Читать книгу Dangerous Liaisons - Maggie Price, Maggie Price - Страница 8

Jake Ford leaned against the bar, surveilling the blonde while she moved among the wedding guests with the skill of a seasoned pickpocket. Another time, another place, someone working a crowd with such adeptness would have spiked his inner radar to full alert. That wasn’t the case this night. She wasn’t covertly lifting valuables from the well-heeled guests and tonight he wasn’t a cop, only a guest.

She was the groom’s sister. He knew that because his partner, Whitney Shea—Whitney Taylor as of an hour and a half ago—had described her soon-to-be sister-in-law several times. Stunning was the term Whitney had used to sum up Nicole Taylor.

His partner had hit the mark.

Overhead, crystal chandeliers spilled light across the hotel’s mirrored ballroom. Champagne flowed from a fountain that gurgled to a pool at the base of a swan sculptured in ice. A pianist caressed ivory and ebony keys, filling the air with a smoky love song. Jake was aware of the rustle of silk and the murmur of conversations as couples swayed on the dimly lit dance floor, but he kept his attention focused on Nicole Taylor. Smiling, sometimes laughing, she moved with abandon through the sea of some of Oklahoma City’s most elite citizens. She tweaked a gray-haired judge on the chin, hobnobbed with the mayor, chatted up the district attorney. While she mingled, Jake caught more than a few appreciative male gazes aimed her way.

One of those was his own, he acknowledged. Her slinky blue dress had a scooped-out back and a side slit that offered flashes of leg he couldn’t help admire. On occasion, she tucked what he figured was her business card into the breast pocket of a tailored suit coat or slid one into a manicured hand that clutched an evening bag.

He wondered what a woman who looked as if she’d stepped out of a man’s darkest, most seductive dream did for a living.

He studied her profile, his gaze tracing one high, slanting cheekbone, the sweep of jaw that looked as if it had the potential to take on a stubborn slant. Her hair, a mix of blond and gold tones, was pulled back in an intricate braid coiled at the base of her long, elegant neck. Even from a distance he could tell that her eyes were a vivid blue to match her dress. His gaze slid downward to the glossy coral lips that curved into an intimate smile when she eased her card into the breast pocket of a tall, lanky Latino with smooth olive skin and an ebony mustache. From the smoldering look in the man’s dark eyes, Jake figured he was contemplating devouring her in two bites.

Instinct told him she was a woman a man would beg for.

He clenched his jaw as he watched her polished nails skim tantalizingly down the Latino’s lapel. It didn’t please him that the sight of her curved, full lips stirred something dark and elemental inside him.

Something that hadn’t stirred in a long time.

Pulling his gaze away, Jake stared into the glass he clutched. He wished fervently for Scotch instead of the tonic water he’d ordered. But, like a hell of a lot of other things he’d once savored and enjoyed, Scotch was in his past. So were cigarettes. And women.

Especially women.

He closed his eyes. He’d thought he had gotten past the bad dream. Had managed to go a few weeks without waking up in a cold sweat, then staring at the ceiling until dawn, thinking about his wife and daughters. Had actually thought that two months of meeting with the department’s shrink had relegated the claw-infested demon to the murky depths of his subconscious. He’d been wrong. The dream had slammed into him again last night with a double-fisted punch, tormenting him with the haunting memories that had burned into his soul.

He’d lost so much. Too much.

It had been a hell of a lot easier to lock the racking pain deep inside him than it was to face it every day. But after more than a year and a half of drifting through a numb haze, reality had hit him square between the eyes when he’d been charged with the death of a woman he’d been seeing. And seven other murders. After that, he’d had no choice but to finally accept what his life now was.

Accept that his job was all he had left.

Things could be worse, he reminded himself. The insane hours that were a natural part of working Homicide suited him. As long as he was busy wading through blood, gore, paperwork and court appearances, he didn’t have time to think. Time to regret. Time to want what he would never again allow himself to have.

He lifted the glass to his lips, grimaced at the tonic’s sweet tang, then glanced back over his shoulder. He felt a tic of disappointment when he discovered that Nicole Taylor had faded into the crowd and was no longer in sight.

His gaze drifted past the dance floor to a maze of round tables covered in white cloths and topped with centerpieces of velvety red roses. Detectives from OCPD’s Homicide detail had taken over a couple of the tables. Most had brought their spouses or significant others; from all the backslapping going on and the heads thrown back in laughter, it was evident that everyone was having a good time. On any other occasion, Jake would have joined his co-workers, but not tonight. Not at a wedding.

Tonight he preferred solitude.

