| |
SARAH FOLLOWED RANDY’S F-150 to her apartment. Before they’d left, Randy had called the county sheriffs and updated them on the pottery lead. Although he was a car-length ahead of her, it seemed his grim attitude created a bubble of gloom that included her Element. Budget cuts. No overtime. Knowing how seriously Randy took his job, she understood how frustrated he must be. And how could the town council put money above the safety of its citizens? Someone was grandstanding, she figured. Trying to prove how much money he saved the town. For what? So people could break into her shop because there wasn’t anyone around to notice?
Randy parked in the slot next to hers behind the building. She got out of her car and waited while he yanked his small canvas tote from the floor behind his seat. She smiled, knowing it contained clean underwear, a fresh shirt and basic toiletries, because a case could keep him out all night—at least that was the reason he’d given her when he conveniently happened to have it with him after one of their earlier dates.
His expression was as stony as it had been when he’d been talking to the deputies.
She broke the silence. “Always prepared, aren’t you?”
Finally, his features softened. “Hope springs eternal.”
“Randy ... I’m tired. So are you.”
He nodded. “I’m spending the night, so I’ll need this in the morning. I’ll sleep on your couch if you prefer, but I would rather hold you. Nothing more.” His lips curved upward. “Unless you ask.”
“Let’s go up.”
He insisted on checking her apartment before he let her go in. Resignedly, she handed over her key. Behind the closed door she paced in the hallway along with the new swarm of butterflies in her stomach at the reminder someone could have been in her home.
He returned and waved her inside like a palace guard granting entrance. Strains of quiet piano music played in the background. She recognized it as one of the CDs Randy had given her. Mozart, she thought, although she still couldn’t put a title with the piece. Too many numbers. Didn’t matter to her. It was soothing and that’s what she needed right now.
“You want to sit for a few minutes?” she asked. “I’m still a little wired.” She crossed to her entertainment center and opened the side cabinet door. “Brandy or Irish?”
He lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “Not hot chocolate? Chamomile tea?”
“Not tonight. I had something stronger in mind.”
He shoved his hair off his forehead. “Irish, thanks.”
“Why don’t you get the glasses?”
While Randy was in the kitchen, she unscrewed the cap of the Jameson she’d bought for him. She held it to the light, checking the level. About half full.
See. Not half empty. You’re an optimist. You’ve never let anything interfere with your shop and this is just another setback. What’s one more?
Randy appeared with two glasses. She poured a generous serving of the Jameson for him and a more modest portion of brandy for herself. Her usual libation when she wanted more than wine was a quick glug of the brandy in her chamomile tea, but tonight she went for the full-strength approach.
Randy settled into the corner of the couch. Still unsettled, she took the opposite end.
“So,” she began. “Tell me about this new no overtime policy. Does this mean you’ll be working eight-to-five Monday through Friday instead of the 24/7 deal?”
His face clouded. “I don’t know exactly how it’ll play out. My guess is they’ll try to stagger my days and Kovak’s so we have someone on duty or on call every day.”
“What about the regular cops? Like that guy who came to my shop tonight?”
“In a small force like ours, we’re all regular cops. Some of us have more specialized duties, that’s all.”
“Do you think you might end up spending more time doing non-detective stuff?” She couldn’t imagine Randy in a uniform—well, okay, she could and she kind of liked the image, but that was for an entirely different reason.
“I don’t know, Sarah.” He took a long swallow of his whiskey. “One day at a time.”
Part of her liked the idea of him being around more. But one look in his eyes told her she couldn’t stand being responsible for dimming the light. Last night, she’d almost told him he might have to choose between her and her job. Now, she was glad they hadn’t reached that point.
Because if it wasn’t about her anymore, but about the new rules—the town council would be the bad guys. Could he adjust? Or would he stop being the good cop she knew he was and go through the motions, putting in his eight hours each day, having actual days off?
Thoughts rammed through her head like the bumper car ride at the fair. A dead man. Hugh Garrigue? Randy’s job. That Special Something. Being scared. Broken merchandise. Randy. Staying in business. Being scared. Randy.
Tears welled and burned. Lower down, something else burned. She set her glass on the coffee table.
“Hold me,” she whispered.
In a heartbeat he was at her side, arms around her, drawing her so close she could barely breathe, yet she wanted him closer. To hold her tighter. To let him do what he wanted. To protect her. To make everything but the two of them go away. She could be her own Sarah later. Now, she wanted to be Randy’s Sarah.
