“You’re one of Peeps Galloway’s spies,” the blonde said, her
cold, steel-gray eyes meeting Calla’s boldly.
Calla didn’t have to fake her look of surprise.
It’s her,
she thought and heard Devin’s curse in her
ears.
Knowing he was more tense than she was, considering who she was
face-to-face with, Calla shoved her panic aside and pretended she was on stage,
daftly claiming world peace was her goal in life. “I
wish.
Oh, my goodness. Isn’t Peeps the absolute
best?
”
The blonde looked mildly disappointed. “She certainly delivers
the best news.”
Mustering both her anger and nerve, Calla held out her hand.
“Rosie Savannah.” At least she’d thought ahead about her pseudonym. Her real
name had once been printed in Peeps’s column, after all.
“Stephanie,” the woman returned, shaking her hand then glancing
away.
“Why do you think I work for Peeps?”
“I saw you come in with her.”
So Peeps’s identity wasn’t as secret as she thought. Yet
another exaggeration. Calla shouldn’t have been surprised.
“I
do
work for Peeps,” Calla
whispered, leaning toward her mark and hoping she didn’t have a heroin syringe
concealed in her tiny cocktail bag that she might unexpectedly jab her with.
“Don’t tell.” She giggled out of sheer nervousness but hoped her reaction would
be mistaken for Peeps-like enthusiasm.
Stephanie’s head whipped round in Calla’s direction. “No
kidding?”
Calla proudly held up the glowing cocktail in front of her.
“I’m only a small cog in the glamorous wheel, of course, but I like to think I
play a real part in making things happen.”
“I’m sure you do, darling,” Stephanie said, somehow
condescending and complimentary at the same time.
No wonder the crazy chick had charmed Jimmie—and who knew who
else. Unfortunately, Calla’s instinct was to smack her.
Thankfully, big, strong, charming Jared saved her.
“Can I get you a refill, beautiful?” he asked, planting his
hand, attached to his muscular arm, which led to his tan face and winning smile,
on the bar in front of Stephanie.
Devin aside, Stephanie wasn’t immune to an easy-on-the-eyes
man. She drained her glass, then held out the empty crystal. “Champagne, Veuve
Clicquot
.
”
“Right away.”
Jared shifted away, though Calla was comforted that he didn’t
move far.
“See that dweeby-looking guy at the table on the left side of
the bar?” Stephanie asked.
Calla swung her gaze that way and sipped her drink to cover her
cough. It was Howard. She realized instantly that he’d been thrown in to knock
both her and Stephanie off balance. “Yeah.”
“That’s Howard Bleaker. He’s a defense attorney.”
“Really?”
“The cop he’s defending arrested my brother five years
ago.”
Calla fought to remember if a sister named Stephanie was in
their files. She wasn’t on the list of interviewees who’d originally been
scheduled. But since she could hardly say that, she repeated, “Really?”
Stephanie tossed back her fresh glass of champagne like a shot.
“He died in prison six months ago. Cops are all scum. They’re all scum.”
If Calla had any doubt that Stephanie was their killer, it was
wiped away by that single statement. Her stomach burned as she tried to hold to
her cover story, plus, she was ticked the cops had thrown Howard in. Everybody
she loved was within twenty feet of this delusional murderer, and Calla was the
one responsible for pulling them into this circle.
“I heard he’s been arrested,” she managed to say to Stephanie.
“You think all cops are bad like that?”
“Well, this one is.” Stephanie’s eyes gleamed. “Course he’s not
a cop at all now.”
No, he certainly wasn’t, and the chance to make things right
burned in Calla’s heart, as she sat inches away from the woman who’d caused all
this misery.
At the same time it occurred to her that Stephanie had admitted
nothing that couldn’t be spun as mere alcohol-induced ranting. Nothing that
actually connected her to the murder, other than instinct and gardenias. Or
maybe the glass Jared had taken and skillfully set aside for the crime lab.
