BROOKS SPENT MOST OF HIS DAY PUTTING RIGHTEOUS FEAR in a trio of preadolescent shoplifters, dealing with a traffic accident—which primarily involved preventing the two drivers from coming to blows—handling the resulting paperwork, and listening to Sid Firehawk whine when Brooks finally cited him for the blown-out muffler.
To reward himself, he opted to make a quick run to the bakery for some fancy coffee and a snickerdoodle, but Alma stuck her head in his office. Rainbow peace signs the size of babies’ fists dangled from her ears.
“Grover called in. There’s a dispute over at Ozark Art.”
“What kind of dispute?”
“He just said things were getting a little hot, and asked for you to go by.”
“All right. I’ll walk over. I could stop at the bakery on the way back if you want anything.”
“Get away from me, Satan.”
“Just saying.” Brooks got up from his desk, grabbed his jacket.
“If a chocolate macadamia cookie and a skinny latte found their way onto my desk, it wouldn’t be my fault.”
“No one could blame you.” As Brooks headed out, he wondered why she’d put the skinny in a latte when she was having a cookie. But that was one of the female mysteries he didn’t worry himself into a headache over.
He glanced at the sky as he walked. The temperatures refused to settle, shooting up, diving down and clashing in the middle as a welcome mat for tornados. But the sky held to a harmless faded denim.
He crossed over to Shop Street, pleased to see the Saturday-afternoon bustle of locals and tourists. He passed the gourmet market, thought of Abigail, and walked down another block to Ozark Art.
He didn’t see any signs of a dispute through the display window. In fact, he didn’t see Grover or a customer or anyone else. The little bell jingled as he stepped in, scanned the main showroom and its walls of paintings, the stands displaying sculptures, shelves of handblown glass and local pottery.
The air carried the fragrance of a spring woodland from one of those reed diffusers. Grover’s work, he thought absently. The guy looked like a storybook gnome, and was a wizard with scents.
He started back toward the storeroom and office, saw no one at the checkout counter.
And heard the click of heels on wood.
Sylbie, hair tumbled, eyes slumberous, slipped out of the back room.
“Well, there you are … Chief.”
“What’s the problem, Sylbie?”
“I’ll tell you.” She crooked a finger, tossed her hair and her own personal scent as she opened the back-room door. “In here.”
“Where’s Grover?”
“He’ll be back in a few minutes. Somebody has to watch the shop.”
Brooks felt the trapdoor creak under his feet. “Sylbie, Grover called the station, said there was a dispute that needed police involvement.”
“There is a dispute, but there doesn’t have to be. Come on into the back, and we’ll settle it.”
“All right, then.” She wore a dress swirled with black and white. And then she didn’t.
“Jesus Christ, Sylbie.”
She laughed, again tossing her hair and perfume before she leaned against the doorjamb, naked but for a pair of high red heels that showed a peek of toenails painted the same shade.
“You didn’t come see me the other night, Brooks. I had to drink that wine all by myself.”
“I told you I was busy. Put your clothes back on.”
“Now, that’s something I don’t recall you saying in the past.”
He kept his eyes on hers, surprised and a little disconcerted that it took little effort to keep them from roaming down. “I’m saying it now. Put your dress on, Sylbie.”
“Come on over here and make me.”
“What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “You talk Grover into calling the station, requesting an officer.”
“Not just any officer, honey.” She pursed her lips in a kiss. “I wanted you.”
“Shut up.” Temper he rarely lost strained against the leash. “If you’re not back in that dress inside ten seconds, I’m arresting you.”
“Oh … you want to play that way.”
“Look at me, God damn it. Am I playing?”
His tone, his face, finally got through. Temper lit her eyes in turn as she bent down, pulled the dress back up.
“Don’t you think for one minute you can speak to me that way.”
“I’ll do more than speak to you if you pull something like this again. I’m the fucking chief of police, Sylbie. I’m on duty.”
