Dangerous to Touch. Jill Sorenson

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СКАЧАТЬ further. Most people couldn’t wait to share everything they knew, to contribute, to feel important. Most innocent people, anyway.

      He followed Lacy and the mysterious Miss Morrow, employing the age-old “ladies first” excuse men used to ogle women behind their backs. There was nothing boyish about the way she filled out her jeans, he noted.

      As he and Lacy took seats opposite her at the table in the interrogation room, it occurred to him that there was another reason women opted to downplay their femininity, one that had nothing to do with men. His partner, Meredith Lacy, was living proof of that.

      He gave himself an illicit thrill, wondering if she was Lacy’s type. “Where did you find the dog?” he asked, dragging his mind out of the gutter.

      When she met his eyes, her own darkened slightly, an almost imperceptible expansion of pupils signaling her awareness of him as a man.

      Not indifferent to the opposite sex, he decided. Too bad, Lacy.

      “He was outside the fence this morning,” she said, staring down at her gloved hands. “At Pacific Pet Hotel.”

      A kennel worker, he thought with mild distaste. “You’re an employee?”

      “I own it.”

      He raised his eyebrows. She didn’t look old enough to own a business. “How’d you get him in that dog carrier?”

      “I offered him some food and water. He wasn’t interested, but he seemed to trust me after that. Enough to go in the carrier, anyway.”

      “Did he bite you?”

      She followed his gaze to her left hand. Under the latex, in the middle of her palm, there was a bandage. “No. He had glass in his fur. And quite a few burrs and foxtails.”

      “Did you take them out? Clean him up?”

      “No. I just reached down to pet him and…the glass cut into my hand.”

      Marc read a lot into that short pause. She wasn’t telling the whole story. “Anything else we need to know?”

      “I think he’d traveled for miles,” she hedged. “He was panting, and his feet were wet. Smelly wet, like river. The San Luis Rey is nearby.”

      He’d never before felt as though a person were lying and telling the truth at the same time. He leaned back in his chair, paradoxically pleased. It wasn’t every day that plausible suspects walked in off the street.

      

      “Would you like some water?” Detective Lacy asked after an uncomfortable silence. “A soda?”

      “No, thanks,” Sidney said, tucking her gloved hands under the table, annoyed with Lieutenant Cruz for scrutinizing her so blatantly. He was one of those effortlessly handsome men who made her feel sloppy, awkward and unkempt.

      He was taller than she was, and his clothes fit him perfectly, hinting at a nicely formed physique. Even motionless, he managed to convey grace and power. His features were well-arranged but unyielding, showing no trace of softness or compassion. He might have appeared cold if not for his coloring. His skin was dark, his hair a rich, warm brown and his eyes a shade lighter, like smooth Kentucky whiskey or strong iced tea.

      With brown hair, skin and eyes, and a tobacco-brown suit, he should have looked average, even drab. He didn’t. There was an elusive quality about him that probably intrigued women, a dangerous edge that excited them, and an overall appeal she couldn’t describe but responded to nevertheless. He was also quite young, in his early thirties at the most, although he appeared worldly rather than naive.

      Staring back at him, Sidney was uncomfortably aware of how long it had been since she’d hazarded the perils of a man’s touch.

      Lieutenant Cruz must have decided the interview was over, because he stood abruptly. Lacy followed suit, so Sidney rose to her feet as well.

      “If you think of anything else,” he said, holding out a card with his name and number on it, “feel free to call.”

      She took it from him gingerly, not allowing his fingers to brush over hers, and shoved it in her pocket. “What are you going to do with him?”

      “The dog? Process him for trace.”

      “And then?”

      He shrugged. “Turn him over to the pound, unless his owner or another family member comes to claim him.”

      “If they don’t, will you call me?” Sidney posed this question to Detective Lacy, deciding she was the more amenable officer. “I’d hate to see him put down.” Large, mean-looking dogs were rarely placed in good homes.

      “Absolutely,” she promised as they walked out together.

      “Is Gina working today?” Lieutenant Cruz asked Detective Lacy.

      “Yep.”

      “Why don’t you go sweet-talk her into meeting us over there?”

      “You don’t want help with the dog?” she asked with a slight smile.

      “Why would I?” he returned.

      “Whatever you say, Marcos,” she said, punching him lightly on the shoulder before she ambled away. Sidney watched her go, feeling a spark of envy for the basic human ability to touch another person in kindness, humor or affection.

      Detective Lacy’s tone was teasing, but something about what she said bothered him. “Marcos? Is that your real name?”

      “Just Marc,” he replied as he held open the door for her. Ever-cognizant of his proximity, she moved by him carefully, resisting the urge to tell him to call her by her first name, as well. She didn’t want to remind him of her embarrassing refusal to shake his hand upon their initial introduction.

      As they approached the back of her truck, he didn’t make direct eye contact with the dog or do anything else cornered animals considered threatening, but Blue let out a series of rapid barks, gnashing at the grate.

      Lieutenant Cruz didn’t even flinch. “Friendly, isn’t he?”

      She smiled at his dry humor. “Don’t you like dogs?”

      “They don’t like me,” he corrected.

      When she laughed, he turned his head to study her face. He was attracted to her, she realized in a flash of intuition that was more feminine than supernatural. Something must be wrong with him. Men were always put off by her aversion to physical contact.

      “As much as I’d like to wrestle him out of there and into my own vehicle—” he gestured to a champagne-colored Audi with all-leather interior “—I think he’s more comfortable with you. If you don’t mind.”

      “Not at all,” she said. “Where to?”

      “Vincent Veterinary Clinic. You can follow me.”

      “I know where it is,” she said, finding the situation highly ironic.

      She СКАЧАТЬ