February 1986, Western New York State

Warm lips skimmed the side of Meghan Muldoon’s neck while an even warmer pair of hands worked their way beneath the sweatshirt she’d put on after her shower. “You smell so good,” he murmured in that silky croon that never failed to melt her bones. “If I wasn’t so terrified of incurring a cardiac arrest, I’d take my time eating you in small luscious bites.”

“While I’d pray it would take all night to complete the promise,” she murmured.

For the sake off completing the task at hand, in order to get to the good stuff, Meg squirmed out of Keenan Rossi’s arms. “Let me get the last of the linens on the bed before we start on the appetizers.”

He resumed the previous seek-and-ye-shall-find foray, this time with a bit of teeth action thrown in for added spice. “I don’t care if the sheets are clean.”

“That’s a new one for you.”

“We haven’t had this amount of time alone in a dog’s age. I’d forgotten how good you smell.”

“New cologne,” she said and tossed him one end of the top sheet.

Big mistake when his idea of ‘helping’ to make rigid hospital corners evolved into long, lush kisses and playful nips on the back of her neck. After finishing the task to her liking, she hooked one leg around his knee to tumble them both onto the mattress. Not that the level of resistance on his part was all that high.

“I surrender, my lord.” She feigned a mock swoon, complete with hand to her forehead. “Have your wicked way with me.”

He quirked one heavy brow and grinned. “There’s a half bottle of wine left from dinner the other night. Would you like a glass?”

Meg loved the cool sensation of crisp sheets against her skin as much as the feel of him naked and ready between her thighs. “Better not. I’m on first call tonight.”

That response cast an unfortunate pall over the festivities.

“You take call too damn often,” he muttered. “If you’d quit that job and marry me, like I’ve asked at least a million times, we could—”

Here we go again. She resisted the urge to yawn as he recited from the first chapter of the book Whose Job is More Important, a title they’d revisited more than once after taking the next step in their once strictly professional relationship.

Ignoring the thorny topic of holy wedlock, again, Meg focused on one of the lesser conflicts that too often reared its ugly head. “I’ve told you before, Keenan. Call is taken on a rotating basis among the staff. Tonight is my turn.”

He rose up on one elbow to glower at her, using what she termed his bad cop persona. “Let me remind you of your position at that zoo known as Crime Victim Services. You are the boss. And bosses shouldn’t take call on any night of the week.”

Per usual, her significant other of little over a year insisted on having the last word. As much as she wanted an end to the discussion—so that they could get on with the entertainment portion of the evening—she wasn’t about to give in and have him think he’d won.

“You take call. On a fairly regular basis.”

“Not as regularly as you.”

That put her neck up enough to snipe back. “Two nights ago, that wasn’t me sitting alone in a darkened movie theater while Tom Cruise felt his need for speed?”

“Now, Meghan…”

“Or last weekend when you had to leave a performance of Aida because a domestic disturbance turned deadly. And I don’t even like opera.”

“Look, all I’m saying is I hate having to consult on-call schedules before I can even think about making uninterrupted love with my girlfriend.”

He ignored her wince at his word choice. “I waited too damn long to find someone who’d put up with all the crap that comes with my job. Add to that load of crap, there’s my charming personality which few women want to deal with.”

Pasting a come hither look on her face, she crooked a finger in his direction. “Nothing is interrupting us now, darling. Your crap is part of the package; I’ve known that from the get. So, lay yourself down here and let me deal with you.”

The barest of smiles creased the corners of his mouth. “Don’t start with the distraction techniques, Miz Muldoon. I’m on a roll here. If you’d quit that freaking job and move in with me, we wouldn’t have to go through this five nights out of seven.”

Unh huh. He’d segued into Chapter Two of the favored book: I Make Enough Money to Support Us Both. Better known in Meg’s version as Watch Her Quickly Go Mad From Boredom.

“Let’s not go there right now, okay? I like to work. I love my job.” I like the freedom of standing on my own, paying my own way.

He settled between her thighs, sneaked both hands beneath her shirt again, and proved his fingers were as talented as his tongue. “Jesus, I love you, Meg. So damn much.”

“Don’t talk. Act.”

Long moments passed as pieces of clothing landed on the floor beside the bed. Finally, down to bare skin and just inches short of the promised land, her pager erupted in an intricate dance maneuver across the top of the nightstand.

Muttering a string of extremely crude phrases, Kee sat up, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. Reaching out, she placed a soothing palm between his shoulder blades. “It could be nothing. One of the volunteers might be looking for a bit of support with a difficult client.”

She slipped on her eyeglasses to read the message screen on the pager, and felt her heart sink to her belly. Call the service…911. She reached for the phone.

“You going in?” he grumbled after she hung up.

She glanced at him as she slid out of bed and went to her dresser for clean underwear and a fresh pair of jeans. “Hospital call. It’s a juvenile; Child Protective Services is involved and requesting advocacy.”

Muttering under his breath, he came to his feet and stormed to the bathroom. The door slammed hard enough to rattle the walls of her ancient apartment. While Meg dressed, she heard two things turn on: a tape of the Four Tenors performing Kee’s favorite arias, followed by the roar of the shower. The building that housed her apartment might be ancient, but it boasted mega amounts of water pressure—something for which Kee often expressed his gratitude.

He didn’t sing along with Pavarotti—or Placido whatshisname—Meg couldn’t tell one from the other. Not that it mattered much now. Keenan’s silence shouted agitation. Or worse—an omen predicting the end of them as a couple.