She fit the dress straps in place with two defiant snaps. “Like anything ever happens around here.”
“I’ll tell you something that’s going to happen. I’m going to find Grover, and I’m going to fine him for calling in a false report.”
“Believe it.”
She took a quick step forward. “Don’t do that, Brooks. Don’t. He only did it because I asked him.”
“Then he’ll know better next time. And so will you.”
“Why do you act this way?” Tears sizzled through the temper. “You make it so I have to throw myself at you, and all you do is get mad. Back in high school, you couldn’t keep your hands off me.”
“This isn’t high school. I don’t want high school.”
“You don’t want me.”
He knew those tears. He’d swam through rivers of them before, and they were sincere enough. “Sylbie, you’re beautiful, probably the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. You’re talented, and when you make an effort, you’re an interesting companion. But I don’t want you the way I did back then. I don’t want what we had back then.”
“You didn’t say that a couple weeks back when you were on top of me in my bed.”
“No, I didn’t, and I’m sorry, Sylbie.” Plenty of sorry to go around, as far as he could see. “The sex was always good with you and me, but we never did have much else going on.”
“What do you care, as long as you get off?”
“Honey, you ought to think better of yourself. I do.”
“Something’s wrong with you.” Anger and embarrassment ran color hot in her face. “You ought to want me when I’m offering.”
“If that’s all you want, you know there are plenty who’ll be willing.”
“But not you.”
“No, not me.” They’d come to the end of that road, he realized, and felt little more than relief. “Not anymore. Maybe we’ll like each other better without the sex. One thing I can promise you, and you better hear me. If you ever pull a stunt like this again, you’re going to see the inside of our cells down at the station.”
Her color stayed high, but her face went stony and cold. “You’ve changed, Brooks.”
“God, I hope so. You’d best watch the shop until Grover gets back.” He started out, glanced back. “That’s a nice dress, Sylbie. Keep it on.”
When he stepped out, he spotted Grover—round-bodied, stoop-shouldered and balding—puffing on a Marlboro as he sat on the bench between his shop and the next.
“Oh, hey, there, Chief.”
“Hey, there, Grover. Come with me.”
“Ah …”
“There’s a fine for calling in a false report, and you’re paying it.”
“But I—”
“Next time a pretty woman asks you to do something stupid, think first.”
“But she said—”
“You take what she said up with Sylbie. I’m saying you don’t call for help unless you need help. You don’t waste my time, or the Bickford Police Department’s time. I could put you in jail for what you did.”
Grover’s face went splotchy, pink blooming over sick white as the man got shakily to his feet. “Jail? Holy God. I just …”
“Don’t just ever again. Fine’s two thousand dollars.”
He was prepared to catch Grover, should he faint, and considered it a near thing. “I-I-I—”
“I’m cutting it down to twenty-five dollars, giving you a stupidity discount. You come in by the end of the day and pay it, or it’s back up to the two thousand. Clear?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. I just thought—”
“No, you didn’t think. Next time you will.”
“I’ll pay it, Grover.” Sylbie stepped out. “It’s my fault. I’ll pay the fine.”
“I don’t care where it comes from, just pay it by five.”
“You didn’t have to scare him so bad.” Sylbie sat on the bench, drew Grover down beside her and put her arm around his stooped shoulders. “It was my fault.”
“No argument. Pay the fine, slate’s clean.”
Though he’d lost his appetite for cookies, he crossed to the bakery, picked up Alma’s order. He left it on her desk, went into his office and filled out the citation.
He puzzled over the charge, then opted for “crying wolf.” It seemed to fit, and wouldn’t embarrass anyone.
He took it out, set it beside Alma’s latte. “Either Grover or Sylbie’s coming down to pay this citation. Don’t ask.”
“Whenever somebody hears ‘Don’t ask,’ they’re duty-bound to.”
“Not when somebody else just bought them a latte and a chocolate macadamia cookie.”
Alma tapped her blue-tipped nails on the go-cup. “So this is a bribe.”
