B007S2Z1KC EBOK Read online

  If you can call what you’re doing living, Matt taunted her.

  Get out of my head, she replied.

  The doorbell shrilled. Fixing a smile on her face, she went to answer it.

  Gary Shepard waited on her doorstep in a custom tailored tux, teeth and shoes gleaming. Not too tall, not too thin, he was medium blond going middling gray. He sported a neatly trimmed beard and a modest white flower in his buttonhole.

  Paul had always said boutonnieres were for ushers. She shuddered to think what Matt would say.

  Gary took her hand and pressed it warmly. “Clare! You look wonderful.”

  He handed her into her coat and his car like a perfect gentleman and made unexceptional conversation during their drive to the hotel. Boring, she thought, but safe. It was what she thought she wanted. But at some point during the long recitation of cases argued and bargains struck, Clare remembered disloyally that she’d never really enjoyed dining out with Paul’s colleagues. Funny, how hard it was now to curb her impatience, to murmur the correct things in the right places. Ridiculous to wonder what she’d be talking about if she’d accepted Matt’s invitation instead.

  Clare pressed her lips together. Not that it had been an invitation, exactly. More like an insult.

  The hotel parking lot was alive with headlights, with hurrying guests and servers shivering in long-sleeved white shirts. Gary zoomed through the valet parking lane and then shook his head as his Lexus was driven off by a fresh faced young man with an earring.

  “Watch him scratch the paint,” he muttered.

  Clare thought of Matt tossing Richie the keys to his truck. “Maybe he’ll just change the radio station,” she offered mildly.

  Chuckling, Gary squeezed her hand. “Let’s join the party. I want everyone to see what a beautiful woman I have with me tonight.”

  She smiled, though his words made her feel like an arm ornament. Like his Rolex, she realized suddenly, or that expensive car with its precious paint job.They made their way up the red-carpeted stairs, through the smoky atrium with its ice sculpture of the county courthouse and into the well lit ballroom. Gary stopped often to pat a shoulder or clasp a hand or exchange knowing remarks. It shouldn’t have irritated her. She knew how to work a crowd herself. After all, wasn’t that why she’d come?

  The guest list was heavy politics married to money, with a sprinkling of blue uniforms to make the hundred-odd guests feel good about their noble purpose in paying the five-hundred-dollar-a-plate cover. Every year, Clare scraped the change out of her salary and hoped for a return on her investment in increased donations to the project. She recognized the mayor and the state’s lieutenant governor. The current D.A., a no-nonsense black woman in a fashionable dashiki, hugged her and told her she’d missed seeing her around.

  Clare smiled mistily. “Thanks, Lynn. You’ll have to come down to the project and see—”

  Gary slipped a proprietary arm behind her back. “Sorry, Clare, but there’s someone here I’d really like you to meet.”

  His self-absorption set her teeth on edge. Covering her annoyance with another smile, she let him steer her over to Anderson, Jenkins and Vann, senior partners in Gary’s firm. The four men plunged into conversation, while up on the dais a five piece band played jazz that no one danced to, barely audible over the roar of talk and laughter.

  Mr. Vann gestured with his bourbon glass. “Of course, since the daughter predeceased her by several months, the net income...”

  They argued estate law. Clare tilted her head to one side to indicate deferential interest and let her mind wander. Was any donation worth this much boredom?

  There. A tall man in rented evening clothes, smooth-fitting and subtly out of date. Over there, by the ham and hard rolls, behind an arrangement of palms and gardenias, wasn’t that...?

  The tall man turned, revealing a broad chest under a crisp white shirt front and a hard face under thick, dark hair.

  Matt.

  The glaze over her eyes cleared. Clare felt like a child wakened from a nap and promised a trip to the park.

  “Would you excuse me?” she murmured.

  ***

  Matt eased back between a skirted serving table and a bank of potted palms. This hero shit was for the birds. He’d rather take another bullet than have one more person tell him how proud they were of their boys in blue.

  A serving girl with masses of hair and a hopeful smile hovered by with a tray of champagne flutes. He shook his head.