After slipping into a pair of low boots, Meg took one last look at the pager’s screen before clipping it to the waistband of her jeans. Regret was part of the package for victim advocates. Last minute cancellations; plans scrapped at the drop of a hat or beep of a pager; lack of prolonged, restorative sleep. Usually she handled the less fun parts of her job with a shrug of her shoulders and hope for better nights to come.

Something told her that no matter how long tonight’s call lasted, the evening would not end in a way either of them hoped.

“This is my life,” she pleaded to the man on the other side of the bathroom door. “Why can’t you understand that?”

****

It was close to noon before second platoon investigator Keenan Rossi found the time to park his butt in his own chair behind the desk he shared with detectives from the first and third shifts.

“Not for nothin’,” he announced to a room crowded with uniformed and civilian staff, “but somebody ought to clue in the felons infesting the streets of this fair county that it’s too freakin’ cold to manufacture mayhem, perpetrate mischief, and otherwise get on my nerves.”

“Didn’t get any last night.” The desk sergeant offered as he ambled through the bullpen, stopping at each desk to deliver the day’s mail. “You always get surly, Rossi, when your pipes ain’t gettin’ flushed regular. Oughta think out findin’ yourself a woman to warm your bed.”

“I got a cousin,” one of the requisite smart asses called from the other side of the room. “Still has all her teeth and is round in all the right places.”

“Is that the one who goes about five hundred pounds?” someone asked.

“Like I said,” Matchmaker One said. “Round in all the right places.”

While waiting out the hoots and hollers of laughter, Kee slurped at a cup of rancid coffee, courtesy of the aforementioned sergeant and returned to filing documents related to the latest in a string of B and E’s plaguing the north end of the county.

The newest addition to the Major Crimes Unit, and one of the first females in the history of the Easton County Sheriff’s Department to make detective, Sunny O’Toole, slumped into a chair at the desk next to his. “Gramercy’s cousin doesn’t come anywhere near five bills. She is, however, a bowzer. Makes a Rottie look like Miss America.”

He didn’t mind, like some others, working with a skirt. O’Toole brought a different point of view to the job. Kind of refreshing after the years of a testosterone packed bull pen. That didn’t stop him from trying to jerk her chain as often as possible. “Is there a point to this, O’Toole?”

“I got friends, Rossi. A few walk and chew gum at the same time. Some are able to speak in full sentences and not say ‘ya know’ every other word.”

“You have friends. Amazing.”

“Har har.” She thumbed through the pile of signed investigator reports in their shared In-Box. “Heard the south zone caught a nasty one last night.”

For the sake of keeping the conversation going, he said, “Oh, yeah?”

“Rape, sodomy and aggravated assault. Three guys roughed up the vic pretty good.”

He dared not let O’Toole or anyone in the division know he’d received advanced knowledge of the case—or how he obtained it. “How old?”

“Twelve.”

He pulled a piece of scrap paper from his blazer pocket and wrote himself a note to call his sister after he got home from work. She’d been twelve once—and in a similar situation. “Is there a reason for this need to share what happened in another zone on another shift?”

She reacted to his sharp tone with a shift in posture. “All I heard from locker room chatter was the deps were awful glad when Meg Muldoon responded last night. I hear that girl’s a wizard when it comes to getting victims to relax and cooperate with interrogations. Thought you’d like to know, seeing as you’re so hot to trot to promote positive relations between advocates and law enforcement.”

Over the beat of his heart that kicked into trip hammer rate whenever mention of Meghan Muldoon was made, Kee swallowed hard. No one in the Easton County Sheriff’s Department was aware he and Meg were warming the other’s sheets, just as no one at her job knew about them. Not that he gave a good god-damn but Meg would spit bricks if word got out that she’d gone over to the dark side and was sleeping with the enemy.

Girl. Cooperate. Interrogation.

“Lemme give you a piece of brotherly advice, O’Toole, given that you passing the Investigator’s exam marks your first turn around the promotions dance floor.

Hiding a smirk, Sunny eased back in her chair. “Advise away, Obi Wan.”

He aimed a heavy-knuckled finger in her direction. “There’s only a couple ways to piss off Meghan Muldoon, aka the Reigning Queen of Man Haters. First: refer to her as a girl, or worse a gal. Second: when you mention eliciting a statement from a crime victim, go ahead and use the words cooperate and interrogation in the same sentence. You’re young and healthy. The stay in ICU shouldn’t last longer than a couple weeks.”

“Gotcha, pard.”

“Good. Lesson number two in Investigations One-Oh-One: use all help available. Get the chairman of the Crime Stats Committee on the horn. See if any of the town forces are showing anything with MO’s similar to the B and E’s we got going for us.”

“I live to serve, Kemosabe.”

Leaving the eager Siobhan Sinead O’Toole to the task of walking her fingers through the yellow pages, Kee walked next door to Property Crimes to mooch a cup of real coffee. On the way back, he detoured down memory lane to recall the first time he saw Meg Muldoon…

****

Late Spring, 1984

While waiting in line for a nosh and first cup of morning Joe at the monthly crime stats meeting, Keenan felt a sharp elbow give his left kidney. “How’d a prince of a guy such as yourself end up in a joint like this?” a voice tinged with Brooklyn asked.

Kee glanced down and grimaced at Pete Rizzuto, a height challenged vice cop from the Victory PD. “Better the monthly roasting by the mayor and county exec than walking a beat on Summerville Pier while my cojones turn to ice cubes.”

He edged a few steps closer to the urns that contained the one thing he loved more than single malt scotch: high test caffeine. The refreshment line rarely suffered log jams, but today was different. He craned his neck in an attempt to identify the source of the road block ahead.

“Look, pal. Can’t you take a damn pastry instead of doing a cavity search on the entire tray? A Danish is a Danish, for Christ’s sweet sake, loaded with a week’s worth of carbs and fat grams.”