“It could be so construed. Don’t ask, Alma.” He glanced up as Ash walked in.
“I had to run some skateboarders off the parking lot down at the bank. Again. And I pulled Doyle Parsins over for speeding. Again. Some people never learn. You got cookies?”
“Cookie,” Alma said. “Singular. Mine.”
“I swung by the Little League park. Saw that little Draper kid hit a solid three-bagger. And I got me a steamer. A cookie sure would top that off.”
Alma smiled as she took a deliberate bite, rolled her eyes in pleasure. “Mmm-mmm!”
“That’s just mean.”
Leaving them to it, Brooks went back in his office, shut his door. He spent some time poking at Abigail Lowery—who, he discovered, had a master’s degree in computer science, and another in security engineering, both from MIT. Pretty impressive.
It took him a while, but he learned she worked on a freelance basis for a company called Global Network.
He switched his focus, poked at the company.
Privately owned, he discovered. Founded by one Cora Fiense, age thirty-three. No photo on file, not that he could find. But he scanned a couple of articles describing the small, exclusive company launched by a media-shy agoraphobic.
The website offered no real information on the owner or the employees, but simply stated that Global offered security system analysis and design.
He sat back, asked himself why he persisted. She hadn’t done anything, as far as he could tell. He liked her, but there was an itch, he couldn’t ignore it. One that told him if he kept scratching he’d uncover something … else.
He toggled off when he heard the knock at his door.
“Yeah.”
“I’m off,” Alma told him. “Calls routed to your cell. Ash is on the desk till eight, Boyd’s on the road.”
“That works.”
“Sylbie and Grover came in together, paid the fine.”
“Good.”
“I don’t know if the cookie was worth it. Anyway, you were off shift ten minutes ago. Go home.”
“Might just. Thanks, Alma.”
He checked his calendar, noted he had his monthly meeting with the board of selectmen on Monday—joy. And he’d need to complete his quarterly reviews and inspections by the end of the month. He could go home, get some of that done. It wasn’t like his social calendar was bursting with activity.
His own fault, he admitted. He could go by the pub, or just make a call to one of his friends, see what was up. And he wasn’t in the mood.
The incident with Sylbie had left him mildly depressed, irritable. And horny. And the horny portion just pissed him off.
Because after his baffled shock and annoyance, he’d been tempted. Just a little tempted.
Hard to blame himself for it, he thought, as he rose, wandered to the window. A man would have to be dead a year not to be tempted by a naked Sylbie.
Now he was edgy and itchy, and up until that walk down to Ozark Art, he’d been in a pretty damn good mood. Soured now, he thought, as he’d deprived himself of quick, hot sex, fancy coffee and a cookie.
But Sylbie was right. He had changed. He hoped he never lost his taste for quick, hot sex, but he no longer wanted the price of guilt and emptiness that came after it when it just didn’t matter a damn.
What he needed was a distraction. Maybe he’d drive out to Mya’s, mooch some dinner, hang out with the kids. Nothing drove sex out of a man’s mind surer than a couple of wild kids fighting over the Wii or PlayStation.
He shut down, once again grabbed his jacket. He called a good night to Ash on the way out. On impulse, he jogged over to the florist, nipped in with five minutes to spare till closing.
A bunch of tulips was a good trade for a meal and distraction, he figured.
He drove out of the town proper, started to make the turn toward his sister’s big, noisy house near the river. He didn’t know until he’d turned the other way that he’d changed his mind.
ABIGAIL HAD A NICE FIRE CRACKLING. On the stove, a pot of pasta e fagioli soup simmered. She’d baked a pretty little round of olive bread, put together a mixed salad she intended to toss with raspberry vinaigrette.
All the work she’d earmarked for the day was complete. She’d spent ninety minutes on weights and cardio, exercised Bert.
She was going to treat herself to dinner and a movie—maybe even a double feature, with popcorn for the follow-up.
