Книга - Serving up Trouble

Serving up Trouble
Jill Shalvis


A PRECIOUS SECOND CHANCEHardened cop Sam O'Neill knew a meddlesome woman when he saw one. He'd saved cocktail waitress Angie Rivers during a bank holdup, but he couldn't get her pretty face or the feel of her silky skin out of his head. She made him lose his focus–she softened his heart–and that put both of them knee-deep in danger, because someone wanted Angie dead.Angie was the only one who could identify the leader of a brutal identity-theft ring. But she was done feeling helpless and vulnerable and was ready to take things into her own hands, despite the tall, dark detective's passionate demands to stay out of trouble–and out of his heart!









Serving Up Trouble

Jill Shalvis







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




JILL SHALVIS


USA TODAY bestselling and award-winning Jill Shalvis is the author of more than fifty romance novels, including a series with firefighter heroes for Harlequin Books. The three-time RITA® Award nominee and three-time National Readers’ Choice winner makes her home near Lake Tahoe. Visit her Web site at www.jillshalvis.com for a complete book list and daily blog.


Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue




Chapter 1


She’d always been happy enough. Well, if not happy exactly, then…content. But deep down, Angie Rivers knew some thing was missing from her life; she just couldn’t put her finger on it. Why should she, when she had a fine job, a fine apartment and fine friends.

Fine everything, really—unless she thought about it too hard, as she some times tended to do.

In any case, the niggling remained a mystery.

Until Monday.

By the time her break came she was already tired from waiting tables, but she had to get to the bank. She’d written her rent check, along with a check for what could be termed a luxury item—an artist’s easel. Her first and, as a budding painter, she was very excited about it.

Racing down the block in the warm California sunshine, she dodged bikers, in-line skaters, scooters…it was Monday, for God’s sake. Why weren’t people working?

If she didn’t have to work, what would she do? What a delightful dilemma to face. She’d kill herself if she strapped on a pair of skates, but…a day to sit in the park and sketch? An entire day to stand in front of her new easel and paint? Mmm, nice fantasy.

Inside the bank, she hit the midmorning crowd. And a very long line. With a sigh, Angie pushed up her glasses and looked around at the people waiting ahead of her. As was usual for this upscale area of South Pasadena, everyone was dressed for success. Even the bank tellers.

She tugged at the skirt of her waitress uniform, knowing few would understand that she did love her job, hard as it was. There hadn’t been money for college when she’d graduated high school seven years ago, despite her parents’ hopes and dreams of her becoming a doctor or lawyer.

Sweet, but unrealistic. Angie hadn’t been the best high school student, hadn’t played sports or had a good hobby, either, mostly because she’d always worked to help her parents make ends meet. She hadn’t minded, though some times she wished they’d really see her, her, Angie Rivers, and not just what they dreamed Angie Rivers to be.

Disturbingly enough, her parents’ expectations only seemed to get more unrealistic the older they became. Why hadn’t she become successful? Rich? Well connected?

Married with brilliant children?

She didn’t like to admit that she’d dug in her heels and purposely become the antithesis of their out-of-reach expectations. But that’s what she’d done.

She had goals for herself—they just didn’t match anyone else’s. She wanted to paint. There wasn’t a whole heck of a lot of money in that, unless she found some superb talent from deep within. Oh, and she’d also have to die, as most artists made all their money posthumously.

The bank line she’d chosen still hadn’t budged, and there she stood, with only seven minutes left on her break. Craning her neck, she saw an older woman at the counter, doling out change to the teller. One coin at a time.

Behind her was every mother’s night mare. A young punk, wiry and dressed for a ghetto fashion show, paced edgily, muttering to himself. He looked like a simmering pot ready to explode.

The man in front of her had a swagger. A sort of I’m-God’s-gift-to-women swagger. Angie could easily overlook his cheap, light blue suit and tacky tie as she appreciated—and remembered with vivid clarity—the pain of never having the in clothes.

She was still feeling that pain.

What she couldn’t ignore was the way he invaded her space and kept winking at her.

“Come here often?” he actually asked her, brushing his shoulder against hers.

She didn’t answer, hoping he’d give up if she didn’t encourage him. His hair had been slicked back with enough gel to grease a pig. His breath was hot and smelled like tuna.

“Is the sun shining?” he wondered. “Because I can’t see anything but stars when I look at you.”

Angie tried a vague smile—why was the line still moving so slowly?—and turned her back to him.

With or without the tuna breath and bad pickup line, she wasn’t much interested in men. Her ex-fiancé Tony had been no better than her own parents when it came to seeing her, understanding her, and she was tired of that, thank you very much.

She was who she was. A great waitress. A wanna-be artist. She was fine, darn them all. Fine just as she was.

She peered behind her and saw that Mr. Edgy had gotten worse. His fists were clenched, his jaw tight. Pure fire and hatred sprang from his eyes, and though she couldn’t understand his mutterings, the tone was universal.

And dangerous.

Angie had heard of highway rage, but this waiting-in-a-terminally-slow-line rage was new to her, and a little scary. Shivering, she turned sideways, feeling sandwiched by desperation.

In the next line over stood another man, and this one looked as impatient as she felt. Arms crossed, feet tapping, mouth turned downward in a frown, he embodied the man on the move. Only he was the most heart-stopping man on the move she’d ever seen.

He looked out of place. Not because he was tall, leanly muscular, and gorgeous to boot. Not because he’d disregarded the up-and-comer Southern California look for a simple blue T-shirt tucked into perfectly soft and faded 501s. It was that he made everyone around him look as if they were playing dress-up.

He scowled at his own unmoving line, all testosterone and barely contained power as his searing light brown gaze scanned the large, hustling bank.

Just looking at him made Angie felt a little breath less. She stood up taller, wondering what he thought when he looked at her. She knew what she thought when she looked at him. Whoa, baby.

He had sun-kissed hair cut short to his head. His rugged, athletic physique said he could have graced any men’s magazine he wanted, and he didn’t so much as give Angie a cursory glance when his eyes care fully and purposely surveyed the room.

Check your ego at the door, Angie.

The bank clerk called for the next customer with all the cheer of a woman facing a bikini wax. Mr. Tacky Suit swaggered up there while Angie willed the line to keep moving.

Two minutes left on her break.

One minute.

Then—finally—it was her turn. With a sigh of relief, she moved across the tile floor toward the distracted-looking teller. The woman had a beehive hair style that looked as if maybe she’d worn it for the past fifty years, and fuchsia-pink lipstick. She glared at Angie as if it were her fault she had to deal with slime buckets in light blue suits.

