Convincing Alex (10 page)

“I get the picture.”

“He had a scar.”

“What kind?”

“I don't know. A scar, on his hip. Angie told Rosalie he got upset when she asked him about it. That's all she told me, Alexi, but I figured the coincidence of the pendants, you might want to know about this guy.”

“It never hurts.” He gave her an easy smile, though his instincts were humming. “Probably nothing, but I'll look in to it.” He tugged on her hair. “Do yourself a favor, and don't tell Rosalie you passed this along to me.”

“I'm softhearted, Detective. Not softheaded. She thinks you have a really nice butt—but you're still a cop.”

He grimaced. “I don't think I like you discussing my anatomy with a—”

“Friend,” she supplied, with a warning lift of her brow. “I also had lunch with your sister. We discussed your nasty temperament.”

“I heard.” He stole her bagel. “Radcliffe, huh?”

“So?”

“So nothing. Want to go dancing with me?”

She debated with herself for almost a full second. “Okay. Tonight?”

“Can't. Tomorrow?”

It meant canceling dinner at Le Cirque with L.D. Strater. That debate took nearly half a second. “That's fine. Sexy or sedate?”

“Sexy. Definitely.”

“Good. Why don't you come by around—” She glanced at the clock, stared, then yelped. “Damn it! Now I'm going to be late. I'll owe Lori twenty dollars if I'm late one more time this month.” She began pushing Alex out of the kitchen. “It's all your fault. Now beat it, so I can throw on some clothes and get out of here.”

“Since you're already late…” He had some very good moves. Even as she shoved him toward the door, he was turning to catch her close. “I can arrange it so you're a lot later.”

“Smooth talker,” she said with a laugh. “Take a hike.”

“You've already lost twenty. I'm just offering to make it worth your while.”

“I don't know how I can resist that incredibly romantic gesture, but somehow I find I have the strength.”

“You want romance?” There was a gleam in his eyes as he headed for the door. “Tomorrow night. We'll just see how strong you are.”

A
fter spending most of the morning kicking his heels in court, waiting to testify in an assault case, Alex returned to the station to find his partner hip-deep in paperwork. “The boss wants to see you,” Judd said through a mouthful of chocolate bar.

“Right.” Alex shrugged out of his jacket and dragged off his court-appearance tie. With his free hand, he picked up his pile of messages.

“I think he meant now,” Judd said helpfully.

“I got it.” As he passed Judd's desk, Alex peeked over his shoulder at the report in the typewriter. “Two
p's
in apprehend, Einstein.”

Judd backspaced and scowled. “You sure?”

“Trust me.” He swung through the squad room and knocked on Captain Trilwalter's glass door.

“Come.”

Trilwalter glanced up. If Alex often thought he was swamped in paperwork, it was nothing compared to what surrounded his captain. Trilwalter's desk was heaped with it. The overflowing files, stacks of reports and correspondence gave Trilwalter a bookish, accountantlike look. This was enhanced by the half glasses perched on his long, narrow nose, the slightly balding head and the ruthlessly knotted knit tie.

But Alex knew better. Trilwalter was a cop down to the bone, and he might still be on the street but for the bullet that had damaged his left lung.

“You wanted to see me, Captain?”

“Stanislaski.” Trilwalter crooked his finger, then pointed it, gesturing to Alex to come in and shut the door. He leaned back in his chair, folded his hands over his flat belly and scowled.

“What the hell is all this about soap operas?”

“Sir?”

“Soap operas,” Trilwalter repeated. “I just had a call from the mayor.”

Testing his ground, Alex nodded slowly. “The mayor called you about soap operas?”

“You look confused, Detective.” A rare, and not entirely humor-filled, smile curved Trilwalter's mouth. “That makes two of us. The name McNee mean anything to you? Bess McNee?”

Alex closed his eyes a moment. “Oh, boy.”

“Rings a bell, does it?”

“Yes, sir.” Alex gave himself a brief moment to contemplate murder. “Miss McNee and I have a personal relationship. Sort of.”

“I'm not interested in your personal relationship, sort of or otherwise. Unless they come across my desk.”

“When I arrested her—”

“Arrested her?” Trilwalter held up one hand while he took off his glasses. Slowly, methodically, he massaged the bridge of his nose. “I don't think I have to know about that. No, I'm sure I don't.”

Despite himself, Alex began to see the humor in it. “If I could say so, Captain, Bess tends to bring that kind of reaction out in a man.”

“She's a writer?”

“Yes, sir. For ‘Secret Sins.'”

Trilwalter lifted tired eyes. “‘Secret Sins.' Apparently the mayor is quite a fan. Not only a fan, Detective, but an old chum of your Bess McNee's.
Old chum
was just how he put it.”