Considering all the interruptions, she’d had a very good, very productive week. Her fee for the job she’d just completed would fatten her bank account and add to her peace of mind.
And Sunday? She’d give the computer a rest. She’d clean her weapons, work in her garden and greenhouse, maybe get a little hiking in. Then settle down with her leftover soup and read the evening away.
For her, it encompassed a perfect weekend.
“I think action/adventure with a comedy to follow,” she said to Bert as she gave the soup another stir. “And wine. The chief of police was right. It’s a very nice one. It won’t be cool enough for a fire in the evenings much longer, so we should take advantage. I think we should—”
They both came to alert when her system beeped. “Someone’s coming,” she murmured, and rested her hand on the weapon at her hip.
Her brows drew together when she saw the cruiser coming up her drive. “Why is he here again?”
She moved to her computer, zoomed in to make certain Brooks was behind the wheel, and alone. After a moment’s thought, she unstrapped the holster. He’d ask more questions if he saw her wearing it inside on a Saturday evening.
She stowed it in a drawer, waited until he parked. At least he’d parked beside her car, not behind it, this time.
She walked to the door, unlocked it, lifted the bar. She rested her hand on the pistol under the table as she opened the door a few inches.
And her frown deepened when she saw the tulips.
“Why are you sorry this time?”
“I’m not sorry. Oh, the flowers. Funny thing. I was going to use them to bribe my sister into feeding me, then I ended up driving here.”
His eyes seemed more amber in the quieting light, and the casual smile he offered didn’t quite ring true.
“To use them to bribe me?”
“I hadn’t thought that far. Will they get me in the door?”
She opened the door a few more inches. “They’re very pretty. You should go give them to your sister.”
“Probably, but I’m giving them to you. I had a crappy day. It didn’t start out that way, but it ended up in the crapper. I was going over to Mya’s to use her family to get me out of the mood. Then I figured it wouldn’t work.”
“It’s not likely that being here will change your mood.”
“It already has.” He gave her an easy smile that almost—almost—reached his eyes. “Something smells really good, besides you.”
“I don’t know why you’d come here.”
“I’m not sure, either. You can close the door on me. You still get the flowers.”
No one had given her flowers before, and she nearly said so before she caught herself. “I was going to have a glass of the wine you brought, and now you’ve brought flowers. You make me feel obligated.”
“I’ll take it, which shows how crappy my day ended up.”
She stepped back, closed and locked the door behind him. And when she turned, he held the flowers out to her.
“Thank you, even though you bought them for your sister.”
“You’re welcome, even though.”
“They’ll need water.”
He followed her, and the cooking smells, back to the kitchen.
“It’s a good night for soup and a fire,” he commented, hoping he’d get a share of both. “We may get a little frost tonight. Then tomorrow, it’s shooting up toward seventy. Have you ever been through a tornado?”
“I’m prepared.” She took a pottery pitcher in hues of green and brown from a cabinet.
“Is that from one of our shops?”
“Yes. The local artists are very good.”
She got a container of flower food from beneath the sink, added a small scoop before filling the pitcher with water. He sat, said nothing while she arranged the tulips.
She set them on the counter, then studied him the way he might study a suspect. “You can have a glass of wine.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
She retrieved the bottle, glasses, poured some out. “You seem to want to tell me about this problem with your day. I don’t know why you would, as I’m not part of your circle.”
“Could be that’s why. Another why is I realized you were a part of it, indirectly.”
“How could I be?”
“I’ll tell you.” He sampled the wine, but she neither sipped nor sat. So he shrugged. “Okay. I had an unusual and uncomfortable incident with a woman today. Back in high school, she was the love of my life. Know what I mean?”
Abigail had an image, clear as glass, of Ilya Volkov’s face. He was as close as she came, she supposed, and that wasn’t close at all. “Not really.”
“No heartbreaking crushes for you?”
“I took accelerated courses, so I was ahead of my age group in school.”
