Fire Brand. Diana Palmer

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      “Have I ever?”

      She ran a hand over the back of her neck. “We don’t see that much of each other, so how do you know about my social life?”

      He lit another cigarette. “You’re soaked. Do you want to go to your apartment and change before we go to the restaurant?”

      “Yes, I’d like to, if you don’t mind.” Then she thought about Bowie in her apartment, and something inside her retreated.

      He saw that hunted look out of the comer of his eye. “You’re safe with me, Gaby. I hoped you knew that without my having to say it.”

      She swallowed. He read her all too well. She stared at her slender, ringless fingers. “I know. I’m just a little shaken by this afternoon. I don’t do police news anymore, and it’s been a long time since I’ve seen anybody shot.”

      “What a hell of a line of work you chose,” he said.

      “I like it, most of the time.” She clasped her fingers, because reaction was beginning to set in. It always amazed her how calm she was while she was getting a story, but after covering this kind of story she went to pieces after the numbness wore off. Sometimes she had nightmares and there was usually nobody to talk to about them. She couldn’t tell Aggie, because the older woman disapproved of her work anyway and had tried to get her to quit. She had no close friends.

      “You said you aren’t still on the police beat?” he asked conversationally.

      “No. Because after Aggie had you tell Mr. Smythe to take me off it even though I asked Johnny Blake to put me back on he wouldn’t.” She glanced at him. “I don’t miss it anyway. I love political reporting.”

      “That’s reassuring,” he said dryly.

      “Aggie did put you up to it, didn’t she?” she asked. “Speaking of Aggie, what’s going on?”

      “I’ll tell you over dinner.” He parked the car in front of the apartment building where she lived—a sprawling white complex with a swimming pool and tennis courts and security people.

      “I’ve moved since you were in Phoenix last,” she said suspiciously. “How did you know where I live?”

      “Come on. You’re soaked.”

      She threw up her hands. “Do you ever answer questions?”

      “You’ll catch cold if you don’t get out of those wet things,” he replied nonchalantly, still sidestepping her queries—as usual.

      He got out of the car, opened her door, and let her go first in the slight drizzle. It was getting dark already, and she was too tired to pursue it.

      Her apartment was done in whites and yellows, with oak furniture, Mexican pottery, and a few modem paintings. It was bright and open and sunny, and she had plants growing everywhere.

      “It looks like the damned Amazon jungle,” he observed, staring around him.

      “Thank you.” She took off her raincoat. “I’ll only be a few minutes. There’s brandy on the table if you want a drink.”

      “I’m driving,” he reminded her.

      “I’ll, uh, just get changed,” she stammered. He made her feel ridiculously weak. She dodged into her bedroom and closed the door.

      It was the first time she’d ever had a man in her apartment. She was all thumbs while she took a quick shower, washed and dried her hair, and put on a neat gray crepe dress with white collar and cuffs, and shoes to match. She curled her hair into a neat bun atop her head, added a dash of pink lipstick, some powder, and a hint of perfume, and went to join Bowie.

      He was standing at her window, looking out, his black eyes narrow and brooding. He turned as she came back, his appraisal electrifying as it slid boldly down her body and back up to her face.

      “Is it too dressy?” she asked nervously.

      “I’d have said it was twenty years too old for you,” he replied. “You’re an attractive young woman. Why do you dress like a matron?”

      She bristled. “This is the latest style...”

      “No, it isn’t. It’s a safe style. You’re covered from neck to calf, as usual.”

      Her face was going hotter by the minute. “I dress to please myself.”

      “Obviously. You sure as hell won’t please a man in that rig.”

      “For which you should be grateful,” she said with a venomous smile. “You won’t have to fight me off all evening.”

      He considered that carefully, his sensuous lips pursed, a faint twinkle in his black eyes as the cigarette smoked away in his hand. “I’ve never made a pass at you, have you noticed? What is it now—eight years?”

      “Nine,” she said, averting her eyes to the window.

      “And I know as little about you now as I did that first night,” he continued. “You’re an enigma.”

      “I’m also starving,” she said, changing the subject with a forced, pleasant smile. “Where are we going to eat?”

      “That depends on you. What appeals to you?”

      “Something hot and spicy. Mexican.”

      “Fine by me.” He held the apartment door open for her, one of his habits that secretly thrilled her. Aggie had raised him to be a gentleman, and in times when most men left women to open their own doors and lift their own burdens, Bowie was a refreshing anachronism. He was courteous, but not chauvinistic. Two of his executives were women, and she knew for a fact that he had hired a female architect and several female construction workers. He never discriminated, but he did have a few quirks—such as insisting on opening doors and carrying heavy packages.

      They went to a festive Mexican restaurant just two blocks from Gaby’s apartment, and were given a table on a small patio near a wealth of potted trees and flowers.

      “I love this,” Gaby sighed, fingering some begonias in a tub.

      “You and Aggie have this hangup about flowers, I’ve noticed,” he murmured. He laid his cigarette case on the table and glared at it. “I hate damned cigarettes.”

      Gaby’s eyebrows lifted. “Then why smoke?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “Nerves?” she asked daringly.

      He leaned back, crossing his long legs under the table. His black eyes pinned hers. “Maybe.”

      “About Aggie,” she guessed, because she couldn’t imagine making any man nervous, least of all Bowie.

      “About Aggie,” he said flatly. He fingered the case, smoothing over his initials. J.B.M., it read—James Bowie McCayde. He’d never liked his first name, so he’d always been called Bowie.

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