Later, Angie would marvel at how quickly it all seemed to happen, but for now, time shifted into slow motion. One minute she was glancing at her watch and handing over her signed check, and the next, Mr. Edgy had grabbed her arm from behind.

“Hey—” she started, annoyed, only to swallow the words when the tip of a knife appeared in front of her eyes before settling against her neck.

“Give me all the money in your drawer,” he said to the startled teller while still holding on to Angie. “And don’t even think about the panic button.”

Amazingly enough, as Angie was turned in the robber’s arms so that he had a better grasp on her, everyone had froze on the spot. Even Mr. Knock-Me-Over-Magnificent, whose big body had gone tense and battle ready, didn’t make a move.

“Do it, lady,” the man growled at the teller, who let out a little cry and froze like a deer caught in the head lights.

Angie had a moment to feel badly she’d mentally poked fun at the woman’s choice of lipstick color before she was rudely whipped forward again. Mr. Edgy stared down at her with a look of blatant hatred, and she took a terrified breath that ended in a little squeak. Fear iced her veins so that her ears rang, making it difficult to hear anything other than the echo of her own blood racing.

“You’ll be my ticket outta here.” The knife flashed beneath her nose again, making her glasses slip too low. “Got it?”

A response didn’t seem to be required, so she closed her eyes, realizing now was a heck of a time to suddenly understand what was wrong with her life—it was boring! She lived her life so purposely staidly to avoid the parents’ hopes and dreams that it had become utterly…unnecessary.

“Move and you die,” the punk said with enough fury in his voice that Angie believed every word. “Scream and you die. Breathe and you die.”

Okay, she got it. She was pretty much dead.

The teller moaned in distress, and her fingers at tempted to work the drawer in front of her, but she couldn’t quite seem to manage it. Angie wanted to scream at her.

“Move it,” the guy holding her muttered to the shaking woman.

The teller stared at him blankly and he yelled it again. “Money! Now!” For emphasis he shook Angie, hard.

She couldn’t contain the helpless whimper that was ripped from her throat. Her sweater tore from her shoulder. Her glasses slipped off her nose, but she couldn’t catch them because he held her so tight. She heard them hit the floor.

Without them, her vision blurred. Her world became reduced to the knife against her throat. The cold steel of the knife dug into her skin. The arm that held her imprisoned was amazingly strong and her knees wobbled as her life flashed before her eyes.

Unnecessary.

Oh, yes, that’s what the niggling had been. Her life had been too unnecessary. Anyone could have lived it. That it was because she’d tried so hard to break free from those expectations of her didn’t make her feel any better. A wasted life was a wasted life.

She needed more time. She needed another chance. She wouldn’t waste anything this time!

Her heart drummed. She broke out into a sweat. As if from a mile away, she could hear the teller fumble at her drawer with clumsy fingers, but it must not have opened, because the man holding her swore lividly beneath his breath and shook her again, so hard this time that she cried out more loudly.

“Shut up.” His grip tightened, and Angie cringed, biting her tongue, waiting for the searing pain she figured would accompany a deep knife wound.

“Money,” he demanded of the teller. “Give me the money!”

“I’m trying!”

It wasn’t going to happen, Angie realized blindly. He’d petrified the poor teller so thoroughly that the woman didn’t have a chance in hell of opening the drawer, not with those violently shaking fingers, not to mention the shock that had already set in, making her eyes two huge blurry orbs of panic.

Angie was going to die, right here, right now, and all because of bad timing. If she hadn’t written the rent check, if she hadn’t for got ten to come to the bank yesterday, if, if, if…she could think of a thousand of them.

Standing there, as good as a blind mouse, her sense of absurdity took over. Why else would she think about her apartment, and the plants that would die without her?

And, oh God, she was wearing under wear with a rip in the elastic. Her mother had warned her about that, hadn’t she, about getting in an accident with torn panties? Now everyone in the hospital would know.

If she even made it to a hospital.

Her parents would be contacted and told the truth. Their daughter had died before becoming someone. Anyone. And she’d died in old underwear.

It would kill them.

A shot rang out, and Angie automatically jerked. Then some thing slammed into her captor, hard enough to loosen his hold on her. The momentum sent her to her knees with a bone-jarring crunch. Someone screamed.

And screamed.

Pandemonium seemed to strike and Angie lifted her head, squinting like crazy, but it was no use—everything was out of focus.

She could hear and feel though, so that when she was scooped up against a warm, hard chest, her hair shoved out of her eyes by a big, callused palm, she somehow instinctively knew who had her.

Mr. Knock-Me-Over-Magnificent.

Her hero.



“Are you all right?” Sam O’Brien demanded.

When the woman’s huge eyes just blinked up at him, he swore to himself. Heart thudding, he tipped her head back, his fingers running over her neck, looking for the wound as he went cold inside.

Amazingly enough, he found nothing but a slight scratch, and lots of warm, creamy skin with soft, satiny light brown hair that had escaped its confines.

“You okay?” he pressed, needing to hear her, his voice rough with concern and rushing adrenaline.

Again she blinked those big, dark brown eyes, then squinted. “I…can’t see very well. Everything is fuzzy.”

His heart wedged in his throat. Had she hit her head? Damn it, despite everything, had she gotten hurt?

It had been every off-duty cop’s greatest nightmare as he’d stood in line watching the at tempted robbery take place. He’d had no backup, no radio, nothing but the comforting weight of his own gun at his back.

And too many possible victims to count.

He’d been forced to wait until the punk with the knife had turned away, knowing if he moved too soon the woman would die right in front of his eyes.

So he’d held his breath while she’d been cruelly shaken and manhandled, biding his time so that he didn’t get her killed.

Finally he’d had his moment and he’d fired.

The bad guy was now bleeding, unconscious on the floor, and this wide-eyed beauty in his arms appeared to be going into shock.

“Get an ambulance,” he barked to the growing crowd, but he could hear the siren in the distance. “Good. Okay,” he said, squeezing the woman’s arm. “They’re on their way, you’re going to be fine.”

“I’m not hurt. I just can’t see well. Is he…dead?”

Sam glanced over, saw the chest rising and falling on the perp. “No.”

Using Sam’s shoulder for leverage, she sat up and pushed at the hair falling in her face. She reached down to pull at her torn sweater, then patted her hands on the floor, searching while still wrapped securely in his embrace.

“What are you doing?”

