“Allow me.” The smile that lightened Atticus’s face and mood while he opened the door for her was genuine. With a high-stress job such as his father’s, he could definitely see why he’d choose an assistant like Brooke over someone more staid, or perhaps even more experienced. She was uncomplicated. As straightforward and eager to please as she seemed awkward within her own skin. Usually quiet, as she’d said, though he might attribute her bursts of rambling to nervous energy.
And when she smiled as she had a moment ago—over something as inane as finding her keys—the words plain and frumpy seemed to disappear from Atticus’s extensive vocabulary.
“Thank you.” She tossed her bag across to the passenger seat where it landed with a thunk. She pushed the door farther open and the rain whipped inside before Atticus could adjust the umbrella. Brooke squinched up her face as the water hit her and she quickly slid behind the wheel and closed the door—leaving a good ten inches of her dark flowered skirt and khaki-green raincoat hanging out and soaking up water from the pavement.
Atticus reached for the door handle at the same time Brooke shoved it open from the inside. The steel door cracked against his knuckles, shooting a tingly flash of pain along every nerve right up his arm. “Damn.”
He shook his hand, stirring feeling back into the tips of his fingers.
“I’m sorry.”
He flexed his fingers as normal sensation quickly returned. “It’s only a minor compound fracture.”
“What?”
Her crestfallen look made him feel guilty about the joke. “Relax. It’s nothing. I’ll live.” He opened the door wide and stooped down to rescue the hem of her dress and coat.
She’d turned in her seat, her eyes following his every movement. “I’m sorry.”
He wasn’t. Sorry, that is. Not with the view he was getting. Right in front of him, stretching out for what seemed like miles and miles, was a smooth, creamy thigh. Long. Shapely. Fit.
When the hell had mousy Brooke sprouted legs like that?
Why did she hide them under long skirts and slacks?
And why the hell did he care about unflattering clothes? Or surprisingly flattering appendages?
Rationalizing the instinctive reaction to a pretty stretch of leg as the by-product of the day’s stress, Atticus pulled her dress down, covering her up to a more familiar, less distracting level.
“Atticus?” She reached out, her touch so light on his shoulder, he could barely feel the weight of it.
“I’m okay, I promise.” He tucked the wet material inside the car and stood, dismissing her touch and her concern. “I’ll see you at Mom’s.”
She nodded, waiting to make sure Atticus stepped safely aside before pulling the door shut. “See you.”
He retreated another couple of steps to allow her to pull into the procession of exiting traffic.
Masking his scrutiny with the scalloped point of his umbrella, Atticus scanned the vehicles to make sure Hayley and her male friend had gone. Good. Not a platinum blonde in the bunch. Atticus breathed a heavy sigh, cleansing his conscience. Maybe he should feel bad about using Brooke as an escape from a painful episode from his past. After all, what made his relationship with Hayley so painful was the fact that she had used him.
But right now, as he watched the little blue VW zip around a turn and head down the road toward the exit, he was glad he’d chosen to take his walk with Brooke. Not only because she knew more about his father’s work than anyone at KCPD, but also because he could use a little peace on a day like today. Might be his only respite for a while. And though Brooke could be a little dangerous to herself and others, she was on the whole, well…peaceful.
Feeling centered enough to get down to the business at hand, Atticus noted the empty copse of trees and set out to join the impromptu Kincaid family reunion.
Chapter Two
Summer…
“You’re no Audrey Hepburn.” Brooke Hansford’s deadpan critique was as plain and uninspiring as the reflection staring back at her from the plastic-wrapped mirror. So much for the new glasses working miracles.
True, the lenses were narrower and reduced the pop-bottle effect that distorted her nearsighted eyes. And the subtle design of the copper metal frames was more modern and colorful than her last pair had been. She turned her face from side to side, assessing each view.
“Maybe Katharine Hepburn?” Her breath seeped out on a wistful sigh and she reached for her hairbrush. “You wish.”
The old movies lied. Switching to contact lenses and trimming three inches off her hair hadn’t transformed her from gal Friday to femme fatale. The only male who had gone out of his way to notice her without her glasses was her opthamologist—who’d looked deep into her eyes to study the weeping red irritation of her allergic reaction to the lenses, not because he was entranced by any sudden beauty discovered there.
The UMKC extension class in assertiveness training that she’d taken the past semester had recommended emphasizing her strengths to build confidence when facing a new or difficult situation. Apparently, twenty-twenty vision would never be one of hers. So new glasses it was.
She pulled the brush through the long hair and tamed the bundle into a ponytail. The golden highlights the hairdresser had added were barely noticeable. “Maybe I should go red like Aunt Lou,” Brooke speculated, trying to envision how adding an auburn wash to her blond-brown-blah color might somehow help the long curls cooperate with the humidity that was already making the morning air sticky. She should probably take some of the money she was using to make over the small stone church that was now her half-finished home and make herself over. “I wonder what miracles cost these days.”
Brooke twisted her hair up and reached for the clip that would anchor it to the back of her head. So much for the boost of confidence the new suit and glasses were supposed to give her as she started work at the Fourth Precinct today. Not that she wasn’t excited about the transfer to newly promoted Major Mitch Taylor’s office. She was going to be administrative assistant to the man now in charge of every watch and department in the Fourth Precinct offices. She loved the challenges of her career, thrived on making her professional world run efficiently. Working with computers and data, an attention to facts and details—those were definitely strengths of hers where her confidence could truly shine.
Her appearance wasn’t the real issue this morning.
The new job wasn’t what was making her heart race and her mouth dry.
Even Major Taylor’s tough and gruff reputation as a demanding boss didn’t really worry her.
It was Atticus Kincaid. He’d be there.
Brilliant detective. Tall. Black-haired. Capable of turning her into a stuttering idiot with a direct look or teasing remark. Two weeks of working side by side with him, poring through his late father’s files—searching for a lead on John Kincaid’s murder and finding nothing useful—had taught her that embarrassing lesson. His broad shoulders and crisp style did wonders for a suit and tie—and frustrated her hormones to no end.
Not one of her smartest moves—developing a crush on a man who looked on her as a kid sister or his father’s frumpy secretary. There was a date that was never gonna happen.
Though she and Atticus wouldn’t be working in the same office, they’d be working in the same building, possibly on the same