Читать книгу The Hotshot - Jule Mcbride - Страница 9

“I’M WORKING WITH HER?” Truman glanced from Coombs’s glassed-in office, across an open squad room, to his own office where Trudy Busey was seated on a gray metal foldout chair. Her back was turned away from the glass and the squad room’s chaos—a jumble of ringing telephones, noisy computer printers, outraged victims giving statements and perpetrators protesting arrest.

Coombs, a hardened fifty-year-old cop, was staring at Truman through ice-green eyes. Coombs had a few wisps of hair left, a gym-honed physique and was wearing an off-the-rack navy suit so like the NYPD’s standard-issue uniform that Truman wondered why he bothered wearing civvies at all. “Ms. Busey seems nice,” Coombs said. “What’s your problem?”

“What’s my problem?” Truman took in Trudy’s back. Fine strands of straight blond hair, more yellow than gold, hung to her shoulders. She wore a blue-gray blazer, and without looking, he could imagine a matching skirt and pumps. He was usually happy to meet the Trudy Busey type—but not today.

“Who is she?” he asked rhetorically. “Some ivy league intern who got a summer job at the News?” He raised a staying hand. “No, don’t tell me. She goes to Vassar. She’s not even getting paid for this, and her father got her the job?”

Coombs considered. “What makes you say that?”

As if greater-than-average detection skills were needed. “Given the way she’s dressed, she thinks she’s going to a tea party, not on a drive-along.”

“As I’ve explained, you’re off your usual patrol route, so for all practical purposes Ms. Busey is going to a tea party. While she’s with you, I want this city to look as clean as a bathtub. No,” he corrected, “for Ms. Busey, make it a champagne fountain.”

“What about the Glass Slipper case?”

“Reassigned. Capote and Dern are on it.”

Truman stared in mute protest. The two cops couldn’t burn their way out of candle wax. “They won’t solve it.”

“No, but I’d rather let them bungle a celebrity shoe theft than an Upper East Side murder, and that was my choice this morning.” Sighing, Coombs added, “Don’t quote me on that. I’m on your side, Steele, but these PR gigs are important.”

The information went down hard. “You know, Chief,” Truman finally said, his tone understated, “I’m not real happy about this.”

“Rome wasn’t built in a day, but you’ve got two weeks with this woman,” returned Coombs. “That means whatever work I don’t reassign to Capote and Dern, you’ll be handling in your spare time. Now, be nice to Ms. Busey. She looks like a sweetheart. And you need a haircut,” added Coombs. “Sorry, but it’s regulation.”

“Be nice,” Truman muttered, heading for his desk, eyes locked on Trudy. Since the story was pure public relations, Truman had hoped the News would send a cynical, seasoned Dan Rather type. They’d shoot some pool or sit in the cruiser, drinking espressos while jointly working up material for the article. Truman had figured this would take the better part of an afternoon, then he’d be back on his beat.

And now this. Breezing into his office, he circled the gray metal desk, seated himself, pushed aside a foot-high stack of manila files stained by brown coffee cup rings, then repositioned the computer monitor. When he was comfortable, he slowly lifted his gaze—only to find himself staring into eyes so astonishing he was glad he was sitting down.

His chest got too tight as those eyes captured his, and their quality—bright, alert and intelligent—so held his attention that, at first, Truman didn’t even realize they were blue. When he did, he was jolted back to his senses. He felt as if he’d left his body, only to have his sensations return with a trace of her in each of them. Sight came with a vision of blue eyes, scent with a breath of floral perfume, hearing with her soft catch of breath, and touch with the urge to reach across the desk for her.

Taste, unfortunately, was left to Truman’s active imagination. She was clean-cut, fresh-faced, and nearly everything about her made him think of white bras, barely there makeup and Dentyne ads. Except for those eyes. They were sharp and oddly, irresistibly invasive, full of such frank curiosity that he was immediately sure she’d be great in bed.

Her mouth wasn’t nearly as interesting as her eyes, but it was pleasant enough, the lips wider and fuller than her face called for and, unfortunately, thinning into a tight smile.

“You’re Mr. Steele then?”

“Then,” he assured. “As well as before and after.”

“And I thought I was the wordsmith.”

They were definitely getting off to a good start. He now saw that her yellow-blond hair was slightly layered in front, framing a gently curving jaw. What could a woman this pretty be so angry about? “You must be the reporter.”

She nodded curtly. “Good. I’m in the right place.”

He wished he didn’t feel so strangely electrified, as if she’d just shot something scalding into his bloodstream. “Looks like it.”

Tugging a file from under her arm, she opened it on his desk, displaying his picture. “Nice to meet you, too,” she said dryly, and then, as if reading his mind, “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what are you so mad about?” She tapped a finger to his picture. “Bad hair day, Mr. Steele?”

He should have known the NYPD PR department would courier that file over to the News. In the candid photo, he was bare-chested, wearing hip-hugging jeans and seated in an open-doored squad car, looking for all the world like a Playgirl model. Bad hair day, indeed. “The LAPD was getting a lot of bad publicity, and our PR department was afraid there’d be some spillover,” he found himself defending.