“I need my glasses.”

Sam glanced around him as police stormed the building. The customers seemed to be still shell-shocked and only started moving when the police ordered them to walk single file out of the bank.

“Do you see them?” she asked, her voice full of worry that was probably not related in the slightest to her lost glasses, but more to shock.

Inches away, next to the body sprawled out and now moaning as he was being worked on by paramedics who just arrived, were the glasses. Crushed.

She let out a soft sigh when he handed them to her, then she leaned back to rest against his strong, sturdy frame. “This is turning out to be a really bad day,” she said, looking calm, too calm. In-shock calm.

“You were nearly killed.” He remained sitting on the floor, the fragile beauty in his arms and gestured to a paramedic, who held up a finger to indicate he’d be right there. “It’s okay to fall apart a little.”

“I don’t fall apart.” And yet her voice wobbled in the growing din around them. “My glasses…”

“Can be replaced. Your life sure as hell can’t.”

“Yes. Yes, you’re right. You saved my life. I can’t thank you enough for what you did.”

“It’s okay,” he said, not giving a damn about a thank-you.

“But I have no idea what would have happened if you hadn’t jumped right in. You were wonderful, so brave.”

Obviously she was completely unaware he was a cop and, as such, paid to be brave.

“In fact, let me—” She shifted against him and fumbled for her purse, which by some miracle was still hanging off her arm. “I want to give you…”

Was she for real? She wanted to pay him?

But the tremor that racked her was very real and she went suddenly, absolutely still. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, clutching her purse to her chest with a heart breaking expression. In her fist she held something that she smoothed out.

A paycheck for 198.00 made out to Angie Rivers.

“I never got to make my deposit.” She squinted at it. “I have my tips, but they’re not much.”

She looked as though maybe she didn’t ever have much, but he held his tongue as an unwelcome wave of emotion washed over him.

He hated this, he really did. All he’d wanted to do was to shift some money to his checking account, then head over to his partner and best friend Luke’s house for pizza and beer.

Instead he’d stopped a bank robbery, and now he sat on the floor, holding the most amazing woman, feeling everything he’d trained himself not to feel.

Finally the paramedics descended on them, taking the still shell-shocked woman from his arms. Sam rose to his feet, thankful to be free of the victim.

Even if his arms felt empty.

He had no idea why he followed her. She was sweetly arguing with the medics that she was fine, that she needed to hurry up and deposit her check and get back to work, she had tables to wait.

The on-duty officers stopped her. They needed her statement, which she gave. Then it was his turn, and they pulled him aside from where he’d been standing, watching over her.

When it was done, in front of all the wit nesses and far too many blood sucking reporters that had come out of the wood works, Angie reached out for him and hugged him. “I just wanted to thank you again,” she said, pulling him close, nearly squeezing the very life out of him with her nervous, awkward embrace.

His arms wrapped around her before he could stop himself, and when she placed a loud, smacking kiss on his cheek, he sucked in a hard breath, shocked. He, Sam O’Brien, shrewd detective and hardened, cynical cop, who was never shocked by anything.

She swiped at what he could only assume was lip gloss, which smelled like a bowl of peaches and cream. “Sorry,” she whispered, then beamed at him, her fingers still on his cheek, and because she was so close, he couldn’t help but feel her fingers tremble, see her smile wobble.

Ah, hell. “You’re not okay.”

“Yes, I am. Really.” But her smile was definitely shaky around the edges. “You were my hero today. I wish I could say I hadn’t needed one, but I did, and thank God you were here. I only hope someday I can somehow return the favor and do some thing this big for you.”

Before he could so much as blink, she was walking away.

Only to be mobbed by the press.

Sam watched them deluge her with questions, shoving their microphones in her face.

Just walk away, he told himself.

But Angie’s expression went from shock to lost, and he let out one pithy oath before striding over there. “Go,” he said into her ear, his hand at the small of her back, giving her a little push. “I’ll hold them off.”

That won him a smile that stopped him in his tracks.

For some reason—it couldn’t be anything as simple as her smile—Sam stood there long after she’d fled. Long enough to get him his own mob of reporters.

As a rule, he really hated the press. Most cops did. His dad had. It was one of those things he remembered about him. That, and how much his dad had loved everything else about being a cop. One of Sam’s first memories was of standing in front of the mirror, wearing his father’s police hat and holding up his fingers in a solemn vow to serve and protect.

He’d been four.

His conviction had held stead fast, even after his father had been killed in the line of duty during a routine traffic incident gone awry that same year.

So while Sam stood there, being thanked for his quick reactions, being hailed a hero, he felt only a bone-deep weariness.

He wasn’t a hero, not even close. He was just doing his job.

When Sam finally made it home to his modest, quiet condo, he realized he’d for got ten to go to Luke’s.

He’d for got ten the beer, the pizza.

He’d for got ten every damn thing, which was very unlike him.

To add to the insult, he dreamed about soft, creamy, satiny skin, and chocolate-brown eyes. Dreamed about her lithe yet curvy body and how it had felt against his. Dreamed about her voice, the intoxicating mix of sweet innocence and wild sexiness.

Dreamed about the woman to whom it all belonged.

Angie Rivers.




Chapter 2


When Angie woke up the next morning, every single light in her apartment was glaring. Wincing, she rolled over and hid her eyes from the brightness she’d used to ward off her silly fears during the night.

So she’d nearly been killed. So what? She’d survived, hadn’t she? And the bad guy had been caught, so she didn’t really need to send her electric bill through the roof.

But she’d probably do the same tonight.

She really wished she’d somehow managed to save herself yesterday. Then she’d have felt stronger during the night. Invincible.

Maybe next time.

Getting up, putting on an old pair of glasses to replace the broken ones, she took comfort in her small, cozy and slightly messy apartment. Small and cozy being nice words for what was really postage-stamp sized.

But cluttered or not, it was clean, it was her home, and she refused to let anyone frighten her here.

“There. Take that, monsters. I’m not frightened.”

In the bathroom, she gave herself a good, long, hard look in the mirror. She appeared to be the same as yesterday, average height, average body, average everything.

But she wasn’t the same, not at all, and wouldn’t be ever again. “You know what? No more simply existing,” she told her reflection. “That’s not good enough for you.”

With that small but effective pep talk, she went into the kitchen and had her usual break fast of champions—a bagel that had more cream cheese than bagel.

A woman needed her protein.

By the time she left for work, she’d taken several phone calls from her worried parents and friends, wanting to make sure she was okay. And mostly, she was.