The offender, a member of the Victory PD force tossed Kee an exasperated look. “The filling on these things looks remarkably like prunes. I specifically ordered chocolate mousse or almond paste.”

Just as he was about to suggest the guy move on to lighter fare of fresh fruit and yogurt, he heard Rizzuto’s low wolf whistle. “Be still my fluttering heart.”

With the fix of nectar within breathing reach, Keenan let out a groan. Christ he needed caffeine in mega doses to offset the dull throb that had taken up residence behind his left eyeball. “What the hell are you talking about, Scoot?”

“My next ex-wife. This one’s got legs at least ten yards long.”

More focused on tipping the contents of two sugar packets into his mug, Kee didn’t bother looking up. “What is it with you and Amazons? If she’s as tall as you say, if the two of you ever danced a slow one, your chin would land between the cups of her Miracle Bra.”

“Exactly. Wonder who she is.”

Finally. It was just him and the urns. Please, God, don’t fail me now and have them turn out empty. The enticing aroma of dark brewed caffeine sent his taste buds into orbit as it ensured imminent relief from the frayed nerves and jittery hands commonly associated with a bitch of a hangover. Seconds remained before he experienced Nirvana.

“Bet she’s the new kid in the District Attorney’s office,” Rizzuto offered. “You know how the DA likes to put the new hires through a test of fire at the monthly pig roasts.”

If only to shut the man up, Kee glanced at the object of Rizzuto’s affections and, while pulling his jaw off the floor, felt hot coffee dribble down the front of his shirt. “Ho—lee shit.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Clean-up efforts were interrupted by the committee chair. “Let’s get this show on the road, people,” he announced with one rap of his gavel. “We’ll begin with introductions, starting on my immediate left.”

As each member identified him or herself for name, rank and department, Kee surveyed the group. Victory’s mayor, Grace Ellmore and Easton County Manager, Clayton Fisk, attended the monthly CSC meetings and never failed to turn into what the uniformed members termed pig roasts. Amazing Grace and Sir Clayton delighted in replaying the dying moments of the martyred Saint Lawrence when it came to interrogating the rank and file in attendance for what the two perceived as failure to control crime in their designated turfs.

Today’s roast was no different from the usual Q and A. Because of the headache and queasy gut, Kee was glad his turn wouldn’t come until after, hopefully, the three aspirins, second gallon of coffee, and two antacids had kicked in.

“May I ask a question?”

Attention zoomed in on the mystery guest who, as it turned out, had a voice to match her legs—long, smooth and endlessly sexy.

The chair cleared his throat. “My apologies for failing to introduce our guest. Gentlemen, Meghan Muldoon, the new Director of Crime Victim Services out of The Peoples’ Coalition.”

Once more in the space of an hour, Keenan about dropped his teeth. Victim advocate was the last thing he’d have guessed when it came to this girl—woman as his sisters constantly reminded him. What happened to drab, shapeless dresses and Birkenstocks? The flowers in her hair, guitar and ten verses of Kumbaya? Not that he minded the snug-fitting red jacket and slim black skirt with a slit that ended just south of the pearly gates. Damn, but she had great legs.

Though she’d kept quiet till now, her body language and demeanor advertised close attention for each officer’s responses to Fisk’s interrogation. “We’ve seen a rise in sexual assaults in recent weeks,” she said, slipping a manila file from her leather briefcase. “Same signature.”

Aw geez, here we go. With the onset of wildly popular TV police procedurals along the lines of Hill Street Blues and Miami Vice cops and prosecutors everywhere suffered from civilians who felt honor bound to sprinkle their conversations with what they considered insider’s lingo.

Signature? No matter how well she filled out a pair of pumps, this one probably wouldn’t know a signature if it came up and bit her in the ass. And if the responding groans, some barely audible, others a tad louder, were anything to go by, the rest of the badges in the room agreed.

The committee chair took the lead. “When you say signature, what do you mean?”

She opened the folder. “Over the past four months, twenty reports have come in from women, age twenty-nine to thirty-five, single parents living with young children in apartment complexes in towns on the outskirts of Victory. Entry and exit is gained through a first floor window, between the hours of midnight and six a.m. The assailant threatens to harm the children sleeping in another room if the woman doesn’t cooperate. We speculate he either spends time inside the apartments prior to the actual assaults or he’s stalking the women to learn their habits and lifestyles. No noted accents or speech impediments; physical descriptions are vague because he uses a pillowcase from the bed to cover the victims’ faces. That leaves nothing of value in terms of identifying marks, scars, or tattoos. In each case, however, the survivors have remarked that the assailant smells clean.”

“What’s that mean, smells clean?” one of the uniforms sneered. “If their faces are covered, how could they know if he stinks or not? Maybe they outta get their stories straight before they start bawling rape.”

Muldoon spared the man one cool, assessing glance. “In every report which has come to our service, once the actual assault is completed, the rapist removes the pillow case, then kisses her on the cheek and asks if he did okay, was she satisfied.”

The rep made no effort to hide his disdain. “Exactly how many gals have you and your posse of flag-waving feminists coached to come up with this load of crap?”

Kee didn’t recognize this guy, and he sat too far away to clearly see the department patch on his uniform sleeve. Christ knew he wasn’t from the sheriff’s office; with that attitude his ass would have been grass a long time ago. While Mayor Ellmore and Manager Fisk stirred visibly at the man’s tone and inference, Muldoon closed the folder, folded her hands over it, then drilled the man with cool-eyed precision.

