Now or Never (10 page)

“Detective Jordan,” she guessed.

“Beth Hardy. Glad to meet you. At last.”

He held out his hand, and she shook it. “How did you get in here?”

He smiled at her, and she stared back at him, dazzled. “A detective’s badge can get you in almost anywhere, Ms. Hardy.”

Mal’s voice was icy. “I’m surprised you didn’t bring the dog along.”

Harry gave her a cool look, noticing her long legs, tanned from the Arizona sun, the baseball cap, and the sneakers. She looked pretty good—casual and unmade-up.

“Squeeze isn’t too good about flying. And I don’t think New York City is his style.”

“And what makes you think it’s your style, detective?”

Beth glanced interestedly from one to the other. “I’m gone,” she murmured, picking up her purse. “Nice meeting you, detective.” Behind his back, she raised her eyebrows and made an approving face at Mal. “To die for,” she mouthed.

She was still laughing as she waited for the elevator.

Mal didn’t ask Harry to sit down, and he leaned lazily against the wall, his hands in his pockets, looking at her.

“You’re just too pushy for a rich detective,” she said frostily. “You should know when to take no for an answer. Especially from a lady.”

“I don’t give up easily, Ms. Malone,” he said with a smile in his voice. “Actually, I came to invite you out to dinner. A personal invitation. Nothing to do with my work.”

She threw him a skeptical glance. “My blue eyes get to you, huh?”

“That—and you like my dog.”

Mal laughed. “You mean you’re offering me a repeat at Ruby’s?”

His eyes met hers—they were deep set and a beautiful pewter-gray. She could see every little dark fleck in them. She lowered her lashes, cutting him off.

“I know a little French place in the Village. I think it would suit Madame. Please, won’t you join me?”

Maybe it was the
please
that suddenly made her say yes. Or his beautiful gray eyes. Or maybe because she felt
lonely and he made her laugh. But she set a condition: “No business.”

“I promise.” He crossed his heart and looked sincere, and she laughed as she agreed to meet him at Bistro Arlette at eight thirty.

R
EMEMBERING
H
ARRY’S OLD LEATHER JACKET
, Mal dressed down in simple black pants and a sweater.

She knew she had made a mistake as soon as she entered Arlette’s. It was small and very chic, with tall arched windows and spare decor and interesting paintings on the walls. And Harry Jordan had dressed up.

He was waiting for her at the small bar, looking like a cross between Harrison Ford and John Kennedy in what she could have sworn was an Armani blazer, taupe linen pants, and a soft white shirt. He was even wearing a tie.

“I’m glad you came,” he said, looking as though he meant it. “I was afraid you’d change your mind.”

“Obviously we’re not on the same wavelength,” she said, irritated at being caught on the wrong foot. “Had I known, I would have dressed.”

He sighed exaggeratedly. “I thought you would know Arlette’s. It’s the new in place.”

“Sure. Like Ruby’s.”

He smiled teasingly at her as they were escorted to a table near the window. “Maybe next time we’ll get it right. Sartorially speaking.”

“Next time?” She took a seat and looked questioningly at him. “Aren’t we getting a little ahead of ourselves?”

“I’m a great believer in advance planning.”

Mal laughed, relenting. His eyes had a mischievous
twinkle in them, and a smile lurked at the corner of his mouth.

Sitting opposite her, Harry thought she was the most attractive woman he’d ever seen—even though her nose had a definite bump in the middle, and her deep blue eyes were too wide set, and maybe her jaw was a little too round. But her mouth was generous, full-lipped, and vulnerable-looking, and she had a sort of a golden glow about her. He liked her cool energy and the intelligence in her eyes. And her sharpness. In fact, he liked the whole package. Even her ears, and he was particular about ears. Hers were beautiful. Small and set flat against her perfectly shaped head.

It was a pity she was being so cagy with him on the photo-fit. Otherwise he might enjoy himself.

He called the waiter and ordered champagne without consulting her. She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “If you hate it, I’ll order something else,” he said. “I just wanted you to try this. It’s a small label I discovered in France, and it happens to be one of the best.”

“What if I prefer a martini?”

“Then you’ll have one.”

“I see. You’re a man who likes to take charge.”