A bark of nearby laughter caught his attention. The bride and groom, their respective parents, grandparents and siblings had moved a few feet from the bar and now formed a smiling group while a photographer snapped photos. Jake saw the joy that shone in Bill Taylor’s eyes as the assistant D.A. leaned to kiss his bride. Dressed in a slide of pearl-dotted white silk, her auburn hair swept back, Whitney smiled up at her husband, her face a study in joy.

Jake’s mouth curved. Theirs was a perfect match. A solid one. He’d had once-in-a-lifetime happiness like that. A long time ago.

That, he thought, was why he made it a point to avoid weddings. They reminded him of what he’d had…and lost. Still, it hadn’t been a sense of duty that had brought him here tonight. He loved Whitney like a sister, and nothing could have kept him away. But he’d had enough and it was time to go.

Turning back to the bar, he drained his glass. The prospect of climbing on his Harley and running the engine wide open through the still September night eased the tenseness that had settled across his shoulders. Maybe by the time he got home his mind would be void of the memories the evening had stirred.

Maybe the dream would lay dormant tonight.

“Get you another?” the tuxedo-clad bartender asked when Jake sat his empty glass on the bar.

“I’ll pass. One’s my limit when there’s no alcohol involved.”

After stuffing a tip into the snifter on one side of the bar, Jake turned and nearly collided with a sea of white.

“Want to dance, handsome?”

He cocked his head. “Isn’t the bride supposed to hang out with the groom at their wedding?”

“She’s also supposed to dance with her partner,” Whitney stated, her eyes glowing like rich emeralds. “It’s the law.”

“Look, Whit, I’m a little rusty at the social graces. I was about to head—”

“Later.” She snared his hand, tugged him past linen-covered tables loaded with silver trays of sliced meats, breads, fruit and champagne by the bucket. “Dancing is like having sex,” she stated over her shoulder. “You never forget how.”

“Wanna bet?” he muttered, giving thought to the months of self-imposed celibacy he’d endured.

When they reached the dance floor, Whitney turned and gave him a level-eyed look. “Besides, it’s bad luck to make the bride unhappy on her wedding day.”

“Bad luck for whom?”

“You.” She stepped forward, leaving him no choice but to shift into dance position. “If you don’t cooperate, I’ll shoot you in the kneecap.”

He smirked as they moved to the slow beat. “You expect me to believe you’re packing heat under that wedding dress?”

“Trust me, Ford, you don’t want to find out.”

“Guess not.”

Whitney exchanged a few words with a couple who danced by, then stated, “Lieutenant Ryan looks happy.”

Jake followed her gaze to the spot on the dance floor where their boss was locked in an embrace with his wife, A.J., head of the department’s Crime Analysis Unit. “Yeah.”

“Weddings have that effect,” Whitney continued, then sighed. “They remind people of good times.”

“I had that same thought.”

Her gaze flew back to his, her eyes sobering. “Annie,” she said softly. “You were thinking about your and Annie’s wedding.” Her hand tightened on his. “Jake, I’m sorry. I know how much you miss her and the girls.”

He wasn’t surprised Whitney had hit the mark. After all, they’d ridden the streets together, risen through the ranks with equal speed and then wound up partners in Homicide. At one time or another, they’d both been through their own private hell. His had begun two years ago when a bomb exploded on a plane over the Gulf of Mexico, killing his wife and infant twin daughters.

“Yeah, I miss them,” he said quietly. “But I’m hanging in there.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

The last thing he wanted was his partner worrying about him on her wedding night, so he opted for a change of subject. “You know, Whit, while you’re lazing on some beach in Cancún, I’ll be clearing the Quintero case,” he said, referring to the drive-by shooting that had ended the life of a seven-year-old boy who’d been on the wrong street corner at the wrong time. “When I take down Cárdenas, the glory will all be mine.”

She gave him a bland look. “Dream on. It’d be a stroke of luck to unearth Cárdenas’s girlfriend. Even if you do, you’ll never get her to testify she was in his car, much less that he was the shooter.”

“Such little faith,” Jake chided. “Maybe you ought to stay here and work the case, and I’ll go to Cancún.”

Whitney pretended to consider his suggestion, then shook her head. “I don’t think Bill will go for that.”

“I won’t go for what?” the subject of conversation asked as he glided into view beside them, his sister in his arms.

Jake felt a jolt when Nicole Taylor’s gaze met his. From across the room those sapphire eyes had seemed vibrant. Close up, they were mesmerizing.

Whitney gave her husband a coy smile. “You won’t leave me here and take Jake to Cancún with you. Right?”

Arching a brow, the assistant D.A. glanced down at his sister. “I have no clue what’s going on, but it sounds like I got here just in time. Mind if we switch partners so I can reclaim my wife?”

Nicole’s gaze flicked back to Jake’s face, then her lips curved. “Get lost, big brother.”

He’s not my type. Nicole sensed it the instant Whitney fluidly handed off her dance partner and Nicole found herself in the strong circle of the man’s arms.

