In The Line Of Fire. Beverly Bird

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      The ill-fitting clothes he’d worn earlier—prison issue, she understood now—were gone. Danny stood there, the doorknob in one hand, those dangerous dark eyes of his steady on hers. He wore navy-blue gym shorts and a T-shirt emblazoned with—of all things!—TEXAS A & M.

      These clothes fit. Nicely. He must have gone shopping, she thought inanely.

      “Great legs,” she said hoarsely, trying to smile.

      He ignored that. “You really put in the hours here, don’t you…Officer?”

      So he knew she was a cop. He must have done some digging on her, too. It made absolutely no sense that that should please her, especially under these new circumstances.

      Molly licked her lips. “That’s me. Dedicated. Ron called me and asked me to stop by to…ah…check on something.”

      “Something like me?”

      He noticed that she had the good grace to flush. Her gaze slid away. A cop. Damn it, it still burned at him two hours later.

      The law had been his enemy for too many years. He might be starting over with a clean slate, but damned if he wanted to snuggle up to a narrow-minded, handcuff-toting police officer who wouldn’t know a guy was being set up if the proof jumped up and bit her on the nose. And he had been thinking about snuggling up to her. Life had been starting to look good for a little while there. That was the pity of it.

      “Were you with Mission Creek six years ago?” he asked sharply, then he heard his own question and fought off the urge to wince. What difference did it make?

      “No,” she said stiffly. “I was in Laredo back then.”

      “Were you a cop there, too?”

      She nodded.

      “Got it in your blood, have you?”

      It drove into her heart like a knife. “No. It didn’t start out that way.” Mickey had changed everything.

      So she hadn’t been one of those in that interrogation room with him six years ago, Danny thought. They hadn’t heard a word of explanation he gave, just stared at him with contempt in their eyes. Then again, he’d known she hadn’t been a part of that. There was something about her…something vibrant and vital and worn stubbornly on her sleeve. He’d have remembered her, Danny knew, if she had been there.

      “What are the odds that you’ll end your involvement with this place?” he asked evenly.

      She brought her chin up. “Because of you?” She gave a little snorting laugh. “Slim and none.”

      “That’s what I thought. But I don’t want to cross paths with you.”

      “Finally we agree on something.” And he couldn’t leave the center, at least not without seriously ticking off his parole officer, she thought. Whatever else he was, he didn’t seem stupid.

      “Then here’s how we’re going to do this,” he said. “From now on, you just stay on your side of the gym and I’ll stay on mine. I changed my mind. I don’t like you after all.”

      She fought the hurt. “No problem.”

      “Good.”

      “Good,” she repeated.

      “And stop running my name through the system. You won’t find anything else. There wasn’t a hell of a lot there to start with.”

      “I didn’t—” But she had to break off. She couldn’t lie.

      “Points for honesty, Officer.” His grin was feral. “Unfortunately, you started in the hole.” He left her and slammed the door hard behind him. Molly sank back down into Ron’s chair. For some reason she felt ashamed. Like she’d been narrow-minded and she’d misjudged him. But that was insane. How badly could you misjudge someone who had held up a convenience store? How badly could you misjudge someone who had been associated with the mob—the same mob her task force was looking into for the bombing?

      Molly shot to her feet again, angry now, at herself and at him. She left Ron’s office without even glancing over her shoulder at the gym, but the steady thump of Danny’s basketball followed her.

      Within twenty-four hours, Molly had decided two things. Dressing for success with the task force was a total waste of time because no one wanted her there, anyway. And Danny never seemed to leave the rec center. At least, that damn yellow car of his never moved.

      She woke early on Tuesday morning, thinking to get a good start on the day. The telephone rang just as she was leaving her apartment. It was Ralph Bunderling asking for another date. She’d probably given him renewed hope with her phone call last night. Molly declined politely.

      At least the rain had stopped, she thought, stepping outside. Because she wore flats today, her ankle didn’t turn when she stepped on the newspaper. She took a breath, grabbed it from the walkway and looked up. The sky was that cool winter blue that came in February even to southern Texas, and the sun was big and…

      Lemony.

      “He just moved right in on my turf,” she complained aloud. “And Ron not only let him, he enabled him.”

      She realized that she was talking to herself again.

      “Well, spinsters talk to themselves. I read that somewhere. They do it a lot. They talk to themselves, and they talk to their cats.” How old did one have to be to officially become a spinster? The term brought to mind doddering virgins in their eighties, she thought as she headed for her car. But times had changed. In current lingo it would probably define a thirty-year-old unmarried woman who had scarcely had more than three consecutive dates with the same man in her entire life.

      She decided to drive past the rec center first. If Danny was gone, she’d stop and chat for a while with whatever kids were there. It didn’t matter that it was a weekday and the high school was in session at ten o’clock in the morning. Lester had already dropped out, and the attendance of the others was spotty in spite of the volunteers’ best efforts. Molly wondered how Danny expected them to play for a high school team when half of them already had one foot out that door.

      “That’s his problem, not mine.” She slowed down as she approached the center. His car was still there. “Jerk. Store-robbing, gun-wielding, mobster jerk.” Why’d he have to go and rob that store, anyway? Why couldn’t he just have been a nice guy?

      Because spinsters had notoriously bad luck where men were concerned, she answered herself. He’d seemed to be flirting with her and he looked good enough to eat, so something had to be wrong with him.

      All she’d ever asked for was a man who could match her, stride for stride, she thought, driving on. Someone who wouldn’t back down from her and let her wear the pants all the time. Someone who could make her skin heat with a glance. Someone whose kiss didn’t leave her wondering what was on television later that night.

      Someone with all that who didn’t have a record.

      The full task force was in the war room when she arrived. They were having a meeting.

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