But what had happened to her yesterday had been a sign. A change-her-life kind of sign. A become-a-new-woman sign.

She knew this, and didn’t plan on wasting it. She’d been reminded—violently—how fast it could all end. And she wasn’t ready for an end, not by a long shot.

In light of that, she pulled out the local junior college application she’d received in the mail last month. Classes were due to start this week, a coincidence she’d take as another sign. She might love painting, but she couldn’t support herself that way. Time to find some thing she could do with her love of the arts that she could make a living at.

Without giving herself a chance to talk herself out of it, she filled in the required forms, wrote a check for late registration and stuffed them into her pocket to drop off on her way to work.

It felt…in credible. And she didn’t understand why it had taken her so long to do it, why she hadn’t seen what she’d needed to do a long time ago.

The phone rang again, and Angie answered with an indulgent laugh, feeling better, wondering which of her friends had felt the need to check up on her this time.

“Angie Rivers?”

The laugh backed up in her throat. She instantly recognized that low, deep, slightly husky voice. She had a feeling a hundred years could go by and she’d still recognize it.

That voice had been the first she’d heard after her terrifying ordeal yesterday. That voice had gone along with warm, strong arms and eyes filled with rage and concern, for her, in a way a man’s never had before.

That voice liquefied her bones.

With her spare glasses perched on her nose, she glanced at the front page of the news pa per sitting on her table, a page on which both she and Sam O’Brien—deco rated, revered, respected detective—were splashed across.

“Yes, this is Angie,” she said, having to sit down because suddenly she was made of Jell-O, with no bones in her entire body.

“This is Sam O’Brien, from yesterday—”

“I know.” She was still looking at the picture of the two of them on the floor of the bank in the after math of the at tempted robbery. She’d already inhaled every little tidbit about what had happened.

About Sam.

The news pa per didn’t say he was tall, with wheat-colored, sun-bleached hair cut short to his head, which only emphasized his sharp, light brown eyes. It also failed to mention he was built with a rugged, athletic physique that revved her hormones, but then again, the reporter hadn’t been held in his warm, strong, wonderful arms.

Angie had.

She sighed, then shook her head. She had a plan, and a man did not fit into it. Never had, in fact, though she’d tried. She just didn’t seem to have what it took to please one—not the drive, not the easy sensuality so many other women had.

So she’d given up.

Until yesterday, that is, when she’d come far too close to death. Now she knew she would never give up on anything, not ever again.

Life had to be lived, mistakes and all.

“We need you to come down to the station,” he said. “We have some more questions. Do you need a car sent for you?”

A ride in a squad car down to the station. An adventure she could really do without, if she had a choice. “That’s not necessary. I’ll…stop by.”

“Okay, then.”

He was going to hang up now. And though she couldn’t explain it, she wasn’t ready to let go, to stop hearing him. She’d like to be able to attribute it to lingering shock or fear, but she knew better.

Nothing about his voice reminded her of shock or fear. Instead it invoked visions of things she’d never shared with anyone but had always fantasized about; lying in bed on a Sunday morning sharing the funny section of the paper, late-night forays into the freezer for a tub of ice cream that they’d feed to each other with one spoon, or better yet just eat off their bodies, phone calls during the day just to hear each other… “Are you the investigating officer then?” she asked. Subtle, Ang.

“No, that would be Detective Owens. He’ll be questioning you.”

But Sam had called her himself. Maybe he was dreaming of the comics and ice cream, too. Maybe he yearned and ached and burned for things he couldn’t quite put into words but knew he wanted.

With her.

“Owens asked me to call,” he clarified.

Which pretty much dispelled both the fantasy and any lingering hope that somehow this strange, inexplicable attraction was two-sided.

“Some times,” he continued, “in traumatic events like this, a familiar voice helps.”

Was that what all this emotion crowding her chest was about? Because he was familiar? Because he’d been her hero in a terrible incident?

That was pathetic.

Even more so because he clearly felt none of what she’d allowed herself to feel. “I see,” she said, grateful that at least he couldn’t see her. “Well…thank you.”

“No problem.”

Wait. She wanted to tell him how much his actions yesterday had meant. How much she’d learned about herself since. How—

Click.

Dial tone.

With a little sigh, Angie had to laugh. She set the phone down and decided to stick with reality. Her reality.

Which at the moment, she thought, glancing at her clock, meant work.

But later, she promised the new easel standing in her living room, later she’d paint. Just because she could.



Sam spent the morning chasing dead ends, trying to crack the identity-theft ring that had already spent over a million dollars in stolen credit in the past calendar year alone.

Back in his office, he collapsed in frustration at his desk before a commotion outside the door caught his attention. He tried to ignore it, but wasn’t lucky enough for that.

A shadow crossed his desk. “Well, if it isn’t our local hero.”

Sam glanced up at his partner, who until a second ago had also been his best friend, and scowled. Most people went running from that fierce, foreboding glare, or at least walked quickly away.

Not Luke Sorrintino. He was dark-haired, darker-skinned and full-blooded Italian, and he didn’t scare easily. While he was only medium build to Sam’s tall, broader one, he was probably the toughest man Sam knew, and he rarely smiled.

But he was smiling now, broadly.

“What do you want?” Sam asked, already wary.

“Two things. First…” He tossed down the morning paper.

Front page, dead center. Sam on his knees on the floor of the bank, with a beautiful, disheveled woman in his arms, staring up at him with huge, grateful eyes.

Angie.

God, she looked so small, so defenseless. So absolutely, heart-wrenchingly vulnerable. Her sweater hung off one shoulder, revealing soft skin, which according to the color photo, had already started to bruise from her captor’s cruel grip.

Sam’s jaw went tight. A headache kicked in. She’d gotten hurt after all.

“You seem pretty…involved,” Luke noted.

Sam’s eyes honed in on his face in the picture. Sure enough, he wasn’t just holding her, he was holding her, cradling her against his chest, one hand spread over her exposed throat. His expression was intense to say the least, and zeroed in one-hundred percent on Angie’s upturned face.

It looked startlingly intimate, and if he didn’t know that he’d been concerned only with making sure she hadn’t been cut by the punk’s knife, that she was looking at him like that only because she could hardly see…damn. Take away the bank setting, take away the fact that there was a bleeding criminal on the floor behind them, and they could have been…lovers.

“Interesting,” Luke said.

Sam eyed his friend. The two of them had been through a lot together. High school. The academy. Being rookies. They’d been through family and wives unable, or unwilling, to handle the demands of their jobs.