  “On duty?” she asked sympathetically.

  “On display.”

  She dimpled, but her eyes remained blank. He’d have traded every one of those fancy glasses for a cold beer or a cup of coffee at Clare’s kitchen table.

  Clare. He wished she was with him. Somebody to look at, somebody to laugh with, somebody to run interference with the busybodies and pols.

  Fat chance. He didn’t need a forensic scientist to tell him how badly he’d bungled in that direction. Again. She’d needed reassurance, and he’d goaded her instead, driven by some instinct to get to her the way she got to him. Where was she tonight? Was she safe? She had a date, she’d said. He wished that information made him feel better.

  Matt closed his eyes, glad he wasn’t working security and could shut out the room for a while. He opened them just as quickly, warned by a scent, a rustle, a sudden rise in the temperature around him.

  Clare stood before him, her neat little body wrapped in a column of something white that shimmered ivory, her shadowed eyes sultry and her mouth the color of ripe fruit. She looked polished. Perfect. Erotic as sin.

  “Surprise,” she said.

  He eased back, took another look, and felt desire ignite like a burning ball in his gut. “I could say the same.”

  “You clean up nice, cowboy.”He ran a finger around his suddenly too tight collar. “Captain’s orders. You look good.”

  Her lashes swept down. She’d darkened them, he realized, both attracted and disconcerted by her made-up facade. He wanted to rub at her cheek with his thumb, find the Clare he thought he knew.

  “So.” She turned to face the room. The movement brought the skirt of her dress in whispering contact with his trousers. The scent of her hair drifted to him. Who would have guessed he’d find baby shampoo sexy? “This is your idea of living?”

  He laughed at himself, relieved at the easy way she forgave him, delighted with her. “Not really. Is this where you had to be on Saturday night?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  “Where’s your date?” he asked before he could stop himself.

  She gestured. “Over there. Talking to Handles-some, Jerk-face and Vain.”

  He grinned, relaxing. “You’re shocking me.”

  “Why do I have trouble believing that? What are you doing hiding out by the potted palms?”

  “Same as you,” he said, recognizing it as true. “Taking a breather.”

  Her eyebrows raised. “Public relations is not your forte?”

  “Public relations I can handle. I just didn’t figure on getting thrown to the social sharks like a bucket of chum.”

  “You poor thing,” she drawled. But her hand touched his jacket sleeve in a gesture of support that warmed his heart and heated his blood.

  “It gets worse,” he said hoarsely. “I’m supposed to ‘say a few words’ after dinner.”

  “How about, ‘Give money. Go home.’?”

  Settling his hands in his pockets, he smiled down at her. “Sounds good. I’ll try it. Is that what you’re doing, raising money?”

  “That’s it. Though sometimes it’s not the money but the contacts that are most valuable. You know—restaurant owners, store suppliers. I’m still trying to negotiate for space in White Oaks Park.”

  “You want to talk to Bob Collins,” he said. “I can take you over, introduce you if you want.”

  Her eyes, her whole face, glowed. “Would you?”

  “Sure, why not?” He rocked back on his heels, enjoying her reactio
n. “You working me, Clare?”

  She flushed. “No, I—” He watched in admiration as she caught herself and the chin angled up. “I don’t know. You think if I’m really nice to you it’ll get me anywhere?”

  Frankly, he answered, “Sugar, you have no idea.”

  She laughed.

  Satisfied, he took her to meet Bob Collins, the head of Parks and Recreation, enduring the usual effusive comments about the holdup until Clare could change the subject.

  Smoothly, she launched into her pitch. Matt half listened, content to let the inflections of her voice and the animation on her face wash over him. She was good at her job. He respected that, admiring her poise as Collins agreed to something or other. Clare nodded, smiling, and took Matt’s arm.

  “Okay?” he asked as they walked away.

  “Very okay. He’s meeting me Monday.” She tipped her head back, regarding him with a look of feminine challenge that burned to the soles of his rented shoes. “So, who else do you have for me?”

  He surprised both of them by offering. “You want to meet Will?”

  “Your partner? Yes, of course.”