Finding discretion in silence, Alex said nothing as Trilwalter rose. The captain walked to the watercooler wedged between two file cabinets in the corner of his office. He poured out a paper cupful and drank it down.

“His honor, the mayor, requests that Miss McNee be permitted to observe a day in your life, Detective.”

Alex made a comment normally reserved for locker rooms and pool halls. Trilwalter nodded sagely.

“My sentiments exactly. However, one of the less appealing aspects of working this particular desk is playing politics. You lose, Detective.”

“Captain, we're closing in on that robbery on Lexington. I've got a new lead on the hooker murders and a message on my desk from a snitch who could know something about that stiff we found down on East Twenty-third. How am I supposed to work with some ditzy woman hanging over my shoulder?”

“This is the ditzy woman you have a personal relationship with?”

Alex opened his mouth, then closed it again. How to explain Bess? “Sort of,” he said at length. “Look, Captain, I already agreed to talk to McNee about police work, in general, now and again. I never agreed to specifics. I sure as hell don't want her riding shotgun while I work.”

“A day in your life, Stanislaski.” With that same grim smile, Trilwalter crushed his cup and tossed it. “Monday next, to be exact.”

“Captain—”

“Deal with it,” Trilwalter said. “And see that she stays out of trouble.”

Dismissed, Alex stalked back to his desk. He was still muttering to himself when Judd wandered over with two cups of coffee.

“Problem?”

“Women,” Alex said.

“Tell me about it.” Because he'd been waiting all morning for the chance, Judd sat on the edge of Alex's desk. “Speaking of women, did you know that Bess was engaged to L.D. Strater?”

Alex's head snapped up. “What?”

“Used to be,” Judd explained. “One of the teachers at Holly's school's a real gossip-gatherer. Reads all the tabloids and stuff. She was telling Holly how Strater and Bess were a thing a few months ago.”

“Is that so?” Alex remembered how they'd danced together at her party. Kissed. His mouth flattened into a grim line as he lifted the cup.

“A real whirlwind sort of thing—according to my sources. Before that, she was engaged to Charles Stutman.”

“Who the hell is that?”

“You know, the writer. He's got that hot play on Broadway now.
Dust to Dust.
Holly really wants to see it. I thought maybe Bess could wangle some tickets.”

The sound Alex made was neither agreement nor denial. It was more of a growl.

“Then there was George Collaway—you know, the son of that big publisher? That was about three years ago, but he married someone else.”

“The lady gets around,” Alex said softly.

“Yeah, and in top circles. And, hey, Holly was really blown away when she found out that Bess was Roger K. McNee's daughter. You know, the camera guy.”

“Camera guy?” Alex repeated, feeling a hole spreading in the pit of his stomach. “As in McNee-Holden?”

“Yeah. First camera I ever bought was a Holden 500. Use their film all the time, too. Hell, so does the department. Well.” He straightened. “If you get a chance, maybe you could ask Bess about those tickets. It sure would mean a lot to Holly.”

McNee-Holden. Alex ran the names over in his head while the noise of the squad room buzzed around him. For God's sake, he had one of their cameras himself. He'd bought their little red packs of film hundreds of times over the years. The department used their developing paper. He was pretty sure NASA did too.

Wasn't Bess just full of secrets!

So she was rich. Filthy rich. He picked up his messages again, telling himself it wasn't such a big deal. Wouldn't have been, he corrected silently, if she'd told him about it herself.

Engaged, he thought with a frown. Three times engaged. Shrugging, he picked up the phone. None of his business, he reminded himself as he punched in numbers. If she'd been married three times, it would be none of his business. He was taking her dancing, not on a honeymoon.

But it was a long time before he was able to shuffle her into a back corner of his mind and get on with his job.

 

Sexy, the man had said, Bess remembered, turning in front of her cheval glass. It looked as though she were going to oblige him.

Snug teal silk hugged every curve and ended abruptly at midthigh. Over the strapless, unadorned bodice, she wore a short, body jacket of fuchsia. Long, wand-shaped crystals dangled at her ears. After stepping into her heels, she gave her hair a last fluff.

She felt like dancing.

When her buzzer sounded, she grinned at her reflection. Leave it to a cop to be right on time. Grabbing her purse—a small one that bulged with what she considered the essentials—she hurried to the intercom.

“I'll come down. Hold on.”

She found him on the sidewalk, looking perfect in gray slacks and a navy shirt. His hands were tucked in the pockets of his bomber jacket.

“Hi.” She kissed him lightly, then tucked an arm through his. “Where are we going?”

It gave him a jolt, the way their eyes and mouths lined up. As they would if they were in bed. “Downtown,” he said shortly, and steered her left toward the corner to catch a cab.