Death and mayhem. They’d seen or done it all.

Were still seeing and doing it all.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Luke actually kept grinning, which really made Sam pause. “There’s a delivery for you.”

“Yeah? So bring it in.”

“Delivery woman insists on giving it to you herself.”

Delivery woman?

With a long, warning look to Luke, Sam rose to his feet and came to the door of his office. He wasn’t pleased to see a small crowd of cops who plainly had nothing better to do than stand around and smile stupidly.

In the center of the group was a huge bouquet of wildflowers sprouting three feet wide out of a basket. He couldn’t see the face of the person behind it, only that she was wearing sandals, with bright pink polished toenails and a dainty little gold toe-ring.

Then from behind the basket peeked a smiling face.

Angie.

Around him there were hushed whispers and more than a few teeters and muffled laughter.

Sam ignored them to stare at her in disbelief. Flowers. Lord, she’d brought flowers to the toughest, meanest cop in the precinct.

He’d never live it down.

“I’ve brought a thank-you for yesterday,” she said in a sweet, musical voice that somehow had him stepping from his office doorway toward her.

He managed to stop himself a few feet away, very aware of their audience. “You already thanked me.”

If his gruff ness startled her, as it tended to do to most everyone else, she didn’t show it. Her smile brightened even more, if that was possible, and she lifted a shoulder. “Truth is, Detective O’Brien, I could never thank you enough. You’ve given me more than you could ever know.”

He didn’t want her gratitude. What he did want couldn’t be said in polite company.

She peered into his small, none-too-tidy office. “Besides, it looks as though you might be able to use some color in that room. How do you work in there? It’s dark as a tomb.”

Sam found himself staring at her petite form as she walked past him and into his office as if she owned the place. Her nicely rounded bottom sashayed beneath her sundress, as she marched right to his over crowded desk.

“Wait—” No use, she was already making room, stacking piles of care fully sorted paperwork together—negating hours of work—and setting the basket down.

Then she moved to the window and reached for the shades.

“No—” He hated having all that bright sunshine pouring in over his shoulder when he was concentrating. “Don’t open—”

Too late.

She yanked the string, throwing light into the room. “There. That’s so much better, isn’t it?” She tossed her hair out of her eyes—hair that he couldn’t help but notice was a million different colors, like a doe’s coat, and smelled even better than the flowers she’d just settled.

She smiled at him. “This is really a bad color for your office walls. Drab gray. It’s not at all conducive to happy work patterns.”

He’d never even noticed what color the walls were, and didn’t care to now. Nor was he thrilled about noticing her hair color.

He had work to do.

“You know, I always had the secret fantasy of going through the police academy,” she said wistfully, looking around. “I had this dream of rounding up all the bad guys and putting them behind bars.”

The thought of this far too cheerful, happy, bouncy, flowers-carrying woman going through the academy brought a fine sweat to Sam’s brow. “You wouldn’t like it,” he said quickly.

“Oh, I think I would. Well, except for the shooting part.” She shivered. “I’m not crazy about weapons.” Her smile faded and a shadow flickered across her face. “Give me a paint brush any day.”

Sam knew she was remembering yesterday, having a flash back to when she’d had the blade of a knife pressed against her slim neck. Damn it, he didn’t want to know this. Didn’t want to know how traumatized she was, or see how badly she was bruised. He searched her with his gaze, but couldn’t see a thing with her halter-top sundress that covered her to the throat. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, yes. Thanks to you.”

She was as small as he remembered, barely coming up to his shoulder. But where had all her defenseless vulnerability of yesterday gone? She looked totally, utterly capable of anything, especially ruining his day.

“You found a spare pair of glasses,” he heard himself say inanely, gesturing to the frames she wore.

“They’re ancient—oops.” She bit her lower lip to hold back a smile. “Probably shouldn’t tell that to a police officer. I could get a ticket for driving with an old prescription, right?”

He was relieved to discover she hadn’t just purchased the thick, blue-rimmed, almost horn-shaped glasses. He felt an odd pang at the knowledge she probably couldn’t afford a brand-new pair. He wondered if the bank wouldn’t cover the cost for her, and opened his mouth to suggest some thing to that effect when the curious whispers behind him registered.

He whirled to the doorway, and found Luke and two rookies leaning in his door, unabashedly eavesdrop ping.

“Need some thing to do?” he inquired. At his cold voice, the rookies instantly scattered.

Luke just grinned before slowly straightening and walking away.

Angie was staring at him with those huge brown eyes. “Wow,” she said, impressed. “That was a pretty scary cop voice. Really fierce. Do you use that on criminals to make them confess?”

Yeah, or on unwelcome guests to get them to leave. But he found he didn’t have quite the heart to say it. A surprise, and it only worsened his mood.

He really had a ton of work to do. He wanted—needed—to crack his priority case, and soon, as the suspects were probably right this minute stealing mail or trash, racking up more uncollectible debt by the minute.

“You know,” Angie said, sizing up his office, the wheels visibly turning in her head. “You could really use a paint job on these walls.”

“A paint job,” he repeated slowly.

“Maybe pink? It would most definitely help ease your tension.”

Oh yeah, that’s what he needed. Pink walls. “I’m not tense.”

She raised her brow so high it disappeared into her bangs. “Really? Then why is your jaw all tight and bunchy?”

“It’s not.”

“I can see the muscle jumping.”

It jumped some more. “I’m fine.”

“If this is normal for you, you must go home with a heck of a neck ache. Come here and sit down. I’ll rub it for you.”

He actually backed up. “I said I’m fine.”

But she reached for him, pushed him into a chair with surprising strength.

Even worse, he went. Big, bad, tough Sam O’Brien fell into a chair simply because she’d urged him to.

Then her fingers touched the bare skin on his neck, and as if he’d been poked by a hot stick, he surged to his feet.

At his quick movement, a sweet laugh escaped her and she clasped her hands in front of her. “I’m sorry, I’m just so nervous about being here. I have to answer some more questions, and it’s…” She looked away. Swallowed hard. “It’s, um, giving me a bit of a bad time.”

Ah, hell. “No one is going to push you,” he heard himself say. “They’ll go slow and easy.”

“I know.” She backed to the door. “Anyway, I’m sorry. Again.” She was sorry because she’d touched him and he nearly bolted right out of the chair as if he’d been goosed.