  He took her elbow to guide her across the room, even as experience warned him he was making a mistake. Will still hadn’t forgiven himself for hesitating at the shootout in the convenience store. Matt still hadn’t forgiven Will for leaving the force, for choosing his wife over his partner. Logically, Matt knew both he and Will were wrong. But guilt and defection had strained their once-tight friendship to a tenuous strand, thin and sticky as taffy.

  Will was in uniform tonight, Matt saw as they approached.

  Dress blues. Tall, dark Renee, in red beside him, hung on his arm. He turned and saw them. Warmth suffused his face before it went carefully blank.

  “Matt. Looking good.”

  He shrugged. “It’s the monkey suit. Chief’s orders. I’d rather be in uniform.”

  Like you. Without Matt’s meaning to, the words hung unspoken between them, a silent reproach. From now on, Will would only wear his uniform on occasions like this one. For show.

  Clare held out her hand, covering the awkward moment with her warm charm. “I’m Clare Harmon. You helped my boys out the other day with some paint.”

  Will’s big hand engulfed hers. “Pleasure, ma’am.”

  “No, the pleasure’s mine. Matt speaks very highly of you.” She ignored Matt’s warning hand on her arm to beam at Renee. “Of both of you. You must be very close.”

  Will shuffled, clearing his throat. Matt knew the embarrassment his partner must be feeling and exchanged a glance of masculine camaraderie.

  Renee smiled sadly. “Not as close as we were once. We’ve missed you, Matt.”

  Matt remembered the times this woman had opened her home to him, the Friday night dinners, the Sunday ball games. The five girls flirting through the living room, asking for his help with homework, dragging him outside for fast-pitch softball. Will’s daughters. His family.

  “I’ve missed you, too,” he said honestly.

  “It would be nice to get together sometime,” Renee offered tentatively.

  Matt stiffened.

  “Honey, I don’t think—” Will began.

  Clare’s quick glance darted from face to face. “Yes, it would.” She dug in the silly little bag hanging over one arm. “Next weekend? Something simple, I can’t cook at all.”

  And before Matt quite knew how it had happened, his undate and his ex-partner’s wife were exchanging phone numbers and admiring the pictures of Will’s pretty daughters Renee just happened to have in her purse.

  Matt rocked back on his good leg, tom between irritation and admiring Clare’s technique.

  “Your new lady’s really something,” Will observed quietly beside him.

  “She’s something, all right,” Matt muttered. He looked over to find his former partner grinning. After a moment, his own lips curved in a smile. “She doesn’t take no for an answer.”

  “Do you good,” Will offered.

  “Maybe.”

  “Good to see you, Matt.”

  “Yeah.” He meant it. “If she calls, I hope you and Renee can make it.”

  “Count on it,” Will said.

  It was a promise, Matt realized. It was a start. And he owed it to Clare. The ladies finished their chat and parted in a flurry of pattings and promises. Clare was flushed and smiling as they walked away.

  “Pushy, pushy,” Matt said out of the side of his mouth.

  She gave him a bright, guilty look, saw that he was smiling, too, and elevated The Nose. “So, you owe me.”

  He liked her attitude. “Yeah? What do I owe you?”

  “A dance?” she suggested.

  He looked over her head at the polished, nearly empty floor. Did he really want to risk humiliating himself in front of his boss, most of the Chamber of Commerce and a dozen or more of Buchanan’s finest?

  “Aren’t you afraid I’ll trip and embarrass you?” he asked, unsure which of them he was taunting with the question.

  Understanding softened those gleaming eyes, but she didn’t even acknowledge his wounded leg. “I’m in your hands, cowboy.”

  Heat flashed through him. He’d like nothing better than to get his hands on her, to span that neat, narrow rib cage and run his fingers over that pale, smooth skin.“We’ll take it easy,” he promised hoarsely, and something of what he was feeling must have escaped in his voice, because she turned bright red.

  He held out his arms. She flowed into them. Thankfully, the band chose that moment to play something slow, with a strong one-two beat. He could count. Once he could even dance. He might not disgrace them both.