He put his elbows on the table, rested his chin on his fists. He leaned closer and looked into her eyes. “Only when I feel certain it’s what the other person would like.”

Mal matched him, propping her chin in her hands. Their eyes locked. She noticed his had darker rings around the pewter-gray. She thought he was attractive. It was a pity he was so cocky. Besides, she was sure he was still pursuing the photo-fit. She wanted nothing to do with it. Otherwise she might have fancied him.

She said challengingly, “So tell me, detective, why did you really ask me out?”

“I thought this would be a good opportunity for us to get to know each other.”

She smiled a sly little Cheshire cat smile. “Better watch out. I might know more about you than you think. However, since you’re such a take-charge guy, why don’t you just order for both of us?”

His eyebrows rose in surprise. “That’s very trusting.”

“Trust
is not a word that exists in my vocabulary.”

He gave her a skeptical sideways look, but she just smiled. He signaled the waiter, gave him the order, then turned back to her.

“‘Detective’ is a bit formal for two people sharing a culinary experience,” he said. “And besides, I’d hate anyone to think I was on official business. Why don’t you call me Harry?”

The waiter poured the champagne, and she took a sip. She looked approvingly at him. “You certainly know your wines.”

“Among other things,” he agreed.

“Hmm, not exactly modest either, detective.”

“Not about things I’m sure of. And it’s Harry. Remember?”

She tilted her head, considering. “I’m not sure I can get used to calling you Harry. But then, I won’t have to, since this will be our one and only
shared culinary experience
, as you so elegantly put it.”

“I hate to think this might be our last meeting, as well as our first, Ms. Malone.”

“‘Ms. Malone’?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Would you prefer ‘ma’am’?”

She laughed. “I didn’t know teasing came in the detective manifesto.”

“It doesn’t, but you haven’t yet asked me to call you Mallory. Ms. Malone, ma’am.”

She raised her glass in a toast. “Here’s to you, Harald Peascott Jordan the Third. Scion of a wealthy upper-class family of eminent lawyers.” Her blue eyes danced with mocking laughter as she looked at him. “Son of one of
the greatest trial lawyers of his era. An expert in courtroom interrogation, known for his ability to find a legal loophole that would get his client off. Even though he and everybody else knew his client was guilty as hell.
And
for his brilliance at effecting plea bargains for those he couldn’t expect to get away with it.”

Harry groaned. “Let’s not drag out all the family secrets.”

She smiled wickedly at him. “But you, Harry the Third, skipped the family tradition. You went to Michigan State and became a football great. An academic All-American with a straight-A average. A star pick for the pro-football recruits that year—an offer you didn’t accept.” Her eyes met his curiously. “Why, Harry? What happened?”

He shrugged and sipped his wine. “You mean you don’t know?”

“Even I cannot know a man’s inner thoughts, his personal reasoning. But I can make an educated guess. Your father?”

Harry nodded. “He was getting older. He was already in his forties when he married. By the time I was at college, he was in his sixties. He wanted to be sure things continued exactly the same way they always had, even after he was gone. So he did what he knew how to do best: he plea-bargained with me.

“‘I’m getting old, Harry,’ he said to
me, tugging at my heartstrings and my guilt. ‘At my age, you never know how much time there is left. And remember, we have your mother to think of—the continuity of her life—after I’m gone. I need to know the firm will be in your hands, safe in the family and not taken over by grave-robbers.’”

Harry smiled. “He meant his partners. He always thought they were waiting to step into his shoes, and I guess he was right. Anyhow, he told me to go to law school first. Then we’d see about the football.

“‘Don’t think I’m not proud of you, son,’ he said to me. ‘What father wouldn’t be proud to see his son score that winning touchdown against Notre Dame? Why, I cheered fit to bust along with the rest. But facts are facts, and I’m just not getting any younger. Face up to your responsibilities, Harry. Think of your mother.’”

“So you were a good boy and went to Harvard Law—and almost flunked out the first year. Probably in an effort to get back at your father.”

He said, astonished, “Has a man no privacy, Malone?”