“Kiss me,” she said, lifting her head. “Touch me. Take me someplace far away.”
He slid his hands from her back to her bottom, cupping her, lifting her as he stood. She wrapped her legs around his waist, aware of his arousal but more aware of her own. She laced her fingers through his hair, drew his lips against hers, probed with her tongue, trying to quench the fire within her and stoke it at the same time. Molten lava pooled between her legs.
Her heart pounded behind her sternum, thudded in her ears. Frantic fingers tugged at Randy’s shirt. The short hallway to her bedroom stretched for endless miles. Their bodies caromed off the walls. Somehow they were on her bed, still kissing. Somehow her clothes came off. Cool air on bare skin heightened her arousal. Somehow her brain sent a message to her hands.
She grabbed Randy’s belt buckle. “Off. Off. Off.”
And he was lying beside her, bare skin to bare skin, lips to lips, chest to chest. Her breasts ached and she pressed harder against him, squirming to provide the friction her nipples begged for.
“Slow down,” he murmured.
“No. Now. I need you.” She reached for him, encircling his erection.
He flipped her onto her back. “You have me.”
“Inside.”
“Soon enough.” His hands, so large and strong, stroked her neck, caressed her breasts.
She covered his hands with hers. Pressed them against her skin. “Harder,” she gasped. “I want to feel you touching me. Everywhere.”
He kneaded her breasts, thumbed her sensitized nipples. Stroked. Sucked. She lost herself in the sensation of fingers, lips and tongue moving down her body, finding those places where there was nothing but his touch and every touch shot pleasure to her groin. And then he was there, over her, parting her thighs.
She reached for him, guided him, thrusting upward even as she took him inside. She grabbed his buttocks, trying to get him closer, deeper. Her internal muscles clenched. She felt him fill her, aware of the way all feeling migrated to her core until there was nothing else and her universe exploded into shards like the bits and pieces on her shop floor.
From above, Randy gasped with his own release. With a shudder, he collapsed on top of her. Still boneless, she wrapped her arms around him aware of nothing beyond wanting the connection to last forever.
* * * * *
RANDY WOKE TO THE SOUND of water running. Slowly, he drifted up through the fog of sleep. Sarah’s bed. No Sarah. Shower. He smiled. Worked for him. He tossed the covers aside and padded to the bathroom.
He pulled back the curtain and stepped into the tub. Sarah didn’t jump, so he knew his arrival wasn’t a surprise. He also knew she didn’t mind because she leaned into him when he put his arms around her, wrapping her fingers around his penis, which was growing harder by the second.
“Morning,” he mumbled into the crook of her neck.
“Not much longer,” she said. He hadn’t checked the clock, but the sunlight came through the bathroom window from high in the sky.
He poured a dollop of shampoo into his palm, massaged it into Sarah’s scalp.
“Mmmm. I’ll let you do that, but only for the next twenty minutes,” she said, twisting to face him, still stroking his erection. “Then you absolutely have to stop.”
“Your water heater won’t last twenty minutes.” He lathered her hair, the peach scent of her shampoo, as always, heightening his arousal. Or was it her blue eyes that did him in? No, they were closed. The constellation of freckles across her nose and cheeks? He dabbed a dollop of suds on the tip of her upturned nose. Or the curve of her ears? He traced them with a fingertip. The curve of her neck? The peak of her nipples under the shower spray. His cock throbbed under her touch.
“God, I want you, Sarah.” He circled her areola with a thumb. As he knew she would, she moved his hand to her nipple. He lowered his mouth to the pebbled nub, reaching for her thigh. Urging it upward.
“Not like that.” She leaned back under the spray, sending foam swirling down the drain. “Too many accidents happen in bathrooms.”
She hadn’t let go of him, her nimble fingers moving from balls to cock, slippery with soap. He dug for the control he needed and grabbed her wrist. “You keep doing that and it’ll be an accident, all right.”
Her eyes sparkled. Her other hand sneaked in and took over. His hips bucked involuntarily.
“Sarah. God, Sarah. Stop or—”
“Or what?” she teased, her hands moving ever faster.
“Or I’ll—Oh, God Sarah.” Pressure built and control was as slippery as Sarah’s fingers.
“You’re always quick in the morning,” she whispered. “Enjoy it. I’ll accept payback after you cook me breakfast. Or do you really want me to stop?” Her hand slowed, teased, tormented.
