Frankly, he was surprised. Usually, getting Megan to cooperate was a no-brainer. She was refreshingly eager to please, so honest she squeaked, and had both freckles and breasts. Barry had figured out that she liked the freckles and didn’t know what to do with the breasts. She was the type of woman who felt they got in the way. And he supposed they did. They sure spoiled the line of her uniform. And he meant that in a good way.
She was sun-kissed cute, the type of girl a guy would ask to fill in on a Saturday softball game. Barry didn’t play softball, but he could appreciate her type. He’d decided her type was the adolescent pal who suddenly developed a sexy little body that she ignored and none of her guy pals could. The way to her heart was to ignore her womanly charms and treat her like a kid sister—somebody else’s kid sister. See, that kind of subtlety was the key to Barry’s success. If he treated her like his kid sister, then the male-female thing was not there. Somebody else’s kid sister, and the male-female thing could be there. It was that whiff of possibility that he put into the smile he reserved just for her.
Yeah, Barry thought he had her pegged and yet she wouldn’t answer her phone or her e-mails. He figured maybe he hadn’t groveled enough. For a straight arrow like Megan, being reprimanded had clearly cut deep. He should have acknowledged that.
That was a mistake on his part. He’d apologized repeatedly in the e-mails, and he also had back when he’d heard she’d been reassigned, but he should have made more of an effort. Flowers, or something. Except she wasn’t the flowers sort. Anyway, he’d been too preoccupied with his own situation to give it much thought. Now he knew he should have followed up with her so that he could have salvaged their professional relationship.
Barry learned from his mistakes. He wouldn’t make that one again.
Megan always spoke the truth. She was the best thing to ever happen to the Dallas police force—but she was dangerous to the media. Yes, she absolutely spoke the truth—as she knew it—and Barry suspected it was just a matter of time before someone exploited her.
Megan was too honorable to see dishonor in someone else. Some people might call that naïveté, but Barry admired her faith in her fellow human beings, even as he knew that he’d have exploited her long before now.
He wasn’t proud of that. Just realistic.
So when Megan didn’t respond to his e-mail entreaties, he knew this whole mess had changed her. He profoundly regretted that—and was surprised he hadn’t caught it on his previous trips back to the squad room.
Well, he was here to make things right, now.
And to get that plate run.
He scanned the room and discovered that the setup hadn’t changed since the last time he’d made the rounds here. He acknowledged the faces he recognized, acutely aware that his reception might best be described as “cool” and turned his attention toward Megan.
He caught a glare from what’s-her-name—Gina, the Italian who never smiled at him—and nodded at her before focusing on Megan. Slowly, he smiled their special smile.
MEGAN HAD BEEN half expecting him, but that still didn’t lessen Barry’s impact on her psyche. She gave up trying to ignore him and just propped her chin in her hand and watched him sail around the islands of clustered desks in the squad-room sea. He was headed for her. The smile clinched it, if she’d had any doubt.
She might as well enjoy the view.
It wasn’t that Barry was stunningly handsome, it was that he was interestingly handsome. His nose was on the large side, as noses went, but it fit his face, due to his strong jaw. There was watchful intelligence in his eyes and Megan doubted she’d ever seen a genuine, uncalculated emotion in them.
She allowed herself a tiny exhale. This crush she had on Barry was so annoying. She was to the point of wanting to throw herself at him and let him use her until he tired of her, which was extremely unhealthy. She wouldn’t do it in a million years. But she wanted to, which was bad enough.
And her crush had obviously distracted her to the point that she’d let slip some crucial piece of information last fall. She had gone over and over what she’d said to him during that fateful press conference. That part had been taped. But afterward, reporters had approached her and, because Megan knew they were doing their jobs and because she didn’t have anything to hide, she’d informally answered a few questions.
To be honest, she’d known Barry would be one of the reporters to approach her. He always tried for the extra bit of information. It was a pathetic way to be closer to him but her pathetic heart craved it because for some unknown pathetic reason, he brightened her pathetic life. Pathetic, that’s what it was. Utterly pathetic. Like the way she was watching him right now. Pathetic. He was watching her, too, and knew the effect he had on her. She’d seen that particular smile often enough that she could see behind it sometimes. Right now, satisfaction was behind it. He thought he had her. And maybe he did.
For pity’s sake, the man even looked good in fluorescent light! She didn’t have a chance. She was Custer at Little Big Horn, Napoleon at Waterloo, the Titanic kissing an iceberg.
He wore his standard uniform of sports jacket and tie, which should have looked out of place in these days of casual attire but didn’t. He covered the casual aspect with a perfectly fitted pair of jeans.
Without breaking eye contact, Megan slid open her desk drawer, keeping her note cards at the ready. She didn’t actually have to read them, but it was a good idea to have them in sight.
“Hey, Megan.” He approached, his aura brightening the drabness of her desk area.
“Barry.”
Hands in his pockets, he tilted his head to one side and gave her the other half of her smile—and she hadn’t even done what he wanted yet. This was a first. She waited, and yes, here was the lowered head with the just-between-us look. The wink was next. She hoped he wouldn’t wink at her. It was so fake. So contrived. People didn’t wink in real life. Well, other than gangsters winking at little girls in white-lace dresses just after giving them ice-cream cones. Or old men and really, really young women who were blond and really, really stacked. Or cowboys. Cowboys winked, come to think of it.
But Barry was none of those things and, therefore, not entitled to wink.
Megan should look away—specifically toward the drawer with the note cards.
Since she couldn’t look away, she should at least say something. Anything. Anything to head off the wink. But what was there to say?
Barry winked.
“Don’t do that,” Megan burst out crossly.
“Don’t do what?”
“Wink.”
“You like the wink.”
“No! I don’t!”
“Sure you do.”
“No, really. I hate winking. It makes you look smarmy.”
He gazed at her, looking fake-affronted. “Smarmy? As I understand the definition of smarmy, I am not smarmy. I am anti-smarm.”
“Then don’t wink.”
He leaned forward, just a little bit, but most definitely crossing the invisible bubble of her personal space. “It’s okay that you like it.”
Megan gritted her teeth, drawing on all her public-appearance experience. “I do not like it. It makes me feel patronized. Belittled. Suckered.”
Barry’s face went blank. Honestly, he looked like a living computer reprogramming itself. She must have convinced him and now he was updating her file. Megan Esterbrook—delete wink.
He gave her a considering look and plucked a rolling office chair from a nearby empty computer station, twirled it around and straddled it, crossing his hands along