She’d turned him on, this woman of the bright yellow sundress, silly blue glasses, sweet smile and expressive eyes. And the shocking jolt of arousal—arousal, for God’s sake—had nearly caused his heart to leap out of his chest.

He was at work, damn it, and if there was one thing he disliked, it was when some thing distracted him from his work. “I have to get back to my job,” he said, his voice more than a bit strained.

“Oh! Of course.” But her gaze caught at something on his desk and she went wide-eyed.

“What is it?”

Hands over her mouth, she stared at a composite drawing he’d gotten just that morning, of someone he suspected to be deep in the thick of the identity-theft ring he was trying to crack.

She looked pale. Why had he let her in his office? Why hadn’t he showed her the door two minutes ago? “What’s the matter?” he asked again, hoping she wasn’t really going to tell him, hoping she’d simply take her perky little self and go away. Far away. And take the flowers with her.

“Is he…wanted?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Well, because I’ve seen him downtown.”

This particular suspect had laid low all year, hiding out from the best of the best on the force, including himself. They didn’t even know his name, had only his description from his latest victim, whom he’d conned out of his ID with a door-to-door sales scam. Much as he’d like to have her solve his problem by locating the suspect, he’d followed too many dead ends to believe her.

Angie picked up the picture and studied it carefully, and he studied her just as care fully.

Her fingernails matched her toenails, he noted, but were chipped and nibbled at. Probably her line of work, he figured, then rolled his eyes at himself.

He was noticing her nails, for God’s sake.

Man, he needed a break. A vacation. Yeah, that was it. Maybe Hawaii, with a few bikini-clad babes.

Too bad he never took vacations.

“I do know him,” she said.

“From?”

“I can’t remember exactly.”

He took the picture from her hands. “If you think of it, call in.”

Those expressive eyes stared at him. “You don’t believe me.”

Maybe that was because she thought his walls should be pink. Or that she had dreamed of being a cop when she was afraid of weapons. But telling her so felt a little like kicking a puppy. “It’s nothing personal. We get hundreds of false leads.”

She crossed her arms and held her ground, reminding him that while she could look so vulnerable, she was actually tough as hell. “You think I’m a silly little flake.”

There was no mistaking her hurt now, and he swore at himself. “No—”

“But you don’t think I’ve seen this guy.”

“Okay, fine.” He leaned back against his desk, the desk now covered in flowers. He was going to smell like a garden. “Where do you know him from? What’s his name? What does he do?”

“I don’t know.” She took a step back, making him feel like the school-yard bully. “I just know that I’ve seen him coming and going in the used book store next to the café where I work.”

He studied her a long moment, considering. She seemed genuine enough. “You’re certain.”

“Absolutely.”

“Those glasses don’t look too reliable.”

“I can see perfectly.”

He sighed. “Fine. I’ll check it out.”

The look she shot him was purely female, purely annoyed. “But you don’t expect to find him, right?”

“Well…”

“Truth fully.”

How to tell her how many false leads he’d followed? How many times people thought they saw one thing but in reality saw another? “Look—”

“Oh, never mind.” She sent him a smile, completely devoid of the brilliance from before, which for some reason made Sam hurt inside.

“Angie—”

“No, really.” She lifted a hand to ward him off. “You’re busy. Don’t give it another thought.” She headed to the door. “I’m going to go answer those questions now.”

“Yeah. Angie—”

“Bye, Sam.”

Then she was gone and he was staring at the door, torn between relief and a self-disgust because he knew he’d been curt and rude.

Damn, he hated working with people.




Chapter 3


Angie got up at the crack of dawn, as always. She drove to work, as always. She figured she’d enter the café fifteen minutes before her shift, then help Elisa prepare for the break fast shift. As always.

But nothing was as always at all, because with one twist of fate—and a very sharp knife—she could have died, and unexpectedly she was still dealing with the horror of that.

And then there was Detective Sam O’Brien. He’d both saved her life and changed it forever, because she’d taken a look into those deep, fathomless, brooding eyes and had seen her future. It sounded silly now, in the sharp, glaring light of a new day, and at the memory of how he’d treated her in his office, she blushed. If that was her future, feeling like a ball of unimportant fluff, she didn’t want it, thank you very much. Been there, bought the T-shirt.

Yes, he’d been sweet and kind during her bank ordeal, and yes, darn it, maybe as a result she’d looked at him with stars in her eyes, but now those stars were so long gone.

She was better off by herself.

But she was going to find his suspect. Oh yes, that would be satisfying, if nothing else, just to prove she wasn’t the kind of person who made these things up to get attention.

She didn’t need attention, not from him. What she needed was to stick to her guns and live her life. She liked the feeling that coursed through her at that thought. This new-lease-on-life-thing felt good. Empowering.

Yeah. And next time she got held up, she wouldn’t need a hero, she’d save herself.

As if her karma was in perfect sync, on the walk to work she caught a glimpse of a man striding away from her, down the alley between the café and the used book store.

She knew that short, dark crew cut. She knew those tennis shoes, that compact, muscle-bound body, as she’d seen him several times now, either loitering in front of the book store where she spent far too many hours and too much of her tips, or as he was now, walking down the alley.

He was also the man she’d seen in the picture on Sam’s desk.

He was Sam’s suspect, and visions of proving him wrong and her right danced in her head. So did visions of getting herself killed, but she was too fond of her new life at the moment to let that happen.

Besides, contrary to popular belief by one stubborn detective, she had a brain. She knew better than to try to stop a wanted man by herself.

To prove it, she fumbled in her purse for the cell phone she’d won just last month in a mailer sweepstakes. At the time she’d thought she’d much rather have won a year’s supply of groceries, but right now she was grateful for the phone.

And the fact that for once her battery was fully charged.

Dialing 911, heart pounding, Angie flattened herself against the wall of the building, holding her breath when the man paused and glanced over his shoulder.

From nearly fifty feet, their gazes met and locked.

“Emergency dispatch,” came a female voice in her ear.

“I need to talk to Sam O’Brien,” Angie whispered, swallowing hard as fear turned her stomach to mush. “He’s a detective with—”

“Ma’am, you need to dial him direct—this is not an answering service.”

“It’s an emergency.” This whole calling-a-cop thing looked so much easier on television. “I have one of his suspects in sight right this very minute, and I think he’d want to know.”

“Where are you and what’s your name?”

Sam’s suspect stared at her for exactly two more seconds before vanishing around a corner.

