The Hotshot. Jule Mcbride

turning grave, “have you read all my files?”

      “Lunch at the Plaza,” she returned, wishing everything about this man wasn’t driving wind from her lungs with the force of a storm. “Wasn’t that what you said I was dressed for? Maybe my interest in the shoes was merely fashion-oriented, did you think of that?”

      Truman cursed. “You read every damn word.”

      “Steele,” she said, liking the sound of his last name in her mouth. “To be perfectly honest, your timing was brilliant. Just as you got to the garage, I finished the last sentence.”

      “Get in, Trudy,” he growled. “Mind if I call you Trudy?”

      “Not so long as we don’t have to shake hands.” Body contact with Truman Steele might send her over the edge. She definitely liked how his hands looked. Large and long-fingered, with neat nails. Trying not to imagine how they might feel on her bare skin, she startled when he slammed the door, then scrambled inside and shut her own.

      It was the perfect time to deliver the note she’d found under the windshield wiper. Leaning, she neatly tucked it into his uniform pocket, wishing she hadn’t when she felt the hard muscular chest, his heart thumping under her fingertips.

      “‘Officer Steele,”’ she quoted, “‘I know you arrested me for drunk and disorderly conduct, but I need to talk to you. Let’s have dinner soon. Best wishes, Candy.”’

      His mouth was grim. “Stay out of my personal life.”

      “Personal life,” she repeated, letting the irony speak for itself. “Do you often date women you arrest?”

      Looking as if he’d like to arrest her, he said, “Never.”

      Biting back a laugh, she tucked her tongue into her cheek. She didn’t know if she liked Truman Steele, per se. But she was enjoying their exchanges. Not that she’d deliver the dull story her boss expected. Like everyone, Truman had something to hide. Whatever it was, Trudy intended to find it.