Authors: Nora Roberts
“Don’t you think for one minute you can speak to me that way.”
“I’ll do more than speak to you if you pull something like this again. I’m the fucking chief of police, Sylbie. I’m on duty.”
She fit the dress straps in place with two defiant snaps. “Like anything ever happens around here.”
“I’ll tell you something that’s going to happen. I’m going to find Grover, and I’m going to fine him for calling in a false report.”
“You will not.”
“Believe it.”
She took a quick step forward. “Don’t do that, Brooks. Don’t. He only did it because I asked him.”
“Then he’ll know better next time. And so will you.”
“Why do you act this way?” Tears sizzled through the temper. “You make it so I have to throw myself at you, and all you do is get mad. Back in high school, you couldn’t keep your hands off me.”
“This isn’t high school. I don’t want high school.”
“You don’t want me.”
He knew those tears. He’d swam through rivers of them before, and they were sincere enough. “Sylbie, you’re beautiful, probably the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. You’re talented, and when you make an effort, you’re an interesting companion. But I don’t want you the way I did back then. I don’t want what we had back then.”
“You didn’t say that a couple weeks back when you were on top of me in my bed.”
“No, I didn’t, and I’m sorry, Sylbie.” Plenty of sorry to go around, as far as he could see. “The sex was always good with you and me, but we never did have much else going on.”
“What do you care, as long as you get off?”
“Honey, you ought to think better of yourself. I do.”
“Something’s wrong with you.” Anger and embarrassment ran color hot in her face. “You ought to want me when I’m offering.”
“If that’s all you want, you know there are plenty who’ll be willing.”
“But not you.”
“No, not me.” They’d come to the end of that road, he realized, and felt little more than relief. “Not anymore. Maybe we’ll like each other better without the sex. One thing I can promise you, and you better hear me. If you ever pull a stunt like this again, you’re going to see the inside of our cells down at the station.”
Her color stayed high, but her face went stony and cold. “You’ve changed, Brooks.”
“God, I hope so. You’d best watch the shop until Grover gets back.” He started out, glanced back. “That’s a nice dress, Sylbie. Keep it on.”
When he stepped out, he spotted Grover—round-bodied, stoop-shouldered and balding—puffing on a Marlboro as he sat on the bench between his shop and the next.
“Oh, hey, there, Chief.”
“Hey, there, Grover. Come with me.”
“Ah …”
“There’s a fine for calling in a false report, and you’re paying it.”
“But I—”
“Next time a pretty woman asks you to do something stupid, think first.”
“But she said—”
“You take what she said up with Sylbie. I’m saying you don’t call for help unless you need help. You don’t waste my time, or the Bickford Police Department’s time. I could put you in jail for what you did.”
Grover’s face went splotchy, pink blooming over sick white as the man got shakily to his feet. “Jail? Holy God. I just …”
“Don’t just ever again. Fine’s two thousand dollars.”
He was prepared to catch Grover, should he faint, and considered it a near thing. “I-I-I—”
“I’m cutting it down to twenty-five dollars, giving you a stupidity discount. You come in by the end of the day and pay it, or it’s back up to the two thousand. Clear?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. I just thought—”
“No, you didn’t think. Next time you will.”
“I’ll pay it, Grover.” Sylbie stepped out. “It’s my fault. I’ll pay the fine.”
“I don’t care where it comes from, just pay it by five.”
“You didn’t have to scare him so bad.” Sylbie sat on the bench, drew
Grover down beside her and put her arm around his stooped shoulders. “It was my fault.”
“No argument. Pay the fine, slate’s clean.”
Though he’d lost his appetite for cookies, he crossed to the bakery, picked up Alma’s order. He left it on her desk, went into his office and filled out the citation.
He puzzled over the charge, then opted for “crying wolf.” It seemed to fit, and wouldn’t embarrass anyone.
He took it out, set it beside Alma’s latte. “Either Grover or Sylbie’s coming down to pay this citation. Don’t ask.”
“Whenever somebody hears ‘Don’t ask,’ they’re duty-bound to.”
“Not when somebody else just bought them a latte and a chocolate macadamia cookie.”
Alma tapped her blue-tipped nails on the go-cup. “So this is a bribe.”