At the bottom of the photo were interview bullet-points that Trudy Busey now began reading in a voice that twanged like a softly played banjo. “Truman Steele,” she began. “Height, six feet. Weight—one-eighty. Residence—Greenwich Village. Hobbies—Scuba Diving, Raquetball, Skiing…”

When she was done, he said, “And you’re Trudy Busey. Given the twang in your voice, I take it you’re not from around here?”

“What did you do to reach that startling conclusion? Sift through mountains of forensic evidence?”

Oh, yes. They were definitely getting off to a stellar start. But she hadn’t known him long enough to hate him. “In case they didn’t teach you this at Vassar, we cops don’t always have a say in what goes on. And that includes whether or not we get our pictures taken.”

“Looks to me like you enjoyed posing.”

He’d tried to make the best out of it. “You say that as if you think ideas might be beyond my limited capacity.”

“Are they?”

“You’ve got two weeks to find out.” Vague disappointment coiled inside him, and he realized he was hoping to coax a genuine smile from her. But she wasn’t the type to crack. He leaned over the messy desk, his eyes finding hers. His smile hovered between mild bemusement and annoyance. Holding up a file, he said, “Do you know what this is, Ms. Busey?”

Her eyes slightly widened. “Is this a test?” Trudy squinted harder, then guessed, “A file folder?”

He smirked. “Cute.” But she was dangerously cute. “It looks like a file. But really, it’s one of the twenty unsolved murders on my desk. Murders that won’t get solved because of this bogus assignment. This is Manhattan. We get four a day.”

He barely noticed she’d flipped open a notebook and started jotting. “So, you say you usually cover about twenty cases?”

Sighing, he realized she was probably a dynamite reporter. “Yeah,” he said, none too happy that the assignment with her meant working those cases in his spare time.

“With or without a partner?”

“Usually with. Mine just quit.”

Her lips twitched. “Let me guess. You didn’t get along with him?”

“She was transferred to Police Plaza.”

Trudy was surprised. “Your partner was a woman?”

His ability to work with the opposite sex was probably why he’d gotten stuck with Trudy, not that he’d mention it. “She still is. And we got along. Usually my encounters with women aren’t nearly this antagonistic.”

She almost smiled. “Maybe I’ve got more important things to do today, too, Officer Steele. Did you ever think of that?”

So that was it. She’d guessed he’d been complaining to Coombs. And no, Truman had assumed she’d be thrilled to ride around with a cop. Most women liked it. “Important things?” he couldn’t help but say. “Lunch at the Plaza? Or maybe a hot story’s breaking at the museum? Ah—” he nodded sympathetically “—new baby pandas at the zoo?”

He hadn’t riled her. “The pandas are in San Diego. This week our mayor’s made budget cuts, and I thought I’d be at the closing of a psychiatric hospital this morning. That’s why I’m dressed this way. For the record, I didn’t ask to be here.”

Guess she’d told him. “Well, since you’re here, I’m glad you wore that suit because we’ll be zipping around the fancy-schmancy Upper East Side these next two weeks, fining well-heeled women with poodles who forget to scoop up the doggy-do.” He smiled. “If things get really hectic, maybe you’ll even see me haul in a jaywalker.”

Trudy shot him a steady look. “I’m hoping for that special someone who didn’t put the extra quarter in the meter.”

“Only if I’m not too busy ticketing unleashed dogs.”

“Look,” Trudy said, all pretense vanishing. “Don’t blame me. If your PR people quit coming up with these assignments—”

He stared incredulously. “The News is the problem. Your boss is racking up favors from the mayor again by making the city look like Kansas.”

“Kansas can get nasty. Look what happened to Dorothy.”

He sighed. “How long have you been working there, anyway?”

“Long enough.”

“Ah. You’re bright and ambitious, but the boys aren’t letting you get ahead?”

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 it was purely academic interest, Trudy started wondering how Truman had handled interviewing women who were so rich, beautiful and accomplished. Inhaling shakily, she tried not to think about how Truman’s every breath and movement was underwritten by the taut thread of his sexuality. It was unbelievable, but nothing more than how he’d looked at her had made her shudder. His eyes were so much more than brown. They were hot honey that warmed, sweetened, promised…

She was almost glad for the distraction when the door against which she leaned was wrenched open. Reflexively, she grabbed the dashboard as her foot quickly gained purchase on the pavement. Scrambling from the car, she was preparing to defend herself when hands that should have been rough, but instead felt warm, strong and intriguing curled over her shoulders.

Suddenly, she could barely breathe. “Officer Steele?” Dammit, she’d been trying to keep an eye on the fire exit, so she could shove the stolen files under the seat when he came outside.

He yanked her toward him. “Expecting someone else?”

She swallowed hard as he slammed the car door. “I thought we were leaving?”

“Not yet.”