He was tall and lean, his straight, shaggy hair as black as the suit he wore. He had a handsome, rugged face with high cheekbones and a strong sweep of jaw. It was a combination that drew a woman’s gaze. He had certainly drawn hers while he’d stood alone at the bar, nursing a drink. The sight of him had brought to mind a sleek, dark panther, coiled to spring. The closed look in his eyes had not encouraged company.

It was those eyes that now had an alarm clanging in her head. They were the color of rich, aged whiskey, and she could only think that she could blissfully get lost in them…the same way she had a long time ago when another dark gaze had turned her system just as jittery.

The memory of that disaster had her struggling to clear her thoughts.

“I’m Nicole Taylor,” she said as he guided her over the floor with smooth steps. “Bill’s sister.”

“Jake Ford.”

“Whitney’s partner, right?”

“Right.”

Nicole followed his lead, moving to the music’s slow, sensuous beat. She told herself to relax, that their dance was just a casual social gesture that would last only a matter of minutes. Still, his body was so close, so firm.

She tilted her head. “I’ve heard about you.”

“Then why are you still dancing with me?” he asked, his gaze locked with hers.

When she’d spied him from a distance, she had decided he was compelling. Up close, his dark looks and strong features had a devastating effect. As did the warm, musky scent of his aftershave that curled into her lungs.

“I’m still dancing with you because I love to dance,” she answered. She knew the dim light and the piano’s soft notes were meant to soothe, yet that hadn’t stopped the nerves at the base of her neck from knotting. “Sebastian says dancing is good for the circulation. Helps your capillaries oxygenate.”

Jake’s forehead furrowed. “Whatever.”

She let out a measured breath. The man was definitely not big on conversation. Good thing she was.

“Anyway,” she continued lightly, “Whitney has only good things to say about you.”

“I pay her well.”

Inching her head back, Nicole stared up, studying his face. She found no glint of humor in those dark eyes. “If you didn’t pay her to say good things,” she began slowly, “what would Whitney have told me about you?”

“To stay away.”

Against all reason, his gruff words quickened Nicole’s pulse. She was suddenly aware of the firm presence of his hand against her waist. Cognizant that only a thin barrier of silk lay between his palm and her flesh.

“Why would your partner tell me to stay away from you?”

His gaze remained steady on hers. “Long story.”

Without conscious thought, Nicole splayed her fingers over his shoulder, then tightened them. She felt something beyond the ripcord of hard muscle. Stress. Strain. Jake Ford was as tense as wire.

“Are you on duty, Sergeant Ford?”

“Jake. No. Why?”

“You’re in cop mode.”

He blinked. “Cop mode?”

“Expression hard. Noncommittal.” Her fingers kneaded his shoulder. “Unyielding.”

“What do you know about cop mode?”

She smiled. “Oh, I’ve matched a few police officers.”

His eyes narrowed. “Matched?”

“Making matches is my business—”

“Matches, as in ‘close cover before striking’?”

God, he was so intense…and handsome. “Matches, as in relationships. I have a high success rate. I can just sense when two people belong together—it’s a gift.” Having found her opening, she plucked a business card from the evening bag that dangled on a slim chain from her shoulder.

“Here you go.”

Jake moved his hand from her waist to accept the card. “‘Meet Your Match,”’ he read, then moved his gaze back to hers. “You work there?”

“Yes. I also own the company.”

He looked back at the card, arched a dark brow. “You’re a romance engineer?”

“That’s right.” She was proud of the title, of her company’s success and the knowledge that she offered people the potential for a lifetime of happiness. “I engineer relationships. Quite successfully, if I say so myself. I’m working on franchising.”

As if mulling that over, he remained silent. Around them, muted conversations hung in the air as couples drifted past, swaying to the soft music.

“In other words, people pay you to fix them up on blind dates,” he finally commented.

“Not ‘blind dates.’ When we sign on a client, we conduct background checks and do an intense interview. The person actually knows a lot about their date, including what they look like, before they even meet.”

She gave a subtle glance at the firm left hand that cupped her right. Interest—a purely business one, she told herself—stirred when she saw he wasn’t wearing a wedding band. “So, Sergeant Jake Ford, is there a special woman in your life?”

The slow song ended, another began. Without missing a step, he continued moving in the same smooth rhythm.

“No.”

“Maybe you’d like to check out our services?”

He handed her card back. “No.”

This time, his hand settled against her back where silk gave way to bare skin. His touch was light, but potent enough to widen her eyes as an unexpected flash of need took her by surprise. Air clogged her lungs. She stiffened her spine beneath his palm and willed her feet to keep moving while she kept her gaze on his.