“It could be so construed. Don’t ask, Alma.” He glanced up as Ash walked in.
“I had to run some skateboarders off the parking lot down at the bank. Again. And I pulled Doyle Parsins over for speeding. Again. Some people never learn. You got cookies?”
“Cookie,” Alma said. “Singular. Mine.”
“I swung by the Little League park. Saw that little Draper kid hit a solid three-bagger. And I got me a steamer. A cookie sure would top that off.”
Alma smiled as she took a deliberate bite, rolled her eyes in pleasure. “Mmm-mmm!”
“That’s just mean.”
Leaving them to it, Brooks went back in his office, shut his door. He spent some time poking at Abigail Lowery—who, he discovered, had a master’s degree in computer science, and another in security engineering, both from MIT. Pretty impressive.
It took him a while, but he learned she worked on a freelance basis for a company called Global Network.
He switched his focus, poked at the company.
Privately owned, he discovered. Founded by one Cora Fiense, age thirty-three. No photo on file, not that he could find. But he scanned a couple of articles describing the small, exclusive company launched by a media-shy agoraphobic.
The website offered no real information on the owner or the employees, but simply stated that Global offered security system analysis and design.
He sat back, asked himself why he persisted. She hadn’t done anything, as far as he could tell. He liked her, but there was an itch, he couldn’t ignore it. One that told him if he kept scratching he’d uncover something … else.
He toggled off when he heard the knock at his door.
“Yeah.”
“I’m off,” Alma told him. “Calls routed to your cell. Ash is on the desk till eight, Boyd’s on the road.”
“That works.”
“Sylbie and Grover came in together, paid the fine.”
“Good.”
“I don’t know if the cookie was worth it. Anyway, you were off shift ten minutes ago. Go home.”
“Might just. Thanks, Alma.”
He checked his calendar, noted he had his monthly meeting with the board of selectmen on Monday—joy. And he’d need to complete his quarterly reviews and inspections by the end of the month. He could go home, get some of that done. It wasn’t like his social calendar was bursting with activity.
His own fault, he admitted. He could go by the pub, or just make a call to one of his friends, see what was up. And he wasn’t in the mood.
The incident with Sylbie had left him mildly depressed, irritable. And horny. And the horny portion just pissed him off.
Because after his baffled shock and annoyance, he’d been tempted. Just a little tempted.
Hard to blame himself for it, he thought, as he rose, wandered to the window. A man would have to be dead a year not to be tempted by a naked Sylbie.
Now he was edgy and itchy, and up until that walk down to Ozark Art, he’d been in a pretty damn good mood. Soured now, he thought, as he’d deprived himself of quick, hot sex, fancy coffee and a cookie.
But Sylbie was right. He had changed. He hoped he never lost his taste for quick, hot sex, but he no longer wanted the price of guilt and emptiness that came after it when it just didn’t matter a damn.
What he needed was a distraction. Maybe he’d drive out to Mya’s, mooch some dinner, hang out with the kids. Nothing drove sex out of a man’s mind surer than a couple of wild kids fighting over the Wii or PlayStation.
He shut down, once again grabbed his jacket. He called a good night to Ash on the way out. On impulse, he jogged over to the florist, nipped in with five minutes to spare till closing.
A bunch of tulips was a good trade for a meal and distraction, he figured.
He drove out of the town proper, started to make the turn toward his sister’s big, noisy house near the river. He didn’t know until he’d turned the other way that he’d changed his mind.
A
BIGAIL HAD A NICE FIRE CRACKLING.
On the stove, a pot of
pasta e fagioli
soup simmered. She’d baked a pretty little round of olive bread, put together a mixed salad she intended to toss with raspberry vinaigrette.
All the work she’d earmarked for the day was complete. She’d spent ninety minutes on weights and cardio, exercised Bert.
She was going to treat herself to dinner and a movie—maybe even a double feature, with popcorn for the follow-up.
Considering all the interruptions, she’d had a very good, very productive week. Her fee for the job she’d just completed would fatten her bank account and add to her peace of mind.
And Sunday? She’d give the computer a rest. She’d clean her weapons, work in her garden and greenhouse, maybe get a little hiking in. Then settle down with her leftover soup and read the evening away.