“When it comes to making statements, sir, the clients of the Crime Victims Service are not coached in any manner. We are committed to empowering women, not speaking for them. I asked to come before this committee with the intent of sharing information so that the law enforcement agencies throughout the county would be alerted a serial rapist is operating in the area. Our fear is that, though he’s displayed little to no violence beyond the actual rapes, he could escalate and cause serious injury to the next woman he attacks. If the committee is not interested in this information, I’m sure another agency will be.”

The non-verbal threat couldn’t have been louder: The state attorney general’s office will be glad to take on Easton County law enforcement in a civil rights action.

The guy just wouldn’t let it go. “How is it you know all the buzz words, Miz Muldoon, all the snappy phrases? Spend your nights watching reruns of Cagney and Lacey?”

She seemed to consider her response for a moment. “No, but perhaps ten years with the Office of Special Investigations counts for something.”

Kee whistled silently. Whoa boy, this was no badge bunny. That amount of time with the Air Force’s equivalent to any of the alphabet agencies dotting the federal law enforcement system was no easy road for anyone, particularly a girl. Woman.

“While with the military,” she offered, “I specialized in crimes against women and children. Upon separation from the service, I felt my time would be better served advocating for victims of violence in the civilian arena.” She took a quick glance around the table, spending fractions of seconds on each face. “Is there anything else you need to know about my experience conducting interviews, gentlemen?”

Keenan Rossi sat back in his chair and considered Meghan Muldoon.

This was the woman his mama always warned him about.

****

In the early hours of the first day of summer, Keenan Rossi met his partner, the lone female on the Major Crimes Unit outside the Emergency Room doors of Mary Immaculata Hospital. “What do you have, O’Toole?”

“After last week’s crime stats meeting, you told me to be on the watch for any midnight to six break-ins at apartment complexes. Since I live to serve, I figured I’d better call you.”

As his head felt like a slowly expanding basketball he grumbled, “Yeah, yeah, enough with the sucking up. What’s the deal?”

Sunny flipped open her pocket-size notebook. “Single female, first floor apartment, Tall Oaks complex on the outskirts of Cranston, woke up to find a guy on top of her, about to wrap a pillow case around her head. She kneed him good; he booked; she phoned 9-1-1. EMT’s insisted she be seen and treated.”

The thrumming beat in Kee’s head ramped up a couple notches as the vision of Meghan Muldoon danced through his brain. “Was the rape completed?”

“She says not and insists when her knee connected she felt a distinct shape and requisite hardness, so he was ready to rock. I requested the crime lab guys to go to the scene, pull the bed linens, and check point of entry for prints.”

“Okay, let’s do it.” Partner in tow, Kee sauntered down the hall of Mary Mac’s Emergency Department, cruised past the triage desk, and flashed his badge for any interested parties.

Sunny had to run to keep up. “You should know CVS is already present in the room.”

“We’ll thank them for their time and effort and get rid of them real fast.”

“I dunno, Rossi. Cranston PD decided it wasn’t a real rape and threatened the vic with arrest for filing a false report. She ended up calling CVS who encouraged her to contact us.” Sunny lowered her voice to a whisper. “This one isn’t breathing without the advocate’s okay.”

Aw shit. Kee took a left turn down the hallway that led to the exam room where nurses always stashed victims claiming rape. The little brouhaha from the Crime Stats meeting nagged at him. Just where he didn’t want to be at three in the morning: smack dab in the middle of a pissing contest between Cranston PD, known for its thuggish attitude toward women, and some bleeding heart liberal who’d defend Lizzie Borden herself is she sang a sad enough tune. No sir, he did not need this crap on two measly hours of sleep.

The door to the exam room opened at his rap; he pulled his creds again—just to make it official. Always important to let folks know who’s boss in the barn yard.

Who should open the door but Legs herself, Meghan Muldoon. This time she wore baggy sweats instead of a snazzy suit; her gleaming copper hair was pulled back into some half-assed pony tail at the top of her head and not a speck of makeup. Her legs, just as long as last week, looked like they would wrap a man’s waist and—

Aw geez. On top of her face, he didn’t need mental pictures of her naked legs interfering with his concentration. “Detective Sergeant Keenan Rossi, ma’am, ECSD.”

She looked first at his badge, then into his eyes, and gave him and Sunny a nod. Blocking their vision of the room, she made a half turn. “The sheriff’s investigators are here, Alice. Is it all right if I let them in?”

A snort that sounded very much like disgust echoed from behind the privacy curtain. “Give them a chance, Alice. Help them catch this man before he hurts a woman more seriously than what he’s done to you.”

A second grunt came. Muldoon opened the door and motioned for him and O’Toole to enter.

Kee took one look at the woman laying on the exam table and closed his aching eyes for a brief second.

Cranston PD decided no assault occurred? If that was so, how in hell did this victim sustain vivid purple marks around her throat? And who the fuck turned her left eye into something the color and size of a ripe eggplant?

Aw shit.

****

Three days later, after another rape with the same signature came across his desk, Kee decided to make use of Meg Muldoon’s skills and took a drive over to The Peoples’ Coalition with the intent of running a few things by her. All in the name of enhancing police-public relations. While waiting for the herd of placard bearing protestors to make a hole so he could pull the black and white into the parking lot, he mentally listed ways to approach the formidable Ms. Muldoon.

Known by the locals as TPC, the agency regularly suffered demonstrations by ultra right conservatives because of the medical services they offered low income women and teenagers. More than once Easton County deputies had been summoned for back up services while Easton PD dealt with protestors who regularly chained themselves to car bumpers or entry doors or formed human barricades at the entrance to the parking lot.