“Still. Anyway, about me.” He lifted his glass, toasted her, drank. “She was my first. The first always has a little hold on you, right?”
“You mean first sexual consummation. I don’t have any emotional attachment to my first sexual partner.”
“You’re a tough audience, Abigail. When she dumped me—for a college freshman, football captain—she dumped me hard. I’m talking kick-in-the-balls, fist-in-the-teeth hard.”
“I don’t understand why someone chooses to hurt a previous partner before moving on to another. I’m sorry she chose to.”
“I got over it, or figured I had. Then I moved to Little Rock, did ten years. When I came back, the woman in question was in the process of shedding husband number two.”
He realized how it all sounded, how he made Sylbie sound—all from his perspective. “She’s not as hard-hearted as I’m making her, but I’m still a little pissed off, and that colors it. So when I came back, took the job here, I was busy for the first couple months. Settling in, and my father wasn’t well.”
“I’m sorry. I hope he’s better.”
“He is, thanks. He’s good. A little while back, Sylbie and I revisited the past, we’ll say.”
“You had sex with her.”
“I did, a time or two. A couple weeks ago, we had an encore. But it just wasn’t there for me.” He studied his wine with a frown. “Maybe you can’t go back.”
“Why would you, if what was back was a mistake?”
“Good point. But, you know, sex. I decided I had to resist yet another repeat performance, and I’d have to tell her—which I should have done straight out instead of evading, avoiding. This afternoon, she … well, what she did was have the guy who runs the shop where she has some of her art displayed, and where she works part-time, call me down there. Officially.”
His conversational style, Abigail thought, was like his mother’s. Personal, rambling. Fascinating. “He reported a crime?”
“A dispute, which required my intervention. Instead, she’s there alone, with the idea we’ll make some use of the back room.”
“To have sex?”
“Yeah. I’m reasonably sure that was the plan, particularly since when I didn’t jump on that idea, she dropped her dress. She just”—he flicked out a hand—“dropped it, and she’s standing there in her skin and red shoes.”
“She’s confident, and was probably certain of your agreement.”
“Confident on some levels, and I didn’t agree. I was …”
“You said it was awkward and uncomfortable.”
“It was all that. Not that I didn’t …”
“You were aroused. It’s natural.”
“Like a reflex. But mostly? It just pissed me off. I was on duty, for God’s sake, and she sweet-talked an easy mark to call me down.”
Abigail considered it a fascinating example of human dynamics and miscommunication. “It appears she might not fully understand how seriously you take your duties.”
“I’m not a horny teenager. I’m the chief of the goddamn police.”
The spike of his temper, and the guilt so clearly wrapped around it, added another level of interest. “You’re still angry with her, and with yourself for the natural reflex.”
“I guess I am. I had to tell her I didn’t want her—partly because of ground I already covered here, partly because, for Christ’s sake, she didn’t show an ounce of respect for either of us. Another part was knowing I was going to have to slap poor Grover back for making the call, scare the shit out of him so he didn’t pull a stunt like that again.”
“That’s several parts.”
“And I’ve got one more. I realized when I was looking at this beautiful, naked woman I’d once loved the way you love when you’re sixteen, I didn’t want her for all the reasons I just said. And because I want you.”
She turned away, stirred the soup again. It was fitting, she supposed, as he stirred something in her.
“I said I wouldn’t have sex with you. Do you think I said that to pique your interest?”
“No. I think you say just what’s on your mind, except what you’ve got behind locked doors in there. But I figure you wouldn’t have brought it up if you hadn’t had some level of want in there yourself.”
She turned back, remained standing across the counter from him. “It was probably unwise for you to come here when you’re still a little angry and most likely experiencing some residual arousal from this incident.”
“God, I like the way you talk. And you’re right, it wasn’t the smartest move.”
