Normally she hated it when people shortened her name that way. But coming from Nick, it sounded good. Friendly…almost intimate.
“You okay?” Nick’s voice held a touch of concern. “You got a strange look on your face for a second there.”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Now you better hurry and get to work.” And get out of my sight so I stop fantasizing about you.
“Okay.”
She thought he was leaving, but instead he moved closer. So close that Bridget’s heart stopped. Good Lord, it was almost as if he intended to—
“Bye-bye, Mandy.” He lowered his head, his hair brushing against Bridget’s nose as he planted a kiss on his daughter’s cheek.
Bridget inhaled the scent of his shampoo. Kiss me, too, she couldn’t help wishing, even as she had the good sense to step back.
“I’ll see you around five,” Nick promised on his way out the door.
Bridget moved to the kitchen window and watched as he headed toward his car. She was willing to bet he was a good athlete. He was so sure-footed and confident in the way he moved. A man who knew where he was going and what he wanted.
What would it be like to be the sort of woman that Nick Gray was attracted to?
Over the years she’d often wondered that, experiencing a touch of envy for the girlfriends she’d seen dangling from his arm. A harmless crush was what she’d called these yearnings for her appealing neighbor. She’d never imagined that one day she might be tempted to act on her feelings.
Nick’s car started. He drove away. She stepped back from the kitchen window and, closing her eyes, remembered how it had felt to have his face so very near to hers.
NICK HAD NEVER been so happy to be at work. Boring paperwork seemed like a breeze compared to changing diapers. And he’d rather put up with a lecture from the captain about results, results, results, than deal with a crying baby in the middle of the night.
The priority today, of course, was making progress on the Tara Lang case. There’d been no new developments overnight, which was probably a good thing. It meant that with any luck Tara remained alive and well.
Though he figured the teen was still in Hartford, Nick checked the crime reports from nearby centers just to be sure. He tensed when he read about a murder-rape, in Springfield, of a young woman about Tara’s age, then felt a guilty wash of relief when he saw the victim had been already been identified as someone else. It seemed Tara had managed to survive another night out on the streets.
If, indeed, that was where she was.
“Hey, Gray, what’s up?” Glenn Ferguson, his partner, sank into the chair next to Nick’s. He was back in the city after tidying up loose ends on another assignment. “Any leads on the kid?”
“Just that tip yesterday.”
“Right. The mall. You checked it out?”
“Yeah. Nothing. I didn’t get even one positive ID.”
“Too bad.” Glenn leaned in for a look at the reports strewn over Nick’s deck. Getting a whiff of Glenn’s usual body odor, mixed with a good measure of stale alcohol and cigar smoke, Nick decided it was time to grab a refill of coffee.
Though he and Glenn had been partners for just a few weeks, Nick had already figured out that Glenn’s idea of a good time involved an expensive smoke, one-too-many drinks at his favorite pub, and talking some woman into sharing his bed for the night.
Not that different from Nick’s idea of a good time, perhaps, if you substituted a medium-rare steak for the cigar, but Nick was only thirty-four, while Glenn was pushing fifty.
Nick did not want to be in Glenn’s shoes when he was fifty. But his failed marriage with Jessica wasn’t a step in the right direction. They’d lasted less than a year as a married couple. It was a damn embarrassment. Worse was the potential impact on Mandy. His daughter would never have the security of living with a mother and a father under the same roof. How would that affect her?
As Nick reached for the full coffeepot, his thoughts shifted to Bridget. This morning her hair had been still damp from the shower and he’d been surprised at the way the baby-doll ringlets had framed her face.
He thought about how her house smelled and looked, so warm and inviting. Then about her eyes, that verdant green. Thinking about her gave him the same feeling as breathing in a lungful of cool, crisp air. More alive, yet somehow more relaxed, as well.
Nick filled a second cup, then returned to his desk. He handed a coffee to his partner, who gave him a grunt in return. Glenn shifted aside the report he’d been reading, exposing a family photograph taken for the Langs’ Christmas cards.
The pose was casual. Vincent Lang was wearing a shirt and sweater, probably cashmere. His wife, wearing a silky blouse and pearls, stood behind him, one arm looped around his neck, her chin resting on his full head of silver hair. Just off to one side Tara posed stiffly. Her mother’s hand rested lightly on her shoulder, but that was the only thing linking her to the attorney general and his wife.
“The kid doesn’t look too happy,” Glenn said. “I’m betting she didn’t like having her photograph exploited for the sake of her father’s political career.”
Nick laughed. Glenn was on the money with that observation, no doubt about it. He studied the picture closer. “What about the wife? Do you think she minded?”
She had the expensively coiffed appearance of a woman who was used to the rich life. But did her eyes betray a little of the daughter’s resentment? Or was he imagining that?
“Hard to say. Has anyone spoken with her?”
“I interviewed her late Wednesday afternoon.” Nick pulled out his notebook. He’d gone to the Langs’ house, an impressive Tudor home in the Hartford Golf Club neighborhood.
“Mrs. Lang was polite and cooperative, but also quite reserved. I asked her about Tuesday night and the alleged argument between Tara and her father.”
“What did she say?”
Nick read from his notes: “Tara has always hated the obligations that come with her father’s position. Those obligations are especially numerous at Christmas time. There are parties and other functions that Vincent simply must attend and many of them require his family’s attendance, too.”
Glenn snorted. “I’ll just bet. So what did you say next?”
“I told her that I supposed most teenagers would resent having to attend a bunch of stuffy parties.”
“I bet she didn’t like that.”
“You’re right. Mrs. Lang looked offended then said, ‘We’re invited into some of the most beautiful homes in Hartford. Last night we had tickets to the gala performance of the Nutcracker Ballet.’”
“Big, frigging deal.”
Nick nodded. Not too many fourteen-year-olds liked going to the ballet. But neither did they run away