It didn’t matter to the speed bumps for choice that TPC provided free medical care to the poor and under-served citizens of Easton County. Mention the right to choose and the nuts regularly fell from the trees, though Kee personally found it odd that most of the nuts usually were middle-aged men. He kept on doing his job: maintaining the peace and upholding the laws which guaranteed a woman’s right to adequate health care regardless of her ability to pay.

As he approached the entry door, ignoring a protestor who shoved a pamphlet in his face that extolled the evils of supplying teenagers with contraceptive devices without parental consent, Kee spied a television mounted on the upper corner—and knew exactly how he’d broach the topic of conducting simultaneous interviews of victims with Meg Muldoon.

****

“Sorry for showing up without calling first,” Kee said, noting some pallor around her eyes and a few new lines across her forehead.

She reached out to touch his arm, a move that both surprised and pleased him. “What brings you to us today, Sergeant?”

“Something’s come up I need to talk over with you. Do you have a couple minutes?”

With a nod, she asked, “Have you visited TPC before?”

“Never had the pleasure.”

“Then follow me. I'll give you the dollar tour.”

At an intersection of corridors, someone had erected a hand-made road sign much like the one on the M*A*S*H* TV show which showed the miles and direction for Tokyo or Portland, Maine. This one held arrows directing the way toward the Community Food Pantry; another pointed toward the Clothes Closet. Meg turned in the direction of the third sign which proclaimed ECAMP and CVS.

He pointed at the sign. “ECAMP stands for?”

“Easton County Adolescent Maternity Program. They help pregnant teens obtain medical care, offer support as long as they stay in school and coordinate home services for two years after the babies are born.”

Kee nodded. “Sounds good to me, but why would folks protest something which helps girls keep their babies instead of…the alternative?”

She looked at him with understanding in her glorious eyes while handing out a dose of reality. “The teen clients, as with all TPC clients, are given options for themselves and their babies. Some people believe females should not be allowed that amount of power over their bodies.”

“But—”

“With these people there are no buts, Sergeant. It’s their way or the highway.”

If it was the presence of a cop, he didn’t know, but all of a sudden an awful lot of staff needed Miz Muldoon’s undivided attention. The females offered him smiles, some with non-verbal invitations, others had mundane questions, none of which interested him.

It was the lone man who, after demanding a moment of Meg’s time, seemed bent on consuming her full attention, listing a long line of requests and reminders. She addressed him as Greg, treated him with professional patience, and after dealing with what sounded to Kee like a list of crap duties, assured the guy she would review something called an RFP by the end of the day.

Kee found it kind of strange that this Greg person didn’t demand to be introduced, never asked Kee’s name or ID. Which was odd for an agency that regularly suffered the presence of protestors whose capacity for violence was an unknown quantity. Eventually, Meg’s boss went away, though clearly unhappy. Kee pegged him as a spoiled brat who expected his demands to be met instantly.

Offering him a sideways glance, she blushed. “Sorry about that. As director of The Coalition, he expects staff to—”

“Drop everything to kiss his ass on a regular basis?”

A bark of laughter escaped her chest. It had to have been a rare occurrence because as soon as it was squelched, Meg quickly checked all perimeters for hidden observers. “Sorry about that. My laugh comes out when I least expect it.”

He cupped the fingers of one hand around her elbow. “Don’t apologize. I liked it.”

She offered him a look of surprise, then lowered her eyes. “Thanks.”

He liked many things about Meg Muldoon. Unfortunately it took almost a year to convince her of that—then another six months before she consented to date him.

****

After checking the pile of messages and separating those which deserved immediate attention from those that could wait, Meg flipped the page on her desk calendar to today’s date. February 14th stared her in the face.

Wonderful.

No day was easy at any victim serving agency. Valentine’s Day put a double whammy on the conflicting emotions brought on by violation of one’s personal space. Shame. Fear. Anxiety. Emotional paralysis.

****

Four out of five buttons at the base of the phone were lighted up like a Broadway theater marquee. When the fifth started to blink furiously, she resigned herself to an afternoon filled with despair, helplessness, and pain. “Crime Victim Services. How may I help you?”

The caller’s voice was low, husky, and exquisitely male. “Do you know the difference between and barracuda and a victim advocate?”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Lip gloss.”

“Well, damn,” Kee muttered. “You heard it.”

“An oldie but a goodie, pal.”

“Aren’t we all. How you doing on this gorgeous February day, gorgeous?”

Bringing his handsome face to mind took little effort. They had worked together for more years than either cared to count. When the relationship progressed beyond professional, Meg felt they should keep things under the radar. At first Keenan agreed, claiming he wasn’t in the mood for any crap from his peers about exploring his feminine side. But after a while he began to push for something more permanent. And she wasn’t so sure she was ready for that, especially marriage. She liked being able to come and go as she pleased, responsible only to herself and for herself.

Even though she could hear the tease in his voice now, she was still smarting from last night’s spat. “I’m not doing too bad. How about you?”

“Lemme tell you, cara. If I was any better, I’d scare myself.”

Early on, she’d learned Rossi was the man to go to when she needed a laugh. This one came all the way from her toes. “Does your captain know you suffer from delusions of grandeur?”

“Right now, darlin’, I’m more desperate than delusional.” His tone changed abruptly. “How’d you like to make me a happy man?”

“Now there’s a challenge no woman should refuse. Might this entail blindfolds and handcuffs? Maybe a cavity search or two?”

“You have a twisted mind, Muldoon.”

“Comes with the territory, Rossi. What’s up?”

Background noises associated with an over-worked and under-staffed Major Crimes Unit intruded. Meg pictured him hunched over the phone, trying to muffle his voice so others wouldn’t catch on to what he was doing.

“Something’s come up, Meggie. I have to send my partner to the Crime Stats Meeting in my place and didn’t want you to worry.”

