just so happens that I have a significant number of rare books and manuscripts in that store, not to mention the fact that I live above it.”
She pulled her cardigan closed, the thin knit stretching tight against her breasts. He shouldn’t be noticing, but he couldn’t help it any more than he could help his body’s reaction. He tried not to stare. Getting caught ogling her at this particular moment probably wouldn’t win him any brownie points.
She swallowed. “I’m scared, Detective. Okay? And I don’t appreciate being taunted about my profession.”
Blinking furiously, she stood up. “I’ll call again later for answers,” she said. “And I suggest you have some if you don’t want me to speak to your supervisor.” With a defiant tilt of her chin, she turned and rushed out, heels clicking on the battered linoleum floor.
Jack was as confused as he’d ever been, and she was out the door and gone by the time his brain defrosted. Gears turned in his head, and coherent thoughts started to form from the random words she’d thrown out—her case, ignoring, scared, answers. With a groan, he let his head fall onto the metal desktop.
Veronica Archer wasn’t a professor, she was a victim.
Way to go, Jack. Arrest the perps and alienate the victims. Smooth move.
And she wasn’t just any victim, but one who owned a bookstore and specialized in erotic literature. Except for the problem that he’d managed to completely piss her off, she could probably help him with the Crawley case more than some generic lit professor from the halls of academia. Not to mention the fact that he just plain wanted to see her again.
Glancing up, he noticed a rumpled man in a seersucker suit talking with Carla. The literature professor, he presumed. An image of chestnut curls, emerald eyes and a kissable mouth flashed in his mind. Features held together by a fiery personality he wouldn’t at all mind working with.
Instead, he got Professor Nerdsly.
“Detective Parker,” Carla called, “this gentleman is here to see you.”
Jack waved, letting her know he’d be right there.
“Oh, and Jack? That woman, she said to tell you it came from The Boudoir.”
* * *
“That was fast.” Joan looked up from the computer as Ronnie stalked into the store, the little bell announcing her arrival. She held up a box. “This came for you. From your secret admirer, I’m guessing.”
Ronnie half smiled as she took the box, her hideous mood lifting just a little. She pulled the top off to reveal a package of Hershey’s Kisses, with a little note in stenciled calligraphy— Sweets for the sweet.
Joan looked over her shoulder. “Aw. How sweet,” she said drolly. “I say there’s gotta be something wrong with him if he won’t show his face.”
“Don’t be mean,” she said to Joan. “Whoever’s sending them is probably just shy.” For about two months now, she’d been receiving anonymous little gifts every week or so. Each contained a message, a bit clichéd, but nice.
She looked more closely at the box. “Mail?”
“Nope. It was sitting outside the door. One of the customers brought it in.”
With a shake of her head, Ronnie sighed, wondering if she’d ever figure out who her admirer was. Her guess was Tommy, the shy young man who’d attended each and every one of the free lectures on erotica the store sponsored on alternate weeks.
If that was the case, though, Ronnie almost hoped he stayed anonymous. Tommy seemed like a sweet kid, in a college freshman kind of way, but certainly not her type.
An image of Detective Parker popped into her mind. Speaking of her type...
Joan plucked the box from her hand and grabbed a Kiss. “So what happened? I didn’t think you’d make it back before we opened.”
Ronnie’s foul mood returned as she flung her satchel onto the desk and aimed herself toward the coffee. “It was a totally wasted trip,” she said. “They’re impossible. He’s impossible.”
“He?” Joan peered at her over the rims of her psychedelic half glasses, apparently this week’s venture into nouveau fashion. “He, who?”
Ronnie took a swig of coffee and shook her head as she swallowed. “A detective he,” she said, glaring at the turn-of-the-century French postcards Joan was cataloging, the kind of postcards he’d taunted her with at the station.
Waving a hand toward the scattered ephemera, she scowled. “A him with a complex about that.”
“No way. Really? That’s why nothing’s happening with your break-in? The police are prudes?”
Ronnie sipped her coffee. “Looks that way.” She sure as hell couldn’t think of any other explanation for his odd behavior.
Distracted, she paced in front of the window, watching her neighbors glide by on the way to work. Bank tellers, bus drivers, schoolteachers, stockbrokers. It was an eclectic neighborhood, and she loved it. The familiar sights and smells had comforted her for years. Mrs. Carmichael opening the corner store. Duncan Tanner selling hotdogs from a cart, the pungent smell of sauerkraut filling the morning air.
She’d managed to quell some of her irritation—no, dammit, her fury—as she’d walked back from the police station. But now that anger was rallying, slamming through her stomach with even more force than before. Someone had violated her sanctuary. This neighborhood. Her life. How dare the cops soft-pedal her robbery just because she dealt in erotic literature.
And the fact that Detective Parker was so damn good-looking only added to her annoyance. For reasons she wasn’t inclined to examine too closely, he’d been on her mind during the entire walk back from the station, the echo of his touch still lingering on her fingers.
A particularly annoying fact, considering that Detective Parker had been a total jerk. Probably one of those macho holier-than-thou guys who thought a woman should be prim, proper and submissive. Heaven forbid a woman take the initiative where sex was concerned.
Of course, her extensive reading didn’t count as the real thing. She grinned. For that matter, neither did a vibrator.
He could scratch that itch....
The decadent thought slammed through her, and her knees went weak. She grabbed the side of a bookshelf for support as her mind filled with an image of piercing gray eyes and an angular jaw dusted with a shadow well past five o’clock.
Now, there was a vision that could inspire long nights of study.
Sighing, she sank into the soft leather armchair by the desk, the warm mug clasped in both hands. Despite how much the man had irritated her, her body still tingled at the thought of his touch. She told herself it wasn’t him, it was her—oversexed and undersatisfied. But, oh, what a fantasy to imagine Detective Parker doing the satisfying.
She dwelled on the thought a little longer than she should, trying to imagine his hands on her breasts, her waist, her hips. His handshake had been firm, his hands large, and the thought of those hands roaming her body sent little shivers up her spine. It was a fantasy
