on the drive home and avoided the news, until she pulled into her gated neighborhood. Two local television vans flanked her driveway, and a knot of people had gathered in the road in front of her two-story white-brick home. She shoved on sunglasses and parted the group with the nose of her car, then reached up to her visor console to touch the button for her garage door opener... except it was gone.
    Her gaze flew up to the sunroof that stood open about three inches—fresh air had seemed like a good idea on the way back to the office after meeting Randall. She hadn't imagined that Lisa Crane would see the opening as an invitation to sprawl on top of her