That brought her straight up in her chair. Did they finally have enough probable cause to haul in the rape suspect who’d terrorized the west side of the county for the past few months? “Anything you can share with me?”

“Naw. It’s just…well—in honor of the day I’m taking off early to go home and cook dinner for my…significant other.”

“Dinner,” she echoed. “I hope this in-home date includes fine wine and soft music, perhaps slow dancing in front of a fire. And many, many long stem roses in her favorite color.”

“You know me, Muldoon. Class act all the way.”

“Then I’d say she is one lucky woman.”

“The best. I’m nuts about her.”

One lucky woman, Meg thought, to have the hunk of the Easton County Sheriff’s Department making dinner for her. Of course none of that mattered unless one took the chef’s broad shoulders and tight buns into account. And moss green eyes so warm and deep a woman wouldn’t think twice about jumping in without a life preserver.

“I find myself helpless against the forces of true love. Give her my best.”

“No matter what others say, Meg, you’re a champ.”

“Let’s not advertise that too loud. I can’t have my rep as the Reigning Queen of Man Haters tarnished.”

Meg hung up the phone, only to find herself contemplating ways to fill the sudden hole in her afternoon schedule.

In an over-whelmed, under-funded human service agency, leaving early, even for a department supervisor, required an intercession from more than one angel, a couple saints and a note from the Pope. After bargaining with Lucy Hardigan, the best of staff counselors, to handle things, Meg sneaked out the back door and headed for the parking lot.

She put the transmission into first gear and was waiting for the heater to start doing its thing when a brisk tap sounded on the driver’s side window. Once her heart rate settled back into a normal, healthy rhythm, she rolled down the glass.

Greg Sunderson, CEO of The People’s Coalition, wore a smirk more oily than a used-car salesman desperate to meet his weekly quota. “Leaving early, Meghan?”

Mentally she reminded herself it would be futile to remind him of the crisis call that lasted until mid-morning. Greg was constitutionally incapable of grasping the concept that crises sometimes occur outside normal business hours. These days the only thing that forced him out of bed in the middle of the night was a petulant prostate.

Hungry because she’d forgotten to eat lunch, still upset over last night’s spat with Kee and tired beyond belief, she bit back the snotty retort sitting there on the tip of her tongue and remained appropriately civil. “I have a meeting outside the building.”

“Not according to the sign-out board at the front desk,” he said in a sing-song voice. “Since you neglected to indicate a return time, I’m wondering when to expect you back.”

For someone who routinely took two or three hour lunches, it fit the man’s passive-aggressive personality to keep close track of subordinates’ comings and goings. “Greg, I’m running late. I don’t know when or if I’ll be back which is why I signed out for the day.”

He made a production of examining the asphalt beneath his feet where puddles from an early morning shower still lingered. “I need your help, Meghan. It’s an emergency.”

It was always an emergency with this man. He possessed many habits, good and bad. He ran a multi-million dollar not-for-profit agency that served the poor and uninsured of the region with accomplished success. Cool under pressure, he functioned adroitly in public, using the charming side of his personality. In private, he micro-managed each program director at TPC with veiled threats or exaggerated compliments.

One of the man’s nastier habits involved leaving time-sensitive materials to the last minute before delegating them to senior staff, then sit back and watch them scramble to complete the task by the appointed deadline. She could count on both hands the number of grant reapplications she’d completed for him, a few with literally minutes to spare.

After putting the transmission into neutral, she glanced up at him and caught the familiar ‘gotcha’ look on his face. “What do you need?”

He extended a sheath of papers through the open window. After unfolding them she immediately flipped to the last page of the Renewal for Funding Proposal. When she didn’t find the all important piece of paper, she glared at him. “Where is it, Greg?”

“Well, gee, Meghan, I could have left it on my desk but, I uh—”

She leaned close enough to smell the mints on his breath. “Give it up or I leave.”

After a brief war of glares, he relinquished the last page of the RFP. Meg unfolded it and found the time and date stamp, indicating when the packet had been received in his office. Numbers jumped off the page with the brazenness of a blitz rapist.

The request for renewal of funding, worth several hundred thousand dollars, had set on Sunderson’s desk for nearly six weeks—until he just happened to notice the filing deadline: February 14, 5 o’clock, EST.

Man, this game was getting old. Hell, she was getting too old to maintain the façade of Miss Willing to Help Anyone, Anytime, Anywhere.

Taking a deep breath, Meg folded the paper and carefully placed the entire packet back in his hand. “This belongs in Education and Outreach. I suggest you take it to their grants specialist.”

He stepped back from the car. “No one can do an RFP like you, Meg. Hell, you can get this one cranked out in a couple hours, no sweat.”

“It’s not my department, Greg.”

He shook his head. “There was a time you'd help out with a smile on your face and an eagerness that isn't duplicated in the agency. But I've noticed over the last couple months, you’ve changed. Drastically. Many days you don’t arrive until nine on the dot; it’s rare that you stay past five. Staff could always count on you to work at least one day on the weekends but not anymore. I can’t begin to guess the cause for this change, nor am I interested in excuses.”

As Meg felt the gorge rise in her throat, he raised a hand. “If it’s a man, I suggest you get off the Love Boat at the first available cruise stop and refocus on what’s more important.”

Adding insult to injury, he raised a hand in a sign of peace. “I like you, Meghan, but I’d hate to see lack of commitment to overall agency goals or unwillingness to support the philosophy of team mentioned in your next performance appraisal.”

Through a blinding haze, she considered all the nights she’d worked late to rescue this man and the entire agency with never a word of thanks but always demands for more. Perhaps it was time she stopped enabling this jerk-off artist.