For her, it encompassed a perfect weekend.
“I think action/adventure with a comedy to follow,” she said to Bert as she gave the soup another stir. “And wine. The chief of police was right. It’s a very nice one. It won’t be cool enough for a fire in the evenings much longer, so we should take advantage. I think we should—”
They both came to alert when her system beeped. “Someone’s coming,” she murmured, and rested her hand on the weapon at her hip.
Her brows drew together when she saw the cruiser coming up her drive. “Why is he here again?”
She moved to her computer, zoomed in to make certain Brooks was behind the wheel, and alone. After a moment’s thought, she unstrapped the holster. He’d ask more questions if he saw her wearing it inside on a Saturday evening.
She stowed it in a drawer, waited until he parked. At least he’d parked beside her car, not behind it, this time.
She walked to the door, unlocked it, lifted the bar. She rested her hand on the pistol under the table as she opened the door a few inches.
And her frown deepened when she saw the tulips.
“Why are you sorry this time?”
“I’m not sorry. Oh, the flowers. Funny thing. I was going to use them to bribe my sister into feeding me, then I ended up driving here.”
His eyes seemed more amber in the quieting light, and the casual smile he offered didn’t quite ring true.
“To use them to bribe me?”
“I hadn’t thought that far. Will they get me in the door?”
She opened the door a few more inches. “They’re very pretty. You should go give them to your sister.”
“Probably, but I’m giving them to you. I had a crappy day. It didn’t start out that way, but it ended up in the crapper. I was going over to Mya’s to use her family to get me out of the mood. Then I figured it wouldn’t work.”
“It’s not likely that being here will change your mood.”
“It already has.” He gave her an easy smile that almost—almost—reached his eyes. “Something smells really good, besides you.”
“I don’t know why you’d come here.”
“I’m not sure, either. You can close the door on me. You still get the flowers.”
No one had given her flowers before, and she nearly said so before she caught herself. “I was going to have a glass of the wine you brought, and now you’ve brought flowers. You make me feel obligated.”
“I’ll take it, which shows how crappy my day ended up.”
She stepped back, closed and locked the door behind him. And when she turned, he held the flowers out to her.
“Thank you, even though you bought them for your sister.”
“You’re welcome, even though.”
“They’ll need water.”
He followed her, and the cooking smells, back to the kitchen.
“It’s a good night for soup and a fire,” he commented, hoping he’d get a share of both. “We may get a little frost tonight. Then tomorrow, it’s shooting up toward seventy. Have you ever been through a tornado?”
“I’m prepared.” She took a pottery pitcher in hues of green and brown from a cabinet.
“Is that from one of our shops?”
“Yes. The local artists are very good.”
She got a container of flower food from beneath the sink, added a
small scoop before filling the pitcher with water. He sat, said nothing while she arranged the tulips.
She set them on the counter, then studied him the way he might study a suspect. “You can have a glass of wine.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
She retrieved the bottle, glasses, poured some out. “You seem to want to tell me about this problem with your day. I don’t know why you would, as I’m not part of your circle.”
“Could be that’s why. Another why is I realized you were a part of it, indirectly.”
“How could I be?”
“I’ll tell you.” He sampled the wine, but she neither sipped nor sat. So he shrugged. “Okay. I had an unusual and uncomfortable incident with a woman today. Back in high school, she was the love of my life. Know what I mean?”
Abigail had an image, clear as glass, of Ilya Volkov’s face. He was as close as she came, she supposed, and that wasn’t close at all. “Not really.”
“No heartbreaking crushes for you?”
“I took accelerated courses, so I was ahead of my age group in school.”
“Still. Anyway, about me.” He lifted his glass, toasted her, drank. “She was my first. The first always has a little hold on you, right?”
“You mean first sexual consummation. I don’t have any emotional attachment to my first sexual partner.”
“You’re a tough audience, Abigail. When she dumped me—for a college freshman, football captain—she dumped me hard. I’m talking kick-in-the-balls, fist-in-the-teeth hard.”
“I don’t understand why someone chooses to hurt a previous partner before moving on to another. I’m sorry she chose to.”