“God, Sarah. No. Don’t stop.” He closed his eyes and gave in.
Later—much later—after a French toast brunch, his debt to Sarah paid in full, with interest, followed by a trip to his house to attend to Starsky and Hutch, they were back at Sarah’s shop armed with cartons, trash bags and his Shop-Vac.
He turned off the ignition, but she didn’t move. “I’m not sure I can look at it again,” she said.
Squeezing her hand, he said, “This was your idea, but if you’d rather not, we can go somewhere else, do anything you want. I promised you the day and it’s your call.”
She sighed. “No, I need to do it. See if there’s enough left once I get rid of the unsalvageable.” She turned her eyes toward him, her gaze distant. As if she was looking through him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
She smiled. Shook her head. “Nothing.” She unclicked her seatbelt. “Let’s do it.”
He got his vacuum from the back of the truck and she grabbed a broom and dustpan. Inside the door, she stopped. He rested a hand on her bunched shoulders, kneading the tense muscles. “I think we should set up your tables and shelves first. Give you a place to put the good stuff. Separate it from the trash.”
Under his touch, her shoulders stiffened again. He winced. “Sorry. Bad choice of words. Very bad.”
“No, you’re right. Doesn’t make it less painful, but so much of this is nothing but garbage now. I have to deal with it.” She moved out from under his touch and set the broom against the wall. “Might as well start with the bookshelf units. They’ll hold the most.”
He followed her to the far wall and hoisted one of the wooden units upright. Another faraway look crossed her face. Was there sadness mixed in? Stupid question. She was standing in the middle of the most important thing in her life and it was scattered at her feet like autumn leaves after a stiff breeze. He moved to the next shelving unit.
They worked into the evening hours, Sarah examining each piece of merchandise, jotting notes, placing items on shelves while he did janitor duty. Although they were often mere inches apart, it was as if they were on two separate planets. Not sure how to fix things with her—hell, he didn’t know what was broken—he merely did what he could to get rid of the mess as he let his mind ponder the case.
Pottery, especially Hugh Garrigue’s pottery, seemed central, because now it was clearly more than an act of simple vandalism.
Did thinking about the case count as overtime? Not that he cared. He had a puzzle and like a terrier with a bone, he couldn’t let go. He made mental lists.
Dental records. Witness reports. Cars spotted at the scene. The video tapes from the press conference. Pottery. Maybe Sarah could give him some direction there. Kovak’s ViCAP request. Too soon for DNA. Expand the missing persons reports. The key. Check with the New Jersey prison warden.
All of which could and would be covered by the county sheriffs, he realized. To keep the town council from disbanding the police force, he needed to make some kind of a breakthrough. His stomach knotted. And growled. They should both eat. Sarah had been moving things around for the past twenty minutes, but there was nothing left on the floor to add to the collection, only tiny bits and pieces.
“I’ll run the vacuum over the floor one more time,” he said, “and then we should take a break.”
She turned, and for the first time, she looked at him as if she saw him. “I guess.” She surveyed the room once more, moved a book two inches to the right and strode to her office. “One minute.”
After sucking up the last bits and pieces with his Shop-Vac, he carried it to his truck and hefted the boxes of debris into the Dumpster. When Sarah didn’t appear, he went back inside. She had a piece of paper in her hand and was carrying it to the front door. Her posture was straighter, her step more certain.
“What do you have?” he asked.
She held up the sign she’d made. “Watch For Our Reopening.”
He helped her tape it to the inside of the glass, then nuzzled her hair. “You are going to be just fine, Sarah Tucker.”
Her blue eyes were moist as she met his gaze. “I hope so.”
“Shall we celebrate new beginnings? I think I have a bottle of champagne in my fridge.”
“What the heck.” Her enthusiasm was underwhelming, but he accepted it.
At his house, he popped the cork on the bottle of champagne and they sipped as they put together a passable meal of salad, pasta and French bread.
“We could have stopped at Thriftway,” he said, breaking the quiet as they finished their dinners. “Bought steaks. Lobster. Something more special than spaghetti.”
“We haven’t had a lot of luck with special meals lately, have we?” She finished what was in her champagne flute and poured herself another. “This is fine.”
Her tone said it wasn’t. Enough. He stood, picked up her glass and took her by the hand. She could have been sleepwalking as she followed him to the living room couch. He was tired of skirting issues. “Sit down.” She did as he asked. He set the champagne on the coffee table, then sat in the easy chair. “There’s more going on here than your shop, isn’t there? You’ve been wanting to talk for days now. Let’s do it.”