On second thought, there was no perhaps about it.

Screw teamwork and screw performance appraisals.

She did, however, follow Greg’s line of supposition and focused on the reason behind her taking a cruise on the Love Boat without a life preserver: Keenan Rossi.

The voice of her beloved father, Padraig Muldoon, sounded in her head. “This one’s not afraid of you, or your job, Meghan love. He stands up to you and isn’t hesitant to voice what he wants. This man won’t ever let you down, my girl. He’s a keeper.”

She considered all the years she’d worked in the field of crisis intervention. The long hours and boatloads of heartache with no one there to support her or who always had her back—until Keenan Rossi came along.

Perhaps it was time to move beyond this unhealthy need to rescue others, rethink her options and start rescuing herself.

“C’mon, Meg,” Greg whined. “It shouldn’t take more than a few hours.”

She tapped the face of her watch. “Sorry, I’m late. You’ll have to find someone else.”

If the man didn’t stop gaping like beached trout, he’d incur a major case of whiplash. “But. But you—”

“Have a nice rest of your day. I’m going to my meeting, and I’m turning off my pager.”

****

While waiting in line at the fresh meat counter at the local Buy-Rite, Kee realized he couldn’t follow through with his plan without first consulting with his mother. He rifled the pockets of his slacks first, then his blazer in search of quarters for the pay phone. When the search turned up nothing, he pleaded with the guy behind the counter to give him for change for a five, the smallest bill in his wallet. Coins in hand, he commandeered the only working pay phone on the wall and called his mother forthwith.

She answered on the first ring; her toned brightened after she heard his voice. “Keenan, love. How are you?”

“I’m fine, Mom. Working hard. I want to surprise Meg with dinner tonight; I need your recipe for sauce.”

More than fifty years ago as a blushing bride Assumpta Keenan Rossi learned the how’s and how not’s of making exceptional spaghetti sauce, gravy to those in the loop, at the elbow of her doting mother-in-law, Carmella Sanzone Rossi, late of Brooklyn by way of Sicily. As a result, no one cooked Italian like the red-haired, green-eyed Assumpta who still spoke with a thick West County brogue and could dance the toes off the best of them.

While Kee scribbled down the list of ingredients, he returned his mother’s volley of questions—payback for the recipe. “Meg’s fine. She was bummed she couldn’t make dinner last weekend. Had a crisis call at the hospital… Engaged? Mom, please. The only way that girl will marry me is if I kidnapped her.”

“I can’t imagine the girl sittin’ still long enough for that bit of malarkey, boyo.”

At the sound of a throat clearing, Kee turned and acknowledged a young Latino who made a business of tapping his watch and frowning. The kid made gestures at the Out of Order signs on the phones flanking the one Kee was using. His message was clear: time’s up.

Kee raised a finger in a sign of patience. “Look, Mom, I gotta go. Yeah, I know what today is. I’ll hit the flower shop on my way home. Next Sunday? Sure. Give my love to Pop.”

He hung up the phone, made sweeping bow for the kid who was now dancing the cha cha in exasperation, took the meatball mix and sweet Italian sausage links from the man behind the meat counter and went to check out what the store’s floral department had to offer a desperate, last minute shoppers.

****

Western New York offered a gamut of breath-taking scenery on a year round basis but never more so than when the annual February thaw made its presence known. Meg weaved her vintage sports car along Lakeshore Road toward Keenan’s home with one eye on the pewter clouds slowly gathering over the Canadian side of Lake Ontario. They were in for a beauty of a storm, the kind she loved best.

After dinner, if Kee kept good on his promise, they’d open a bottle of wine, dim the lights, and build a fire in the field stone hearth. Through the wall of glass windows in the great room, they would revel in their own private view of the Queen of the Great Lakes while Mother Nature cast another of her wicked spells.

With the radio tuned to her favorite oldies station and the volume ramped to the max, she sang a response to the Four Seasons who asked, ‘who loves you, pretty mama?’ It was rare for her to take the afternoon off, but after last night’s extended visit at the ER, she figured her time card would even itself out. Closely monitored, no doubt, by CEO Sunderson.

“Perfection,” she murmured, not only for the sounds coming through the speaker as well as all the things that accompanied her favorite season, but for a man who for no particular reason often surprised her with random acts of kindness which warmed her heart and kept other body systems in top working order.

By the time she unlocked the front door and was in the bedroom, exhaustion performed an energetic samba behind both eyelids. The expansive king-size bed beckoned. With a long, drawn out sigh, Meg promised herself she’d rest for fifteen minutes, then be up and ready to greet Keenan in an appropriate manner. She slid between the sheets and was down for the count in seconds.

****

Three distinct triggers roused Meg from a luscious dream that featured a man with moss green eyes and a devil’s grin. Equally enticing, each whipped her senses into over-drive.

Through speakers high up on the walls, Tony Bennett’s smoky voice crooned about a girl with moonlight in her eyes. From the opposite end of the house, mouth-watering aromas of spaghetti sauce sent her to new heights of anticipation. Open-mouthed kisses incited anticipation of a different nature. Firm lips and a pointed tongue traced the angle of her jaw.

“Hungry, my Meggie?”

“You know it,” she said, bringing Kee into her arms.

“You’re wearing my favorite scents,” he murmured. “Citrus and melon.”

“If you look farther, you’ll note that’s all I’m wearing.” She rose up on an elbow to give him a discerning look. “How long before dinner is ready?”

His smile curled her toes. “We’ve got time.”

“Then one of us is seriously over-dressed for the occasion.”