Right now, he looked less the pretty-boy, more the cautious cop. Body heat seeped from his uniform shirt, and registering that their chests were just inches from touching, she felt her knees weaken. Oh, yes. It was definitely the wrong time to recall how his chest had looked in that photo—bare and smooth, just the way Trudy liked a man’s chest to look, with pecs chiseled out of marble, the nipples hard. He was staring down at her with slanted eyes the color of undiluted bourbon when he lifted a finger, traced it lightly under her chin and used a thumb to turn her face more fully to his. “Look at me.”

“Quit touching me and I will.”

Male awareness filled his gaze. “Does that bother you?” he murmured. “Me touching you?”

“Of course it does.” He dropped his hand, but not before the tips of her breasts tightened beneath her clothes. He couldn’t see, of course. He didn’t know. But as heat stained her cheeks, she wished they were upstairs again, with all those cops milling around instead of in this deserted garage.

“You stole my files.”

Now that she’d successfully gotten rid of his hand, she vied for more. “Could you give me some breathing room?” Her back was flat against the car door, and the way he’d sandwiched her between his hard body and the metal was stealing her breath.

“What possessed you?”

She arched a brow. “Possessed? Must have been a demon.”

“I’m beginning to believe it’s just your personality.”

“Don’t worry,” she returned dryly, pleased her voice was level. “I didn’t read anything that would offend my finer sensibilities.” Upstairs, the crime scene photos had sickened her more than she’d let on, and despite her usual fury over male protectiveness, she was strangely touched that Truman hadn’t wanted her to see them.

“Are you really as hard as nails?”

“Of course not.” Not usually. But she hadn’t been prepared for what Truman Steele’s photo couldn’t divulge—his energy, core, essence, whatever you wanted to call it. “But I’m here to do a job.”

“However dishonestly?”

“I’m a reporter.” And she didn’t intend to return to the Milton Herald where her lead stories had been even worse than this, involving runaway cows, backed-up town sewers and the occasional birth of twins. “What’s dishonest is leaving a reporter in a parking lot while you pretend to be busy with work. Admit it, but weren’t you eating another doughnut? Chocolate-or vanilla-filled?”

“Chocolate,” he returned without hesitation.

“You kept me waiting intentionally.”

“You stole those files.”

She pointed to a napkin on the dashboard. “Someone was nice enough to give me a doughnut, too.” She smiled. “And the files made for good reading.” Seeing the furious glint in his eyes, she suspected she’d gone too far and tried to soften the blow with flattery. “My compliments. You do a very thorough interview.”

“It’s illegal to steal police files. I could run you back upstairs and book you.”

“True. But Captain Coombs might be disappointed in my public relations article in the News.”

“Blackmailer,” he whispered. “You wouldn’t.”

She shrugged. “I’m interested in the Glass Slipper story. I’m hoping you’ll talk to me. Off the record, if need be.”

Grudging respect crept into eyes that were lingering too long at the open throat of her blouse, and when he leaned, as if to get a better look at her, his bemused lips seemed too close to her own. “Talk about my case?” he said. “I’d be solving it if I didn’t have to chauffeur you around town.”

She frowned. “Somebody else was given that case? Who?”

“Capote and Dern.”

She’d heard of them. “They couldn’t book loose paper with a stapler.”

He looked pleased. “True.”

“Did they get all your cases?”

He shook his head. “Only a few. The Glass Slipper victims don’t like to feel there’s no contact person available to them. Now,” he continued, his voice turning grave, “have you read all my files?”

“Lunch at the Plaza,” she returned, wishing everything about this man wasn’t driving wind from her lungs with the force of a storm. “Wasn’t that what you said I was dressed for? Maybe my interest in the shoes was merely fashion-oriented, did you think of that?”

Truman cursed. “You read every damn word.”

“Steele,” she said, liking the sound of his last name in her mouth. “To be perfectly honest, your timing was brilliant. Just as you got to the garage, I finished the last sentence.”

“Get in, Trudy,” he growled. “Mind if I call you Trudy?”

“Not so long as we don’t have to shake hands.” Body contact with Truman Steele might send her over the edge. She definitely liked how his hands looked. Large and long-fingered, with neat nails. Trying not to imagine how they might feel on her bare skin, she startled when he slammed the door, then scrambled inside and shut her own.

It was the perfect time to deliver the note she’d found under the windshield wiper. Leaning, she neatly tucked it into his uniform pocket, wishing she hadn’t when she felt the hard muscular chest, his heart thumping under her fingertips.

“‘Officer Steele,”’ she quoted, “‘I know you arrested me for drunk and disorderly conduct, but I need to talk to you. Let’s have dinner soon. Best wishes, Candy.”’

His mouth was grim. “Stay out of my personal life.”

“Personal life,” she repeated, letting the irony speak for itself. “Do you often date women you arrest?”

Looking as if he’d like to arrest her, he said, “Never.”

Biting back a laugh, she tucked her tongue into her cheek. She didn’t know if she liked Truman Steele, per se. But she was enjoying their exchanges. Not that she’d deliver the dull story her boss expected. Like everyone, Truman had something to hide. Whatever it was, Trudy intended to find it.