The Hotshot. Jule McBride

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СКАЧАТЬ shirt, and registering that their chests were just inches from touching, she felt her knees weaken. Oh, yes. It was definitely the wrong time to recall how his chest had looked in that photo—bare and smooth, just the way Trudy liked a man’s chest to look, with pecs chiseled out of marble, the nipples hard. He was staring down at her with slanted eyes the color of undiluted bourbon when he lifted a finger, traced it lightly under her chin and used a thumb to turn her face more fully to his. “Look at me.”

      “Quit touching me and I will.”

      Male awareness filled his gaze. “Does that bother you?” he murmured. “Me touching you?”

      “Of course it does.” He dropped his hand, but not before the tips of her breasts tightened beneath her clothes. He couldn’t see, of course. He didn’t know. But as heat stained her cheeks, she wished they were upstairs again, with all those cops milling around instead of in this deserted garage.

      “You stole my files.”

      Now that she’d successfully gotten rid of his hand, she vied for more. “Could you give me some breathing room?” Her back was flat against the car door, and the way he’d sandwiched her between his hard body and the metal was stealing her breath.

      “What possessed you?”

      She arched a brow. “Possessed? Must have been a demon.”

      “I’m beginning to believe it’s just your personality.”

      “Don’t worry,” she returned dryly, pleased her voice was level. “I didn’t read anything that would offend my finer sensibilities.” Upstairs, the crime scene photos had sickened her more than she’d let on, and despite her usual fury over male protectiveness, she was strangely touched that Truman hadn’t wanted her to see them.

      “Are you really as hard as nails?”

      “Of course not.” Not usually. But she hadn’t been prepared for what Truman Steele’s photo couldn’t divulge—his energy, core, essence, whatever you wanted to call it. “But I’m here to do a job.”

      “However dishonestly?”

      “I’m a reporter.” And she didn’t intend to return to the Milton Herald where her lead stories had been even worse than this, involving runaway cows, backed-up town sewers and the occasional birth of twins. “What’s dishonest is leaving a reporter in a parking lot while you pretend to be busy with work. Admit it, but weren’t you eating another doughnut? Chocolate-or vanilla-filled?”

      “Chocolate,” he returned without hesitation.

      “You kept me waiting intentionally.”

      “You stole those files.”

      She pointed to a napkin on the dashboard. “Someone was nice enough to give me a doughnut, too.” She smiled. “And the files made for good reading.” Seeing the furious glint in his eyes, she suspected she’d gone too far and tried to soften the blow with flattery. “My compliments. You do a very thorough interview.”

      “It’s illegal to steal police files. I could run you back upstairs and book you.”

      “True. But Captain Coombs might be disappointed in my public relations article in the News.”

      “Blackmailer,” he whispered. “You wouldn’t.”

      She shrugged. “I’m interested in the Glass Slipper story. I’m hoping you’ll talk to me. Off the record, if need be.”

      Grudging respect crept into eyes that were lingering too long at the open throat of her blouse, and when he leaned, as if to get a better look at her, his bemused lips seemed too close to her own. “Talk about my case?” he said. “I’d be solving it if I didn’t have to chauffeur you around town.”

      She frowned. “Somebody else was given that case? Who?”

      “Capote and Dern.”

      She’d heard of them. “They couldn’t book loose paper with a stapler.”

      He looked pleased. “True.”

      “Did they get all your cases?”

      He shook his head. “Only a few. The Glass Slipper victims don’t like to feel there’s no contact person available to them. Now,” he continued, his voice 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.

      3

      DAYS AGO, WHEN TRUDY began delving into Truman’s private life to enhance her article about the NYPD, she’d expected to discover secrets, but nothing like this. Crouching behind a bush in Bryant Park, she watched him leave the seventh sex toy shop this evening and head toward a triple-X marquee where a heavyset man with bulging biceps sat inside a smudgy glass booth, selling tickets. Most stores on the strip offered relatively tame sexy underwear and books, but one devoted itself to sinister zippered masks. Trudy shuddered, bringing up the camera slung around her neck and keeping Truman in the viewfinder as he changed his mind about the theatre and ducked into a dirty bookstore.

      Times Square was hardly the red-light district it once was, but a few blocks away, here in Bryant СКАЧАТЬ