He’d struck a nerve. “Two years,” she muttered.
Suddenly, he felt sorry for her. Already, he could tell she was smarter than most reporters he’d met. Realizing he was staring at her like a besotted fool, he averted his gaze, and the file he’d been holding slipped between his fingers. Cursing, he quickly tried to grab the grisly color photos that fanned over his desk. They were from a shooting death in a crack house near Penn Station. “Sorry,” he murmured.
Her voice was cool, her pen poised. “Why don’t you guys get file cabinets? Budget problems? Any comment?”
There were budget problems, of course, and yes, he’d like to comment, but she was unnerving him. First, it was clear she meant to turn her public-relations story into something more in-depth, which would infuriate their bosses. And the grisly photos hadn’t even phased her. “How’d a girl like you wind up with such a poker face?”
“I’m not a child.”
Curiouser and curiouser, he thought. Trudy Busey apparently moved through the world expecting to be patronized. His cop’s instincts got the best of him. “Who treats you like a kid?”
“I’m not the interview subject. You are.”
Subject. He wasn’t used to hearing himself reduced to that. “Well, now you know how it feels.”
“Sorry, but like I said, I didn’t ask to be here.”
No, and it was starting to annoy him. “Most people like cops. We’re the good guys. The heroes.”
She chuckled. “Unless you’re on the take.”
“You don’t quit, do you?”
“Tenacity,” she returned. “A good trait in reporters.”
He went for her weak spot. “Maybe not so good in a woman.”
She rose swiftly. She was slender and economical, without a shiver of wasted movement. With a full-frontal view, he could see that her conservative outfit left hints of temptation: an extra button undone at the throat, a lace bra visible through the blouse, a skirt just tight enough to mold the sexy rounding of her tummy. He’d bet every penny of his coming five million that the legs he couldn’t see were shapely enough to model panty hose, and that she treated them to top-drawer silk stockings.
Just as her fisted hands landed knuckle-down on the desk, he caught a glimpse of a diamond. His heart plunged, then he registered the diamond was on the right hand, not the left. He was a cop, so usually he got details like that straight. Not that he’d noticed wedding rings before his mother’s recent challenge. “C’mon,” he murmured, realizing he’d risen with her and now reseated himself. “Why don’t you sit back down?”
“Because you’re attacking me. And because I’d rather be working on the mental hospitals, the lottery, or the Galapagos oil spill.”
Hardly wanting to contemplate the Galapagos Islands and the lottery, he gave Trudy another once-over. She was tougher than she looked, and he liked her dedication. Still, those eyes were made to soften. Already, he knew how the blue irises would temper to gray, how the sharp edges of the gaze would blur until her eyes turned as vaporous as smoke.
“Why are you staring at me?” she asked, point-blank.
Because he was crossing her off his list of potential brides. Trudy Busey was far too interesting, and he was looking for a woman who’d marry him, knowing she’d soon be divorced. Mulling over the five million dollars coming to him, he calculated the sum, minus what he’d pay in alimony. “Because I’m thinking about how to proceed,” he said. “You’re going to make me, this precinct and the streets of New York look great, right?”
“You say that as if I’m a sellout,” she said indignantly. “As if a reporter’s not really needed to write this story.”
He gentled his voice. “There’s some truth to that.”
“Let’s get one thing straight,” she shot back. “This assignment is my idea of hell.”
Before he could respond, he saw his mother enter the squad room, carrying a stack of flyers, probably asking for clothing donations for the homeless. As much as Truman loved the woman, she had a knack for showing up at the worst moments. He could almost hear her saying, “Ah, so you’ve found your bride!”
Which meant he had about three minutes to get rid of Trudy. Maybe five, seeing as his mother had stopped to talk to Capote and Dern, who’d been salivating around the watercooler ever since they’d been handed the Glass Slipper case, however temporarily.
“Before we go,” he said, “I’ve got a few things to take care of here.” Closing the file with his picture in it, he pushed it across the desk, toward Trudy. “My cruiser’s in the garage downstairs.”
“The one with the dice hanging over the rearview mirror?”
“Cute,” he said again. “Mind waiting? I’ll meet you there. Twenty minutes.”
“No problem.” She offered a curt nod. Sweeping the file off his desk, she turned, hugging it to her chest, and he whistled softly, watching her weave through the squad room. He’d been right about the legs. Long and shapely, they were encased in shimmering summer hose. The gentle twitch of her backside could make dry cotton salivate.
He didn’t really have any work to do. He’d come in early this morning, but after meeting Trudy, he needed a moment to think. He needed a strategy for dealing with her. The truth was, she was determined, opinionated and reminded him of Sue, the woman he’d almost married. There was nothing like young love to rip your heart out, he thought. Nothing like losing an unborn child to keep you from healing.
Shaking off the thoughts, Truman headed for his mother, and then later, after she was gone, he sipped a third cup of coffee. Finally, he glanced at his watch. “Thirty minutes.” Long enough to communicate he was a busy guy.
Returning to his office, Truman traced his eyes over the files on his desk. “Where are they?” he suddenly whispered. As messy as things looked, he was flawlessly methodical. Capote and Dern hadn’t picked up the files for the Glass Slipper case, which meant they should still be on his desk. They’d been right here, beneath the PR file that Trudy Busey…
“Oh, she’s good,” he muttered, realizing she’d stolen his files. And then he took long strides to the precinct’s parking lot.
NOT ABOUT TO DWELL on the charged encounter with Truman Steele, Trudy curled a foot beneath her in the seat of his cruiser and delved into his files, scrutinizing photos of the most gorgeous shoes she’d ever seen. Steele was a good cop, she grudgingly admitted, jotting notes as she read statements taken from the theft victims, all of whom were nationally known women working in film, fashion, music or politics.
“These shoes are incredible,” she whispered excitedly, leafing back through nearly a hundred publicity photos taken while the women were wearing them. There was a model on a runway, an actress traversing the red-carpeted entrance to the Oscars, an ex-first lady giving a luncheon speech. On their feet were everything from genie slippers to fabric-covered mules to zippered sandals with spiral heels. The NYPD hadn’t released nearly this many photos to the press.
Assuring herself