He was watching her with seeming ease, but she could see the shimmering intensity in his dark eyes.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Fine.” She needed oxygen. She wasn’t into self-deception. Just like another man in her past, Jake Ford’s looks, his demeanor…his touch were tempting. Too tempting. Already, her hormones were surging in a direction where the fine edge of reason began to blur.

Now that she’d felt the heat of his flesh against hers, she wanted his touch to continue. Deepen.

Not going to happen, she told herself, putting mental skids on her thoughts. She would never again approach a relationship with her emotions calling the shots. She’d been down that road with her ex, and found it was full of potholes. Now she was smarter. Wiser. And she had learned how to face a problem head-on. The thing to do in this instance was to take control and go on the defensive.

She would feel a whole lot better—safer—if Jake Ford were off-limits. And she was the perfect person to make that happen.

“I have a client who might be perfect for you,” she said as she began tucking the card into the breast pocket of his suit coat. “She’s a doctor. A medical doctor, intelligent and gorgeous. Let me know if you change your—”

Her words slid back down her throat when he snagged her wrist. His hand was steady, his fingers unyielding as steel.

His dark eyes narrowed. “Not interested. And I won’t change my mind.”

The image of those firm, controlled hands exploring every inch of her body clicked into her brain, sending heat surging into her cheeks.

A shadow flickered across his eyes, then disappeared. He released her wrist. “No offense.”

“None taken.” Pursing her lips, Nicole dropped the rejected card back in her purse while regarding him. “Has anyone ever mentioned that your biorhythms might be in the negative range?”

He missed a step, picked the beat back up again. “My what?”

“Biorhythms. You strike me as being overly tense, so yours might be in a negative cycle. Sebastian says if a person’s biorhythms are negative, it’s hard to do well in certain areas.”

“Who the hell is Sebastian?”

“Sebastian Peck, my personal trainer at Sebastian’s.”

Jake’s mouth curved into a sardonic arch. “The prissy gym on the northwest side of town,” he commented.

“Actually, it’s a health club.”

“Bet it’s got piped-in music and a juice bar.”

“That’s right.”

“Not my kind of place. I work out at the police gym.”

Nicole’s left hand slid down to settle on his biceps. The well-formed muscle evidenced a strenuous workout regime.

“Sebastian isn’t taking new clients now, but he owes me a favor,” she said, undaunted. “I can set up an appointment to get your biorhythms charted. It doesn’t take long.” By then, she might have figured out how to convince Jake to agree to a date with the gorgeous doctor.

“My biorhythms are fine.”

“Just think about it. I’m in the book—call me if you change your mind.”

His eyes narrowed at the same instant the music faded. From the opposite side of the dance floor, an uncle of the bride’s announced that the wedding couple was getting ready to leave the reception.

“We should wish them well,” Nicole said.

“You give Whit and Bill my best,” Jake stated evenly. “I’ve stayed too long as it is.” His hand was a light presence on her elbow as they walked to the edge of the dance floor.

Squaring her shoulders, Nicole turned to face him, offered her hand. “It was nice to meet you, Jake. Give me a call if you decide you want to try out my services.”

He hesitated for a brief instant, then cupped her hand in his while he flashed a careless grin. “Your services?”

Her throat tightened. Even as her brain told her that retreat would be wise, she allowed her hand to remain in his. Only one other time in her life had a man had such an immediate, stunning effect on her. Then, she’d gone with emotion, listened to her heart instead of her head, and she’d wound up betrayed and hurt. Desperately hurt.

Now all of her senses screamed at her to do an about-face and run for the hills. For some incomprehensible reason, she stayed put.

“My company’s services, of course,” she amended, keeping her voice light. “You might wake up some morning and decide you want to meet the doctor after all.”

He kept his eyes locked with hers while his thumb stroked the inside of her wrist. Her pulse stuttered, then her stomach dropped to her toes.

“I won’t.”

Even as he turned and walked away she took a step backward. Then another.

Feeling the aftershock of his touch in every pore, she curled her fingers over her palms. She remained unmoving, her gaze tracking his progress toward the door while she waited for her pulse to settle. It didn’t.

Hours later, her nerves still thrumming, Nicole lay in her bed, thinking about Jake Ford. About his dark eyes and ruthless good looks. About the way the attraction she’d felt for him had hit her like a freight train and hadn’t abated.

Even for a woman who knew he wasn’t the type of man she wanted, those thoughts made him dangerous.

Too dangerous.

Stifling a groan, she dragged a pillow over her head and breathed deeply of the soft scent of vanilla that drifted from the linen pillowcase. At least Jake wasn’t part of her brother’s new family, she reasoned. He was Whitney’s partner; there was no reason she and the cop with the whiskey-colored eyes would ever cross paths again.

And that, all of her instincts told her, was a very good thing.