They needed more.
Calla needed more than justice. She wanted revenge.
“No, Devin’s not a cop,” she said, pushing off her bar stool to
stand. “He should be, but, thanks to you, he’s not.”
The befuddled expression on Stephanie’s face was almost worth
all the turmoil and uncertainty.
Calla realized this single moment was why cops worked for less
pay and little appreciation, why they strapped on weapons and vests, fully
acknowledging the risk they could be injured or killed. They patrolled the
streets of cities and towns. They sat in vans and cars, listening for slip-ups
among real, criminal gangs, hoping to get a lead on how to disrupt what the bad
guys were planning. They readily accepted the challenge of chasing some idiot
robber ten blocks in order to keep him from doing so again.
The system of law and order had its flaws, and justice needed a
nudge every now and then, but there were amazing men and women who sought to
balance the scales each and every day, and when you worked outside the system to
extract revenge, you invited arbitrary retribution. No single person should
avenge. Maybe not even a well-meaning gang.
Robin had served a great cause, but she—they—had to retire.
“You killed Jimmie Forrester,” she said, proud of herself for
her casual tone.
Choking on her drink, Stephanie rose, and Calla was certain she
was going to run. She didn’t touch her, though, as Devin had warned in her
ear.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Stephanie said
boldly, her eyes turning arctic.
Calla ground her teeth as she dug for the effort to stay in
control. “Oh, yes, you do. Your brother got arrested, and you got mad.” Calla
shrugged. “You can’t imagine in the last few days how many women I’ve talked to
who think like you do.”
“Like we’ve all talked to,” Victoria said.
Though Calla didn’t dare take her attention off the desperate
woman in front of her, she felt her friends close behind her. “I’m sorry about
your brother, but what you’ve done isn’t justice. It’s just plain wrong.”
“We’ve got your back, baby,” Devin said in her ear.
Calla shuddered, knowing, at long last, that it was time to
confess. “You might have loved your brother, but I love Devin Antonio. You
challenged the wrong vengeful blonde, honey.”
Fueled by hate and whatever else she held against her cold
heart, Stephanie charged Calla, attempting to get her hands around her neck.
Calla whipped out her leg in a kick her daddy would have been
pleased with.
As Stephanie’s body crumbled at Calla’s feet and her friends
huddled closer and others rushed in from every entrance of the club. Calla
noticed Peeps’s gleeful expression out of the corner of her eye.
Oh, well, they couldn’t prevent every injustice.
Maybe, though, after tonight, her gang wouldn’t appear in the
papers quite so much.
The next thing she knew, she was in Devin’s arms. “We got her,”
he said, holding her tight. “I can never repay you.”
She didn’t expect payment. She expected him.
Leaning back, she didn’t like the relieved but distant look in
his eyes. She knew he was in work-mode, but something wasn’t right. “I need
you.”
He kissed her, then offered a strained smile as he helped his
colleagues lead the suspect out of the club in handcuffs.
And she knew it was finally over.
15
S
TEPHANIE
P
ILAR
,
who had a diagnosed
mental condition, and who had been in therapy with her ultimate victim Jimmie
Forrester, was behind bars.
Hopefully,
Calla thought,
for good.
Her prints matched the partials the cops had pulled from the
flower arrangement in Jimmie’s apartment, and she had not only gardenia-ladened
perfumes on her bathroom counter, she had a chemistry set in which she’d tried
to extract the essence of the blossoms for her own, personal scent.
Her stepbrother, once employed as a gardener, had been caught
in the act and arrested by Devin for armed robbery. Sadly, he’d died in prison
in a gang stabbing.
Ever since Robin Hood had been officially disbanded a week ago,
Calla didn’t like to think about the notion of a gang. Or the fact that a row of
gardenia bushes thrived in front of Stephanie’s Brooklyn cottage.