Angie grated her teeth and gave the dispatcher the information, knowing it would be too late. “Tell Sam to hurry, and that if he needs me I’ll be working in the café.” Frustrated, she stood there staring down the alley, wishing she was a police officer so she could go find the guy herself.

The war between doing just that and staying put wasn’t a hard one to fight. She knew better. And anyway, despite feeling strong and sure, she didn’t have quite enough nerve.

But she’d give anything to be a big, tough, armed cop at this moment. With one last sigh, she entered the café.

“About time,” her boss groused as she came into the kitchen.

Angie hung up her sweater, pulled a hair band out of her pocket and tied up her hair. “Good morning to you, too. And I’m not late. I’m early.”

“Hmph.” Josephine looked at her and let out a huff. “It should be illegal to look as good as you do wearing that ugly uniform and your hair all piled on top of your head like that.” She continued slicing cantaloupe as she sighed, and on her two-hundred-plus-pound frame, the sound was substantial. “Why aren’t you in bed after your ordeal?”

“My ordeal was two days ago. Besides, I’d be bored to tears in bed.”

“Not if you put a man in there first.”

“Yeah, well…” Angie reached for her apron. A man in her bed had never brought her anything but a vague sense that she was missing some thing. “You should know, there might be some excitement here in a few minutes.”

“Excitement?”

The heavy knock at the back door caused Angie to jump. Casually as she could, she opened the door and faced one glowering Sam O’Brien.

He was imposing, intense, and very unsmiling.

“You got my message,” she said, amazed and trying not to gape at the oddly thrilling sight of his big, tough body standing there. “I didn’t think the dispatcher would tell you. She thought I was a prank call.”

“Was it?”

“Was it what?”

“A prank call,” he said slowly, through his teeth, towering over her.

“Of course not.” She had to remind herself that just because he was breath taking didn’t mean he couldn’t be a complete jerk. Although that seemed a bit unfair, because she could remember quite vividly how gently and warmly he’d held her, talking her through the after math of the holdup.

Where had that man gone?

“Did you look down the alley?” she asked.

“Yes. And in the still-closed book store. And in all the neighboring alleys. There’s no one out there, Angie. No one.”

“He was.”

He closed his eyes and shoved a hand through his hair. Then he leveled her with a look that made her want to cringe. It was that look, the one that said she didn’t know what she was talking about, and if she did, it probably wasn’t important anyway.

She was very tired of that look, of feeling invisible. It came from being average, she thought, annoyed with herself. All her life she’d been so average most people had never even noticed her.

And she’d allowed it.

That would have to change, too. Maybe she’d go blond. No, that would only multiply the ditzy image. Redhead? Hmm, some thing to think about. “I saw him,” she repeated, raising her chin, refusing to let him make her feel stupid again. “And if you lost him, it’s your own fault. You need to respond faster.”

“I got here in less than five minutes from your original call,” he pointed out, still through his teeth, his huge body practically quivering with temper.

What was it about her that brought out the worst in people? Another thing she intended to change. Thinking only to soothe, she reached out and put her hand on his arm.

The considerable amount of muscles beneath his skin jerked, but he con trolled himself with nothing more than pure will power.

She under stood the effort, if not the reasoning. She too felt an almost physical jolt. Unnerved, she dropped her hand.

He stared at her for a long moment before pulling a business card from his pocket. “Take this. It’s got my office and cell numbers on it. Call me direct next time.”

The air whooshed out of her lungs. “You believe me?”

He put his sun glasses on. “I don’t know.”

“You believe me.” She grinned, ridiculously relieved, even when his frown returned.

“But if you’re in danger, call 911. Got that?”

“Yes. So which number should I call next time I see him?”

Sam looked pained. “You won’t.”

“I think I will.”

“Angie—”

“I’m not making this up, Sam. He’s out there. I’ll see him again.”

“No one else has.”

“Because no one else is out there at this time of morning. I think he’s an early bird.”

He sighed again, as if she was making his life a living hell on purpose. “You realize this guy is considered dangerous, right? Don’t—”

“Don’t do anything stupid?” She tried not to care that he thought she would. “I won’t.”

“If you think you see him again—”

“Not think. Know.”

“If you think you see him again,” he repeated firmly, “stay safe. Stay far away. Really far away. Then call me.”

“Call you.”

“Yeah. Me.” He didn’t look thrilled. “But if you’re in any sort of danger at all, I mean it, Angie, if he so much as blinks at you, call 911. Immediately.”

“Like I did this time.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me he saw you?”

“And listened to me call for help.”

He swore, winced, then again shoved his fingers through his hair. “Terrific. Look—” His radio crackled, and someone called to him, requesting him as backup. “Damn. We’ll finish this later.”

She wondered if that was a threat or a promise, and decided by the look on his face it was a chore. “No need. I’ll contact you when I see him again.”

When the door had shut behind him, Angie turned to see Josephine brimming with curiosity.

“Was that your cop?”

“Not my cop. The cop.”

“Uh-huh.” Josephine looked bowled over. “He was…wow.”

“Oh, close your mouth, you’re going to catch flies.”

“I guess we’re not going to talk about how wow he was.”

“Did I mention I registered for college?”

“Nice subject change.”

“Yep.”

Josephine put her hands on her ample hips. “Honey, listen. I don’t mean to interfere—”

“Yes, you do.”

“Hush. I’m talking, and what I’m talking about is you getting over what’s-his-name and finding another man. Like Mr. Wow Cop for example.”

“I’m over what’s-his-name.” Definitely over Tony. So over Tony—ex-fiancé, ex-friend, ex-everything. Maybe still recovering, still getting her balance, but not mourning.

Life was too darn short.

“Lordie, that man was hot.” Josephine fanned herself. “And I bet he wouldn’t let you out of bed so early.”

Angie laughed, but a small part of her tingled at the thought of finding a man who wouldn’t let her out of bed because he couldn’t stand to be without her.

She hadn’t a clue what that would be like.

“Angie, honey, you know I love you.”

Angie smiled. “Does this mean I’m getting a raise?”

“Uh…no. But I worry. You shouldn’t be here today just because I don’t have anyone to cover the shift. You should take some time off.”

“I’m fine.”

“Fine is good, and good is crap. But never mind that now. The point is you deserve more.”

“Like I said, I’m going to college. Oh, and I bought myself a book just the other day.”

“A romance?”

“Well, no.”

Josephine snorted in disgust.

“But it was good,” Angie insisted. “And I’ve got lots of changes in the works. Big ones.”

“Really? You’re going to read a romance?”

“Much bigger.”

