Ronnie’s foul mood returned as she flung her satchel onto the desk and aimed herself toward the coffee. “It was a totally wasted trip,” she said. “They’re impossible. He’s impossible.”
“He?” Joan peered at her over the rims of her psychedelic half glasses, apparently this week’s venture into nouveau fashion. “He, who?”
Ronnie took a swig of coffee and shook her head as she swallowed. “A detective he,” she said, glaring at the turn-of-the-century French postcards Joan was cataloging, the kind of postcards he’d taunted her with at the station.
Waving a hand toward the scattered ephemera, she scowled. “A him with a complex about that.”
“No way. Really? That’s why nothing’s happening with your break-in? The police are prudes?”
Ronnie sipped her coffee. “Looks that way.” She sure as hell couldn’t think of any other explanation for his odd behavior.
Distracted, she paced in front of the window, watching her neighbors glide by on the way to work. Bank tellers, bus drivers, schoolteachers, stockbrokers. It was an eclectic neighborhood, and she loved it. The familiar sights and smells had comforted her for years. Mrs. Carmichael opening the corner store. Duncan Tanner selling hotdogs from a cart, the pungent smell of sauerkraut filling the morning air.
She’d managed to quell some of her irritation—no, dammit, her fury—as she’d walked back from the police station. But now that anger was rallying, slamming through her stomach with even more force than before. Someone had violated her sanctuary. This neighborhood. Her life. How dare the cops soft-pedal her robbery just because she dealt in erotic literature.
And the fact that Detective Parker was so damn good-looking only added to her annoyance. For reasons she wasn’t inclined to examine too closely, he’d been on her mind during the entire walk back from the station, the echo of his touch still lingering on her fingers.
A particularly annoying fact, considering that Detective Parker had been a total jerk. Probably one of those macho holier-than-thou guys who thought a woman should be prim, proper and submissive. Heaven forbid a woman take the initiative where sex was concerned.
Of course, her extensive reading didn’t count as the real thing. She grinned. For that matter, neither did a vibrator.
He could scratch that itch....
The decadent thought slammed through her, and her knees went weak. She grabbed the side of a bookshelf for support as her mind filled with an image of piercing gray eyes and an angular jaw dusted with a shadow well past five o’clock.
Now, there was a vision that could inspire long nights of study.
Sighing, she sank into the soft leather armchair by the desk, the warm mug clasped in both hands. Despite how much the man had irritated her, her body still tingled at the thought of his touch. She told herself it wasn’t him, it was her—oversexed and undersatisfied. But, oh, what a fantasy to imagine Detective Parker doing the satisfying.
She dwelled on the thought a little longer than she should, trying to imagine his hands on her breasts, her waist, her hips. His handshake had been firm, his hands large, and the thought of those hands roaming her body sent little shivers up her spine. It was a fantasy she itched to make reality, but she knew that wasn’t possible.
With a sigh, she pushed the daydream away and glanced toward Joan. “So why is it that the handsomest men are inevitably Neanderthals?”
Joan laughed. “One of those, huh? Too bad. We could’ve used some eye candy around here. A rugged detective doing all that...detecting.” She winked. “Could’ve been fun.” She ran a hand through her tousled curls. “I wonder if he likes blondes? Trey’s starting to bore me to tears.”
“All men like blondes,” Ronnie said. “It’s carried on the Y chromosome, I think. You have nothing to worry about.” She leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “I thought his name was Andy.”
“Andy’s old news. He stiffed a waitress. I dumped him. Trey’s an artist, very chic, but seriously lacking in the conversation department.”
Ronnie rolled her eyes. An artist. Well, that explained Joan’s new, get-down-get-funky glasses.
“I bet a detective would have plenty to talk about,” Joan added thoughtfully.
“Well, you’re just going to have to make due, because there’s not going to be any detective-gazing around here.” Considering how badly the meeting at the precinct went, that appeared to be an unfortunate reality. “I get the impression we’re on our own. I don’t think the police are coming at all.”
“Who’s not coming?” a voice cut in.
Nat. Damn.
Ronnie stood and turned toward the stairwell. He wore jeans and a ratty T-shirt, but his feet were bare. His hair stuck out in a million directions and he looked sixteen instead of more than twice that.
“You look like the dead,” she said, hoping the insult would derail the subject.
“Thanks. Who’s not coming? The cops?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, willing a lie to her tongue as she crossed her fingers in her pocket. “I was talking about the electrician.” She shrugged. “Everything’s under control.”
He shot her a look of pure disbelief before venturing to the coffeepot, filling a cup, then heading back to the stairwell, squeezing her shoulder lightly as he passed by. He paused, looking back at her. “You went like that?”
Automatically, she looked down at her outfit. Skirt, sweater, shoes. Nothing missing or revealing. “Yeah. So?”
He shrugged. “I was just thinking about the kind of guys who hang around police stations. That skirt doesn’t leave much to the imagination.”
Ronnie crossed her arms over her chest. Nat had been lecturing her on her wardrobe since she was twelve and bought her first training bra. She might be used to it, but it still annoyed her. “It’s a knit skirt. It’s supposed to cling. And they’re called thighs. Everyone has them. I assure you I haven’t committed some mighty sin by wearing material that clings.” She knew she sounded snappish, but she really wasn’t in the mood.
Nat scowled but didn’t say anything else. After a second, he changed the subject. “Well, you weren’t there very long. What exactly did the cops say?”
“Nothing much.” She shrugged, swallowing a bit of guilt at the white lie. She’d wasted many a college hour planted in front of television, but not one episode of Law & Order sprang to mind. “I guess police departments are pretty busy in the morning,” she added, mentally cringing at how lame she sounded. “But a detective is coming by later to give me the full scoop.”
Nat rubbed his chin but didn’t question her, and she held her breath. Then, with a quick nod and a murmured “okay,” he stepped back into the stairwell and pulled the door closed behind him.
The guilt returned. Nat had always been someone she could depend on, rely on, go to with her problems and share her dreams. She truly hated lying to him, but she didn’t want him worrying. He had a great opportunity in that job, and she didn’t want to see him blow it because of some misplaced worry about his little sister.
She comforted herself with the fact that it wasn’t a huge lie. If she worked the phones right and complained loudly enough, maybe she could get a detective to come over and give her an update by that evening.
Unfortunately, it just wouldn’t be Detective Parker.
The image filtered through his exhausted mind, taunting and teasing him.