As for how Devin was coping with getting his badge back and the
assault charges dismissed, Calla had no idea.
She hadn’t talked to or seen him since Stephanie’s arrest.
He wouldn’t answer calls or texts. He wasn’t at home—or
pretended not to be. The NYPD refused to let her beyond the reception desk,
claiming the investigation was over, and the officers needed seclusion to finish
their case reports.
Her declaration of love over official police channels was
probably too much for him to handle.
Her friends—the former gang—had embraced her as expected, but
as comforted as she was, she found herself clinging to Sharky.
The cat understood both her affection and irritation. Lonely,
they slept together. By day, they vowed to forget him.
She was right back where she started, chasing a man who didn’t
want her. She got it, he wasn’t a schmaltzy hearts and flowers kind of guy,
which was fine by her. When he wasn’t being a stubborn hermit, she liked him as
he was. When had she ever indicated otherwise?
But she wanted to change one thing. She wanted to love him. If
only he’d let her.
* * *
“Y
OU
DO
NOT
HAVE
GOOD
luck with women.”
A romance critique from Howard? Devin figured he could do
worse. He hadn’t even had the guts to actually break up with Calla. He’d simply
avoided her, knowing she’d be furious and toss him away.
“I mean, you have the cool job and the good looks,” Howard went
on, “but you are doomed, my friend.”
Hunched over glasses of whiskey at O’Leary’s, Devin and Howard
were lone wolves. Devin now had
two
homicidal women
in his past; Howard was despondent over his prospects for the future.
As they both knew their crucial loss of Calla, they had only
each other.
During the rush and confusion of Jimmie’s killer’s
arrest, Devin had never gotten around to asking Jared and Trevor for
advice in the romance department. And while he imagined Calla had celebrated
with her friends, Devin had stayed away.
Avoidance was instinctive.
Thanks to desk work and sorting out the procedure for getting
his badge back, he figured he’d sounded plausible for a few hours. But the more
hours that went by, the more certain he was that he was doing the right thing by
keeping his distance.
She didn’t belong with him.
She was light and hope; he was shadow and uncertainty. He’d
known that from the moment he’d met her all those months ago. Nothing had
changed. If anything, his suspension had magnified their differences.
He was grateful, and always would be, but since vigilante
justice had been used against them and Calla had declared Robin Hood retired, he
saw no point in continuing the fairy tale.
“Men always want to be a woman’s first
love—women like to be a man’s last romance.”
On the verge of sipping from his glass, Devin paused to
consider Howard’s words. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Oscar Wilde,” Howard said, shaking his head ruefully. “It’s no
wonder you’re alone.”
“
You’re
alone.”
“But I don’t have to be.” Howard leaned back in his chair. “I
mention I’m a lawyer working with the top cops in the city, and I’d have twenty
women lined up to talk to me.”
“Uh-huh. And how many of them would want you to get their
lover-husband-brother-uncle off of whatever he’s currently charged with?
“Cops are mean.”
Satisfied he’d burst somebody else’s bubble, Devin nodded. “And
don’t you forget it, buddy.”
They drank in silence for a few minutes before Devin admitted
to himself he needed Howard. Which is one of the reasons he’d asked his former
attorney to meet him in the first place. Why was he determined to alienate the
people who got close?
He’d been determined not to repeat his parents’ mistakes, yet,
here he was being a completely ignorant jerk. “You’re a better boyfriend than
me,” he confessed, fighting not to choke on the words.
“I’m—” Thankfully, Howard’s brilliant mind skipped over the
segue, not to mention the obvious jokes, and nodded. “Have you tried telling her
you love her?”
“No.”
“Oh, good grief.”
“You’re better at words.”
Howard shook his head. “I’m not telling you what to say.”
“I’m not a schmaltzy hearts and flowers guy.”
Howard looked surprised. “No kidding?”
Devin stared into the depths of his whiskey, but the color was
too dark to compare to Calla. “She’s so...golden. Like a star around the moon.