“Uh-huh. How about we just pretend to see that suspect so your cop will come back. Just once, pretty please?”



Luke stood in an interrogation room in front of their witness, Lou, who was seated in a chair.

Sam stood behind him.

Lou fidgeted nervously. He had a stack of petty crimes against him, all of which Sam could make go away.

For an exchange, that is. A good one. Such as one damn lead on their case.

Luke slowly paced the room. “So.” He stopped in front of Lou and smiled, his eyes warm and encouraging. “You have an uncle who has a neighbor, who has a girl friend, who’s friends with the guy who offered you a new identity for three hundred. Right?”

“Yeah.” Lou licked his lips, warming up to Luke. “That’s all. I didn’t ask for it or nothing, you know? They just thought…” He bit his fingernail.

“That you’d like to skip out on your crimes.” This from Sam, whose voice was hard as steel. He stayed behind Lou, wishing he could wring his scrawny, stupid little neck. “No. No,” Lou said, forced to twist around in his chair to eyeball Sam, who did not smile warmly and encouragingly. “I don’t need a new identity.” Sweat broke out on his brow. “I’m innocent. Totally innocent.”

“Yeah. As a shark.”

“Now, Sam.” Luke shot him a “be patient” look. “Let’s give Lou a break.”

They were playing good-cop bad-cop. Not a stretch for Sam to be the tough one. “I’ll give him a break when he gives me one. I want the—”

“The bigger fish?” Lou broke in hope fully.

“That’s right,” Luke soothed. “The bigger fish. The other guys. You can help us, Lou. It’d be good for you to help us.”

“You want to take down the entire identity-theft ring.”

“With your help,” Luke said.

Lou started to sweat more. “But I told you already, man. I know nothing. Nothing at all.”

“You know enough, I think,” Luke said pleasantly.

“No, Luke, maybe Lou here is right.” Sam came around front and stared at Lou coldly. “Maybe he can’t help us. Never you mind, Lou. We’ll just take you down the hall, book you, and—”

“What?” Lou cried, shrinking back, shoving his hands into his pockets as if to avoid the cuffs. “But you just said you don’t care what I’ve done.”

“Not if you help us.” Luke smiled again. Sweet as an innocent babe. “Why don’t you help us, Lou?”

“Don’t bother, he doesn’t want to.” Sam pulled out a pair of hand cuffs, yelled for a guard and walked toward Lou.

“Okay, okay!” Lou shot them a shaky smile as sweat poured down his face. “Sheesh. Maybe I can get you…some thing.”

“Now you’re talking,” Luke said very kindly. “Keep going.”

“Uh…”

Sam held up the cuffs and raised an eyebrow. Waiting.

Lou sighed. “Okay, listen. The kid making the new IDs…he’s some computer whiz kid at P.C.C.”

“If he’s a whiz kid, why is he going to Pasadena City College instead of a four-year school?” Luke asked.

“No money.”

Sam thought about this then shook his head. “Don’t buy it. This guy, if he’s the right one, is making a fortune off this gig. Two hundred thousand last month alone.”

“He’s not the boss, he’s just a paid joker.”

“Who is the boss?”

“Don’t know.”

“Give us a name,” Luke coaxed. “That’ll be a good start.”

“John.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “That’s convenient. How about a last name, ace?”

“That’s all I know,” Lou insisted. “That’s all I know.”



When they were back in Sam’s office, Luke looked at Sam very seriously. “I’ve got to ask.”

“Okay,” Sam said, expecting a question on the case.

“Get any more flowers today, lover boy?”

Luke was grinning at him, the bastard. “You know I didn’t.”

“Then you didn’t play your cards right.”

“Luke?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

Luke merely laughed. “You’re still in the papers this morning, did you see that? Such a hero, our Sam. Can I have your au to graph?”

Each of them had been through some pretty rough times, and each of them had come through with different attitudes. Luke tended to put his emotions out there, despite his tough ness.

Sam did not.

Sam didn’t like to acknowledge his emotions in any way, shape or form. They had disappointed and hurt him once too often.

Anyway, for all those reasons, or maybe none of them, Luke’s dark eyes rarely did that sparkle dance thing as they were doing now, no matter how amused he might be.

Nice as that was to see, Sam didn’t care for it being at his own expense, even if he was aware Luke was just trying to get a rise out of him.

If only Luke knew, just thinking about Angie got a rise out of him. “Can we talk the case, do you think, or do you want to joke around all day?”

“Sorry.”

“You don’t look sorry. You look disgustingly…I don’t know. Happy.”

Luke lifted a shoulder. “Maybe I got lucky last night.”

“With Sara?”

“Maybe.”

“About time. You’ve been dating her a month.”

“Some things are worth waiting for.”

Sam eye balled the known womanizer Luke Sorrintino. “That sounds serious.”

Luke shrugged again and turned away.

“Oh, now that we’re talking about you, we’re done?”

“That’s right. Besides, our little problem awaits us— Well, hello.” Luke smiled broadly at someone in the doorway, and even before Sam glanced over and saw his partner’s flirtatious expression, he knew.

Angie.

She stood there with her sweet face smiling right at him, in her second hand glasses that emphasized her huge eyes and a floral, gauzy dress covered in sunflowers that made him wish he had a pair of sun glasses just to look at her.

“You look tense again,” she said to Sam. “Am I interrupting?”

Yes.

“Of course not,” Luke said before Sam could speak. “We were just questioning a witness. I was the good cop. Sam here…” They both turned to stare at him.

“I bet he makes a scary bad cop,” Angie said with a secret little smile.

As if she knew him.

Well, if she did, and she could read his mind right now, she’d know this terrible urge he had to go to her, touch her. She’d probably run screaming from the room.

“You catch far more flies with honey instead of vinegar,” she said, wrinkling her nose delicately as she looked around his office with a sort of morbid curiosity.

“A mess, isn’t it?” Luke tsked, and Sam glared at him.

“I suggested opening the shades and fumigating,” Angie said. “But he wasn’t interested.”

“No, he’s very tense, our Sam.”

Oh, very funny.

“At the very least, he should try aromatherapy,” Angie said told Luke.

“I agree. I mean, just look at him.” Now Luke sidled over toward Angie, so that both of them were looking back at him; his partner with laughter in his eyes, and Angie, with…uh-oh. An un mistakable spurt of…some thing, all right. Some thing that made his insides do a juvenile sort of quiver. Damn it, he thought he’d taken care of that the last time they’d stood in this office together.





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