After he came off the bed, he worked his long, thick fingers over the buttons of his shirt, slowly revealing a thick pelt of chest hair just beginning to gray. Shoulders, pecs, and abs advertised a man who often indulged in hard physical labor. The belt followed in due order, sliding beneath each loop with agonizing slowness. When free, it dandled from his index finger for a slow count of three before hitting the floor.

“Need any help?” she asked, sliding one bare leg from beneath the covers.

“Nope. Thanks for offering though.”

“Anything to aid the cause.”

Sharply creased slacks pooled at his feet, then sailed into a corner after a lateral kick of one foot. “Ready?”

If he didn’t take her soon, she might resort to force. “Come down here and find out for yourself.”

In one smooth move, Kee sank onto the mattress, rolled her beneath him, and separated her thighs with his knees. “I thought about us, about this, all day. I behaved like an ass last night. I’m real sorry.”

Eager, warm and wet, she waited for the first welcoming thrust. “I’m sorry, too.”

Slow and easy would be reserved for another occasion. Moving in sync as long-time lovers will, rising up to seek the other, filling their needs, they climbed. Higher, then even higher, until… The phone on the nightstand rang.

“Ignore it,” she commanded.

But like that annoying little pink bunny, it kept going and going.

Resting his brow on her shoulder, he groaned. “I had to do a little inventive trading in order to leave early. I’m on call till eight. Sorry.”

She had no right to complain, nor offer a snarky comment, even if either might be well deserved. “We each do what we’ve been called to do, Keenan.” She glanced at the now silent black desk phone. “If it’s an emergency, wouldn’t the dispatcher set off your pager instead of calling on the land line?”

“You’re right,” he said and returned to the moves that made her eyes cross.

Making love should be this much fun, she decided. With Rossi, it was always a blast. Each time was new, exciting and vastly different from anything that came previously. The thought of being on call and the ever-present threat of postponing moments like this took on new meaning. Then, like a tidal wave approaching shore, release was right there, waiting for that one crucial move that would—

The phone resumed in a second, more insistent assault. “Don’t you dare stop,” she ordered and grabbed the receiver. “Yes? What is it?”

“Meghan, Greg Sunderson here. I’ve been considering our unfortunate—”

Oh, God, she was almost there. “Can’t this wait till the morning, Greg?”

“Ah, but you see—”

She had the presence of mind to cover the receiver milliseconds before the orgasm hit. Keenan, smug grin on his face and knowing full well who was on the other end of the line, leaned close to whisper sweet erotic nothings in her free ear. The snot knew how much she liked it when he did that.

“Come for me, Meggie. After, you can finish me off. You know how much we both like it when you take me in your—”

“Meghan are you there?”

“Then we’ll start over again,” Kee promised. “I have a pot of hot fudge simmering in a warming pot and a fresh can of whipped cream. We could—”

“Answer me, Meghan.”

“I’ll even throw in a couple cherries. I luuuvvv hunting for fresh fruit.”

“You have five seconds to respond,” Greg thundered, “or your position as Director of Crime Victim Services will be in serious jeopardy.”

For the first time in months, her lips creased in a smile so wide it made her jaws ache. “Will it really?”

“Other department heads may tolerate the insubordination you displayed today; I will not. Tomorrow morning, first thing, we’ll meet to determine the appropriate disciplinary action.”

With Lent approaching it didn’t take much imagination to figure out the type of punishment her boss had in mind. “Let me save you the trouble of sharpening the nails and erecting a cross. I resign.”

Greg didn’t speak for several seconds while Keenan silently pumped both fists in victory. “But—your replacement won’t be—”

“It’s immediate, Greg. I’m sure you’ll man the hotline, supervise the paid and volunteer staff, complete year-end reports to our funders and handle the monthly crime stat meetings with your usual aplomb.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to—”

“Trust me, Greg. The first time’s the hardest.”

“I will ruin you for this, Meghan. Your reputation won’t be worth shit in this town.”

“Quite frankly, Greg. I don’t give a damn.”

As Meg rolled to her side to replace the receiver into its nest, she discovered an exquisite bouquet of long stem yellow roses tucked into a cut glass vase on the nightstand. It hadn’t been there a few minutes ago, but who cared? They were there now, and yellow roses were her favorites.

Tucked in the middle of the bunch was a lace edged tulle bag filled with candy hearts, all imprinted with those cutesy messages of love and devotion. Corny, yes, but another of her favorite sweet treats. One tug opened the bag; the hearts tumbled out into her palm.

The most appropriate of all phrases landed on top. She palmed it, then looked into the face of this very special man. “What are you doing this weekend, Keenan?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. Hadn’t thought that far ahead. Why?”

She opened his hand, placed the pink heart in the center of his palm then folded his fingers around it. “How would you feel about taking a drive to Niagara Falls?”

He grinned. “In February? The Falls are frozen over. There won't be much to do.”

“We could get married,” she said. “That is, if you still want me.”

He gaped at her, as if he didn’t believe what she’d said. “Did you mean what you told Greg? You really want out?”

She unfolded his fingers, raised the candy heart to his gaze.

For Keeps.

“I want you, Keenan Rossi. I want us. For keeps.”

A word from the author…

Over the years I’ve had the privilege to work at a number of challenging professions: malpractice investigator, forensic nurse examiner, victim advocate, and the best one of all: Nana to four precious gifts named Meredith, Ashlin, Owen, and Kieran.

The years I spent haunting emergency rooms, police interrogation cubicles, and criminal courts always manage to find their way into my author’s voice—even when I wish they’d stay in the closet. We cannot turn a blind eye to misogyny, apathy, and bigotry, which flourish still.

www.WildWomenAuthorsX2.blogspot.com

We’ll raise your consciousness—and ire.