  He knew she must sense his stiffness, must feel his right leg drag the first time he brought them around. Grimly, he waited for her to object, to say something, to offer him the soul-scorching pity he’d schooled himself to expect.

  But she didn’t say anything, just clasped his hand a little tighter, settled her slight, strong body a little closer and followed his lead. Gratefully, he stepped in time to the music.

  She was a good dancer, he thought, when he’d gotten over the shock. She made him look good. And the brush of her legs against his thighs, the press of those small, firm breasts against his starched shirtfront, was better than good.

  There was even a smattering of applause around them when the dance was done. Matt held her hands a moment longer, reluctant to let her go, giving himself time to recover.

  Maybe she needed time, too. The shiny stuff over her breasts rose and fell with her breath. Her eyes looked more enormous than ever.

  “About that quick, cheap thrill?” she said. “I might be tempted to reconsider.”

  His breath whooshed out. “You picked a hell of a time to mention it, sugar.”

  Her expression was rueful. “I know.”

  “Clare! I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  The man appeared at her elbow, exuding superficial confidence and expensive cologne. He was the type Matt might have pegged as suitable for Clare: well dressed, well fed, well spoken. He put his hand high on her back, where the smooth silk parted to reveal smoother skin, and Matt’s hackles rose. He looked at Matt. “And you are...?”

  Gracefully, Clare performed the social ritual. “Sergeant Matt Dunn, Gary Shepard.”

  “Clare’s date,” Shepard clarified, extending his free hand. “We go back a long time.”

  Faint parallel lines of annoyance appeared above Clare’s nose. Matt felt better. If this guy knew her as well as he wanted Matt to think he did, he wouldn’t be so quick to lay a claim.

  Matt bared his teeth. “Nice to meet you.”

  So, he lied. He figured Clare wouldn’t appreciate it if he threw the guy into the punch bowl.

  ***

  Clare didn’t trust Matt’s bland tone of voice, but when she glanced at him, his face was straight as a plank. Murmuring an apology, she allowed Gary to lead her back onto the dance floor.

  After the heat that h
ad built and flashed between them, she half expected Matt to prop up the ballroom wall and glower after them like a brooding hero in a Regency romance.

  He didn’t, of course. Well, he was probably used to women melting all over him. She was the one left dazed by the profound pull of sexual attraction, disoriented by the feeling that she’d just left the only person in the room who truly saw or understood her.

  I might be tempted to reconsider.

  Stumbling over Gary’s polished Italian shoes, she smiled apologetically. “Sorry. I guess I’m out of practice.”

  Was she ever. What on earth had possessed her to blurt out that little admission on the dance floor?

  Her gaze returned to Matt. He was dressed no differently than the majority of guests. He talked and smiled and mingled with the rest. And yet with his height and aura of contained energy, his broad shoulders barely disguised by his elegant jacket, he made every other man present look like a cardboard cutout. She shook her head in disbelief. The place was packed with educated, articulate, wealthy men, and she wanted to be with Sergeant Strong and Silent.

  Was she kidding herself, imagining she could handle a relationship with a man who only wanted to be a temporary indulgence in her life? She knew Matt was eager to return to detective work. His assignment in her neighborhood would be over in another month. She could be pretty sure once he left he wouldn’t be back.

  You’re a nice girl, sugar. You’ve got girlfriend written all over you.

  Her chin lifted in resolution. Obviously, she wasn’t his usual type. Well, he wasn’t hers, either. But tonight had demonstrated she didn’t belong with smooth, assured, ambitious Gary. She didn’t belong with any other man here. She belonged with Matt.

  What would it take to convince him of that?

  She watched over Gary’s padded shoulder as another tall man in evening clothes claimed Matt’s company, drawing him over to a group that included the chief of police. She looked for him when Gary took her into dinner, but he was seated on the other side of the room. She heard a roar of masculine laughter as he was absorbed into a huddle of navy blue. Over the prime rib and piped potatoes, he seemed to be flirting casually with his dinner partner, a sleek brunette in elegant black. Clare set her teeth and made an effort to be pleasant to her date.