She broke off when he lifted a hand. “Do me a favor? Don’t reconsider right yet. If you changed your mind on it, I’d be hard-pressed to pass it up. If you didn’t, well, I’d just be depressed. I didn’t come by for sex, though, like I said, hard-pressed. Let’s just take it off the table for tonight. I’d be willing to settle for some of that soup, some conversation.”
She didn’t want to like him, didn’t want to find herself engaged by a man—a police officer—who talked his way past her guard and sat in her kitchen, drawing out her interest with a personal story.
Logically, she should tell him to go. But she didn’t want to, and wondered what would happen if she did something just a little foolish.
“I planned to watch a movie with dinner.”
“I like movies.”
“I was going to watch Steel Magnolias.”
He let out a long, long sigh. “I probably deserve that.”
When she smiled, it seemed to him the whole room lit up.
“Actually, I was going to watch Live Free or Die Hard.”
“I should’ve brought you more flowers.”
HE DISCOVERED SHE WAS a damn good cook, and that he liked raspberry vinaigrette just fine. He also learned she watched a movie with quiet intensity—no chatter.
That was fine with him, especially since the dog appeared accustomed enough to his presence to curl up and sleep at Abigail’s feet. Though Brooks had no doubt if he made the wrong move, Bert would be up, alert, and have him pinned with those unblinking eyes, if not the teeth.
He relaxed himself. Good food, a good movie, a simmering fire and a quiet woman. When the credits rolled, she rose to gather the dishes.
As expected, the dog came to attention, shot Brooks a look that said: I’m watching you, buddy.
“I’ll take care of that.”
“I’ll help you take them back, then.” He stacked bowls before she could decline. “You turned my mood around, Abigail,” he said as they walked back to the kitchen.
“I’m glad I could help.” She set dishes on the counter, turned to him. “You should go now.”
He had to laugh. “Okay. Listen, why don’t I pay you back for the mood changer. Take you out to dinner.”
“We just had dinner.”
“Some other time.”
“I don’t go out to dinner.”
“Ever?”
“As a rule, I’m more comfortable here.”
“I’ll bring dinner, then. I’m very skilled at picking up pizza.”
She liked pizza. “It’s not necessary.”
“Neither was letting me have soup and Bruce Willis. Consider it balancing the scales. I bet you like things nice and balanced.”
“I’m not good company.”
“You’re wrong about that. I’ll call you.”
“I haven’t given you any contact numbers.”
“Abigail.” He brushed a finger down her cheek, a gesture so casually intimate her pulse scrambled. “I’m a cop.”
She couldn’t forget that, she reminded herself. Couldn’t afford to forget that. “I’ll walk you out.”
“Do you have to remind the dog I’m a friend every time I kiss you?” he asked when she’d unlocked the door.
“Not unless I give him a different command.”
“Okay.”
This time he put his hands on her hips, stepped in to her. He took her mouth as those hands skimmed up her body, awakening nerves, kindling needs.
She did forget, for a moment. With the night air cool, his mouth warm, she forgot everything in the pleasure of the contact. Let herself take that pleasure, let her body press against his. Parted lips, a tease of tongue and teeth, that lovely liquid weight in the belly.
She wished—she wished for his flesh under her hands, his flesh sliding hot and damp against hers. Wished, wished for his hands, his mouth on her breasts, on her body. And for the good, strong thrust of him inside her.
Yearned for that primal human contact as she hadn’t allowed herself to yearn for nearly a year.
When he broke the kiss, her mind and body waged war. If she let her body win …
Then he said, “Good night, Abigail.”
“Good night.”
“Take it easy, Bert.” He stepped out, and she welcomed the cool rush of air. Then he paused, looked back at her with those changeable eyes, that easy, effortless smile. “Wine, conversation, dinner, a movie and a good-night kiss. Definitely a second date.”
“It—”
“You could look up the definition. I’d say we hit it. I’m looking forward to date number three.”
When she shut the door without a word, he grinned.
Arousal, he thought, as he grinned his way to his truck, wasn’t always just a reflex. Sometimes it was a result.