She lights up everybody around her, and my life, my past, my job is all about
despair and darkness. But, for some crazy reason, she believes in me as nobody
ever has. I don’t think I can live without her.”
“Not bad words,” Howard commented.
“Ramblings,” Devin argued.
“A bit.” Howard shrugged. “Remember the moon wouldn’t shine so
brightly without the the dark, endless sky to reflect a distinction.”
“Wilde, again?”
“No. Howard Bleaker.” Smiling, he signaled for the check. “Be a
hearts and flowers guy, my friend, and live the fairy tale.”
* * *
C
ALLA
COULDN
’
T
IMAGINE
who was
knocking on her door at nine-thirty on a Sunday. Chinese food had already been
delivered, and she’d told her friends that she needed to work, since she had a
story due on Wednesday, which she hadn’t started to write.
Of course the cursor on her laptop was blinking like a bomb,
and she hadn’t typed a word, but she hadn’t thought about Devin in the past ten
minutes, either.
Damn.
There went her record.
She scooped up Sharky and strode down the hall. Peeking through
the hole in her door, she swore coarsely enough to pin Sharky’s ears back.
“I know I deserve that,” Devin called from the other side.
“You’re damned right you do,” Calla called back, feeling like
an idiot.
“Any chance you’ll let me in to explain?” he asked. “Your
neighbors are liable to call the cops.”
She longed to kick the door, but she’d bruised her toe when
she’d taken her anger out on the dishwasher. “You
are
the cops.”
“Thanks to you.”
With a huff of reluctance, she unlocked the door, then
immediately walked away, dropping onto the living room sofa. “You’ve made it
perfectly clear you don’t want anything to do with me,” she said, glaring at him
as he stood in front of her.
Which is when she saw him holding a dozen roses and a
heart-shaped box of candy.
Sharky, the little traitor, purred like crazy.
“What—”
“I’m an idiot.”
“You are?”
Yes, he is,
her
conscience reminded her.
“Can I sit?” he asked.
In a daze, she nodded, watching him set the hearts and flowers
on the coffee table.
Tentatively, he reached out with his hand and covered hers. “I
never believed I deserved you, and maybe I still don’t, but Howard reminded me
that for the moon to shine, it needs a dark sky, so maybe we need each other.”
He shook his head. “No, not maybe, I need you. Always.”
“Howard?” she asked, confused.
Devin laughed and leaned forward, cupping her face in his palm.
“Not exactly the name I was looking for.” He stroked her cheek several times,
sending tingles of desire straight through her. “I love you. Always.”
Her gaze searched his, and though hurt and doubt lingered,
Devin knew he’d do anything to make sure she understood how genuine his words
truly were.
“And I love you,” she said.
He pressed his lips against hers. Relief, like rain after a
long drought, washed over him. “So I heard in the surveillance truck.”
“Sorry, I sort of blurted it out.”
“I’m glad somebody had the guts to.” And he might never fully
understand why she cherished him so much, but he was through rejecting the
blessings in his life. He hadn’t been born under a bright star, but he was
sailing by its light from now on. “I needed help from Howard.”
She glanced at the table. “Hearts and flowers?”
“You deserve them.” He squeezed her hand. “I’d be lost without
you.”
“I disbanded the gang.”
“I heard. I have to admit I’m happy. I’d rather not listen to
you confront a killer anytime soon.”
Her fingertips traced a path down his shoulder. “I’ve had
enough adventure for the time being.”
Moving Sharky to the floor, Devin pinned her against the sofa
cushions and inhaled her sweetness as he trailed kisses along her neck, her jaw,
her lips. Nothing would ever feel so amazing as her smile and dedication.
“Nothing happens on Sunday night,” she whispered.
He grinned against her silky skin. “It does in fairy
tales.”
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt of
Blazing Midsummer Nights
by Leslie Kelly!