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 she itched to make reality, but she knew that wasn’t possible.
With a sigh, she pushed the daydream away and glanced toward Joan. “So why is it that the handsomest men are inevitably Neanderthals?”
Joan laughed. “One of those, huh? Too bad. We could’ve used some eye candy around here. A rugged detective doing all that...detecting.” She winked. “Could’ve been fun.” She ran a hand through her tousled curls. “I wonder if he likes blondes? Trey’s starting to bore me to tears.”
“All men like blondes,” Ronnie said. “It’s carried on the Y chromosome, I think. You have nothing to worry about.” She leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “I thought his name was Andy.”
“Andy’s old news. He stiffed a waitress. I dumped him. Trey’s an artist, very chic, but seriously lacking in the conversation department.”
Ronnie rolled her eyes. An artist. Well, that explained Joan’s new, get-down-get-funky glasses.
“I bet a detective would have plenty to talk about,” Joan added thoughtfully.
“Well, you’re just going to have to make due, because there’s not going to be any detective-gazing around here.” Considering how badly the meeting at the precinct went, that appeared to be an unfortunate reality. “I get the impression we’re on our own. I don’t think the police are coming at all.”
“Who’s not coming?” a voice cut in.
Nat. Damn.
Ronnie stood and turned toward the stairwell. He wore jeans and a ratty T-shirt, but his feet were bare. His hair stuck out in a million directions and he looked sixteen instead of more than twice that.
“You look like the dead,” she said, hoping the insult would derail the subject.
“Thanks. Who’s not coming? The cops?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, willing a lie to her tongue as she crossed her fingers in her pocket. “I was talking about the electrician.” She shrugged. “Everything’s under control.”
He shot her a look of pure disbelief before venturing to the coffeepot, filling a cup, then heading back to the stairwell, squeezing her shoulder lightly as he passed by. He paused, looking back at her. “You went like that?”
Automatically, she looked down at her outfit. Skirt, sweater, shoes. Nothing missing or revealing. “Yeah. So?”
He shrugged. “I was just thinking about the kind of guys who hang around police stations. That skirt doesn’t leave much to the imagination.”
Ronnie crossed her arms over her chest. Nat had been lecturing her on her wardrobe since she was twelve and bought her first training bra. She might be used to it, but it still annoyed her. “It’s a knit skirt. It’s supposed to cling. And they’re called thighs. Everyone has them. I assure you I haven’t committed some mighty sin by wearing material that clings.” She knew she sounded snappish, but she really wasn’t in the mood.
Nat scowled but didn’t say anything else. After a second, he changed the subject. “Well, you weren’t there very long. What exactly did the cops say?”
“Nothing much.” She shrugged, swallowing a bit of guilt at the white lie. She’d wasted many a college hour planted in front of television, but not one episode of Law & Order sprang to mind. “I guess police departments are pretty busy in the morning,” she added, mentally cringing at how lame she sounded. “But a detective is coming by later to give me the full scoop.”
Nat rubbed his chin but didn’t question her, and she held her breath. Then, with a quick nod and a murmured “okay,” he stepped back into the stairwell and pulled the door closed behind him.
The guilt returned. Nat had always been someone she could depend on, rely on, go to with her problems and share her dreams. She truly hated lying to him, but she didn’t want him worrying. He had a great opportunity in that job, and she didn’t want to see him blow it because of some misplaced worry about his little sister.
She comforted herself with the fact that it wasn’t a huge lie. If she worked the phones right and complained loudly enough, maybe she could get a detective to come over and give her an update by that evening.
Unfortunately, it just wouldn’t be Detective Parker.
The image filtered through his exhausted mind, taunting and teasing him.
Her chestnut hair was pulled back with a single ribbon, the only adornment she wore. In front of her, she held a thin blue scarf. Too sheer for modesty, the material did nothing to hide the dark circles of her nipples. She was smiling, a silent, seductive invitation....
“Jack? Yo! Parker. You wanna join the living, buddy?”
With a lurch, Jack pulled himself away from the dream and back to reality, rubbing his hands over his face to try to wake up.
Donovan grinned, glancing down at the desktop. “Fantasizing about the evidence?”
“What?” Jack asked, still groggy. Following Donovan’s gaze he saw the postcard. A blonde, nude from the waist up, was flirting with the camera from behind a single flimsy scarf.
Jack blinked. In his dream, the half-naked woman on the old-time postcard had been a brunette. Soft waves cascading over bare shoulders...dancing green eyes...a pert mouth.
Veronica Archer.
Damn, but the woman had gotten to him. He wanted her with an urgency he’d never felt before. And from what he could tell, she was pissed as hell at him.
Too bad.
“There’s more,” Donovan said, his voice hinting that more didn’t mean good.
One last shake of his head and Jack grounded himself.