“Of course,” she replied demurely. “But not when it’s a matter of public record. You spent more time dating sophomores at Brown than you did at law school. You cracked up your Porsche twice, you frequented too many bars, and your grades were nonexistent. You were suspended.”

Harry threw his hands up in despair. “This isn’t exactly what a guy wants on a first date—a rundown of all his youthful mistakes. Are you deliberately trying to undermine me?”

There was more than just curiosity in her eyes now. There was warmth and sympathy, just the way there was in her TV interviews, when her subjects suddenly got the feeling she really cared and spilled their guts to her.

“It’s all right, Harry. You can tell me,” she said gently. “I promise it’s just between you and me.”

He went along with her. “I wanted to go back, but it was too late—I’d burned my bridges. In the world of football, I was yesterday’s news. There was already a new crop, younger, keener, fitter.
Better
than me. My father said nobody was sorrier than he was, but family came first and he was never a man to shirk responsibility. And he didn’t expect his son to either.”

Harry laughed as he told Mal exactly what his father had said about zipping up his pants.

“So you went back to law school?”

“I knew he was right. Opportunity knocks but once in
the short sweet life of a professional athlete. It’s now or never. When it comes, you grasp it, or suddenly a year or two has gone by and you’re already too old, passed over in favor of the new crop. I graduated from law school and went to work for my father.”

The waiter arrived. Mal’s eyes grew round with pleasure as she looked at the plates of salmon tartare served on top of tiny crisp potato cakes. Harry thought she looked like a little girl with a birthday cake.

“Taste it,” he encouraged. “See if it’s as good as it looks.”

“Mmm.” She rolled her eyes happily, her mouth full. “Better.”

“I’m relieved to see you’re human after all. I was beginning to think the Mal Malone we see on television was the real you.”

“Perhaps she is.” She wasn’t about to explain herself to Detective Harry Jordan. She picked up on her theme again. “You lasted two years working for your father. And then you quit and became a cop. Why?”

Her bright blue eyes felt as though they were drilling into the back of his head, seeking out the truth from him. But behind the soft voice and appealing manner, he was aware that her mind was clear and razor-sharp; he guessed it was that combination that had made her such a success.

“Since you know so much, I assume you already know the reason.”

After a pause she said, “What about your wife? Did you love her?”

“Jesus, Malone.” He glared at her, shocked. “Of course I loved her. And if you want to know, it hurt like hell when she left. And why, may I ask, do you want to know?”

“Just checking that rich cops have feelings too.”

“Like you, Malone?” he said coldly.

She grinned. “
Touché
, detective. Tell me about the Moonlightin’ Club.”

He had to laugh. He said admiringly, “How the hell did you find out about that? It’s supposed to be a secret.” Harry had bought and donated the gym anonymously—only a few of his superiors knew about it.

“It’s my job to know things about people. I know you’re in the process of fitting out a second gym in another area, this time with a swimming pool. And that you and some of the other cops give generously of your free time to help out.” She looked seriously at him. “You did a wonderful thing, Harry. A lot of men wouldn’t have considered spending that kind of money to help street kids.”

He shrugged. “Other men don’t see them on the streets every night the way I do. Somebody’s got to help and I figured since I didn’t earn the money, why not put some of it back where it came from?”

“Very noble,” she said, meaning it.

“Oh sure, Saint Harry. I feel as though I’m on your show,” he added, exasperated. “I think it’s time we talked about you.” He took her hand and turned it over, studying the lines. “Or do I have to read your palm?”

Mal eyed him uneasily—she was good at interviews, but not so good at giving answers. “There’s nothing to tell. Just the usual format—small-town girl goes to college, gets job in small-town TV station, becomes a weather girl, and is taken up by a network.” She shrugged. “The rest is history.”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Harry held up his hand. “Slow down a minute. “
What
small town? How about your family? Brothers and sisters? Boyfriends? Your marriage—and I demand equal time on this one. Come on, Malone, this is no fair exchange.”

Mal’s eyes met his briefly. In that second they had the same haunted look they’d had in Ruby’s when she’d given him back the photo-fit picture.

“Forget it,” she said. “That’s all there is. I’m the least interesting woman on the planet.”

Suddenly she looked different—lost and forlorn. Harry shook his head. He just didn’t get it.