then another, each of which she identified without even missing a beat. The lady knew her stuff. Donovan had certainly tracked down the best professor for the job.
But the cards were chump change. Even he and Donovan had eventually discovered the source of the pages and the artwork. Now it was time for the real test. He pushed the photocopy of the pillow note toward her. “What about this? Do you recognize it?”
“Detective...” She paused, frowning, then glanced first at his desktop and then at him. After a moment, she seemed to come to a decision. “I’ve tried my best to be polite, to be on my best behavior. But I’m not exactly in the mood for pop quizzes, okay?” She tucked her purse under her arm and pushed her chair back, glaring at him, her eyes cold, entirely lacking their earlier warmth. “Yes, my specialty’s erotica. But I don’t see why I have to play Jeopardy! simply to get the police department to do its job.”
Jack could practically feel the anger sparking off her like static electricity. He didn’t have a clue as to what had set her off, but he had an overwhelming urge to fix it. To make whatever was bothering her better. “Look, Ms. Archer, if there’s been some sort of misunderstanding—”
“Misunderstanding? Ignoring my case? Not returning my calls?” She waved a hand at the evidence he’d just shown her. “And now this...this...attitude about the fact that I study erotica.” She glared at him, green eyes flashing. “It 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