She reached for her champagne and took a healthy swig. “You know, I think today was the first time you were involved in my work.” She put the glass down and grimaced. “That didn’t come out right.”
“Take your time.” If there was one thing he was good at, it was leaving empty silences. People tended to fill them if you waited long enough.
“We’ve been seeing each other for a while. I got scared.”
Now he took a drink of his own champagne. “Of me?”
She shook her head. “No. Not you.”
“Then of what?”
“I don’t know how to say it. I don’t quite understand it all myself.” She wiped her hands on her jeans. “I love you. I know that.”
His heart skipped. There was an unspoken “but” in there. Again, he waited.
“I wonder if I can love us,” she said. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “When I think of us, I keep having memories, images of what I think us should be. And you’re not the us I see.”
His fingers curled into fists. He kept them between his body and the arms of the chair, hoping Sarah wouldn’t see them as he strove to keep any hurt from showing in his face. The heat at his neck was a bad sign, but she seemed to be studying a spot on the carpet.
He cleared his throat. “What do you see?” He lowered his voice to a whisper, too, trying to keep any emotion out of it.
She twirled the champagne flute by its stem, her eyes still downcast. Good. He didn’t want to read her face.
“I don’t mean to hurt you,” she said. “I keep seeing my life with David.” She lifted her eyes, wide, blue and brimming with tears. “Please. I don’t mean I expect you to be David. I haven’t adjusted to how different my life would be with you. David and I were in business together. We made all our decisions together.” She gave a quiet snort. “Not always happily, or easily, but we were a business team as well as husband and wife. We were always together and it worked for us.”
Could he tell her he might be out of a job soon? But as much as he loved being with Sarah, he couldn’t see himself as a shopkeeper. He couldn’t find any words and she went on.
“I think I could get used to you being on call so much. And this new overtime rule—that might make things easier. But you can’t—or won’t—talk about your work. It’s like there’s the part of your life I’m allowed to share and this other part—a too big part—that’s off limits. You build a huge brick wall and you go behind it and won’t let me in.”
Pain stabbed behind his sternum. He clawed his fingers through his hair. “I-I guess it’s ingrained.” He finished his champagne, tempted to start on his bottle of Jameson. “I had a semblance of a relationship once. It was over years before I met you.”
“I never thought I was the first woman in your life. I have no problem with your past.”
“Well, maybe you do. Heather—that was her name—was ...” Shit, what had he ever seen in Heather? “She was ... superficial, to say the least.”
“You told me a little about her once,” Sarah said. “Liked parties?”
“That she did. She couldn’t—wouldn’t understand how my job could be more important than her social life.”
“Randy, I don’t think that—”
He held his hand up, stopping her. “I know. You’ve always understood what the job means. But I guess I was conditioned to leave it at the station. She never wanted to talk about it, never wanted it part of the us we never even had.” He crossed to the couch and sat beside her. “I made the stupid mistake of generalizing her pettiness to all women. You included. I-I’m sorry. It’s a habit, but one I’d be willing to try damn hard to break if that’s what’s keeping us apart.”
“We’re not exactly apart. Not apart apart, anyway. But I’m confused and now there’s the shop thing. I’m glad you’re a cop, but then I get into that taking care of me thing. I guess that goes back to David, too. We were partners and it might not be logical, but I feel like you want to be in control.”
“I’m a guy, Sarah. It’s hard-wired into our DNA that we protect our women.”
She smiled for the first time. “Caveman, eh?”
He gave a half-grin in return. “I can’t help the way I’m made. It’s not that I don’t think you can take care of yourself. I know you can. But I want to be there for you.” He took her hands.
“I’d like to be there for you, too. Like the other night, but not only when things get that bad.”
He felt like someone had unlocked a jail cell. “Can we work on it?”
“I think I’d like to try.”
He leaned forward to kiss her. Even before their lips touched, a thrill vibrated through him. It actually took several seconds to register it was the phone in his pocket. He didn’t abandon his journey to her lips as he fished out the offending device.
“Damn it to hell,” he said, pulling away, checking the display.
No overtime. Take the fucking weekend. So why was the chief calling him at nine o’clock on a Sunday night? He gave Sarah one quick kiss. “Sorry. It’s the chief.”