He couldn't have pleased her more with his choice of the noisy, crowded club. The moment she stepped inside, Bess's blood started to hum. The music was loud, the dancing in full swing. They squeezed up to the bar to wait for a table.

“Vodka, rocks,” Alex ordered, raising his voice over the din.

“Two,” Bess decided, and smiled at him. “I think I was here before, a few months ago.”

“I wouldn't be surprised.” Not his business, Alex reminded himself. Her background, the men in her life. None of it.

The hell it wasn't.

“It doesn't look like the kind of place Strater would bring you.”

“L.D.?” Her eyes laughed. “No, not his style.” She angled herself around. “I love to watch people dance, don't you? It's one of the few legal forms of exhibitionism in this country.” When he handed her her drink, she murmured a thank-you. “Take that guy there.” She gestured with the glass at a man who was strutting on the floor,
thumbs in his belt loops, hips wiggling. “That's definitely one of the standard urban white male mating dances.”

“Did you do a lot of dancing with Stutman?” Alex heard himself ask.

“Charlie?” She sampled the vodka, pursed her lips. “Not really. He was more into sitting in some smoky club listening to esoteric music that he could obsess to.” Still scanning the crowd, she caught the eye of a man in black leather. He cocked a brow and started toward her. One hard look from Alex, and he veered away.

Bess chuckled into her glass. “That put him in his place.” Rattling her ice, she grinned up at him. “Were you born with that talent, or did you have to develop it?”

Alex plucked the glass out of her hand and set it aside. “Let's dance.”

Always willing to dance, Bess let him pull her onto the floor. But instead of bopping to the beat, he wrapped his arms around her. While legs flashed and arms waved around them, and the music rocked, they glided.

“Nice.” Smiling into his eyes, she linked her arms around his neck. “I see why you like to make your own moves, Detective.”

“I believe I promised you romance.” He skimmed his lips over her jaw to her ear.

“Yes.” Her breath came out slow and warm as she closed her eyes. “You did.”

“I'm not sure what a woman like you considers romantic.”

Her skin shivered under his lips. “This is a good start.”

“It's tough.” He drew away so that their lips were an inch apart. “It's tough for a cop to compete with tycoons and playwrights.”

Her eyes were half-closed and dreamy through her lashes. “What are you talking about?”

“A couple of your former fiancés.”

The lashes lifted fractionally. “What about them?”

“I wondered when you were going to mention them. Or the fact that your father runs one of the biggest conglomerates known to man. Or the little detail about your chum the mayor calling my captain.”

They continued to dance as he spoke, but Bess could see the anger building in his eyes. “Do you want to take them as separate issues, or all in one piece?”

She was a cool one, he thought. He was feeling anything but cool. “Why don't we start with the mayor? You had no right.”

“I didn't ask him to call, Alexi.” She spoke carefully, feeling the taut strength of his fingers at her waist. “We were having dinner, and—”

“You often have dinner with the mayor?”

“He's an old family friend,” she said patiently. “I was telling him how helpful you'd been, and one thing led to another. I didn't know he'd called your captain until after it was done. I admit I liked the idea, and if it's caused you any trouble, I'm sorry.”

“Great.”

“My work's as important to me as yours is to you,” she shot back, struggling with her own temper. “If you'd prefer, I can arrange to spend Monday observing another cop.”

“You'll spend Monday where I can keep my eye on you.”

“Fine. Excuse me.” She broke away and worked her way through the crowd to the rest room. The music pulsed against the walls as she paced the small room, ignoring the chatter from the two women freshening their lipstick at the mirror. Losing her temper would be unproductive, she reminded herself. Better, much better, to handle this situation calmly, coolly.

When she was almost sure she could, she walked back out.

He was waiting for her. Taking her arm, he led her to a table in the rear, where they could talk without shouting.

“I think we should go. There's no use staying when you're so angry with me,” she began, but he merely scraped back her chair.

“Sit.”

She sat.

“When were you going to tell me about your family?”

“I don't see it as an issue.” And that was true enough. “Why should it be? This is only the second time we've gone out.”

The look he sent her had her jiggling a foot under the table. “You know damn well there's more going on between us than a couple of dates.”

“All right, yes, I do.” She picked up her drink, then set it down again, untouched. “But that's not the point. You're acting as though I deliberately hid something from you, or lied. That's just not true.”

He picked up the fresh drink he'd ordered. “So tell me now.”

“What? Didn't you run a make on me?” His narrowed eyes gave her some small sense of satisfaction. “Okay, Detective, I'll fill you in since you're so interested. My family owns McNee-Holden, which, since its inception in 1873, has expanded from still cameras and film to movies, television, satellites, and all manner of things. Shall I have them send you a prospectus?”