Читать книгу Capturing the Cop - Michele Dunaway - Страница 9

Inside every good girl is a bad girl waiting to get out. Unfortunately for Olivia Jacobsen, she’d been waiting thirty years.

She studied herself in the mirror of the twenty-fifth-floor executive washroom. There was nothing “bad” about her appearance, in as far as she could tell. She had blue eyes. She had straight dark hair, a gift from her deceased Greek mother. Today Olivia had pushed her shoulder-length hair back with a pink plaid headband that matched her pleated plaid skirt.

The saleslady at the upscale boutique had insisted that head-to-toe plaid was the latest fashion, but now Olivia wasn’t so sure.

She scowled at her reflection. Fashion be darned. She came across like a pupil at one of St. Louis’s all-girl Catholic high schools. Olivia Jacobsen—thirty-year-old Miss Goody Two-shoes.

Worse, she was a thirty-year-old virgin Goody Two-shoes, the perfectly behaved daughter of Blake and Sara Jacobsen, world-famous evangelicals with an international ministry rivaling that of Billy Graham.

And she’d grown up hearing exactly what being bad got you.

Olivia puckered her lips, making another disgusted face at herself in the mirror. Being good was boring. Being good meant broken engagements because she’d gotten cold feet—well, that and the fact that kissing her two respective fiancés had been like kissing puppies. Cute and sloppy, but hardly satisfying. Being good also meant having a stepmother who watched your every move and a meddling family that constantly tried to marry you off to someone they deemed appropriate—someone bland and boring.

Being good meant never having a man touch your breasts, never once feeling the leg-clenching desire that Olivia read about in those romance novels her minister parents disapproved of but she devoured.

Just once, Olivia Jacobsen wanted to be bad. She wanted to sin. She shook her body to try to loosen it up. It was a pathetic attempt, and at that moment Olivia decided she couldn’t continue like this. Something drastic would have to be done.

No longer would she be lackluster Olivia Jacobsen, staid and sedate long before her time. That ended now. She reached for her plaid purse and strolled purposefully out of the washroom.

“Marilyn?”

Upon hearing Olivia’s voice, her secretary glanced up.

“I’m going to take the rest of the day off,” Olivia said. “Please reschedule all my appointments.”

If Marilyn seemed surprised that Olivia Jacobsen, vice president of corporate communications for Jacobsen Enterprises and the one with the flawless attendance record for the past five years, was ditching work early, she didn’t let on. “Yes, Ms. Jacobsen,” she replied with a neutral expression.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Not even bothering to return to her office, Olivia punched the elevator button and headed down.

Once-bitten, twice-shy DWM, blond-blue 6’3” HWP, 36 seeking a 26-34 HWP S/DWF for Ms. Right. Must understand erratic work shifts, must love kids, quiet family life and cats.

“I THINK YOU SHOULD mention that you’re Mr. August. Or at least a cop. What about ‘hot stuff’? Doesn’t that increase your odds?”

Garrett Krause glared up from the almost illegible handwriting he’d scrawled on a torn-out sheet of white notebook paper. Not only was his partner, Cliff, reading over his shoulder, but he was also laughing at him.

“And I think you should butt out before I snuff you out,” Garrett snapped, not at all surprised to hear himself growling like an angry bear. “It’s your fault I’m in this mess in the first place. As if I want to do this.”

Cliff simply laughed harder—a liberty only a good friend could take, especially when the laughter was clearly at his friend’s expense.

“You won’t snuff me out,” Cliff said. “We’ve been together too long. Besides, I know all the homicide detectives.”

That was true, Garrett thought wryly. He and Cliff were both detectives in the Division of Criminal Investigation, specifically the Bureau of Crimes Against Persons. Although Cliff was older, he and Garrett had been best friends since they’d met in Police Academy. After that, they’d been stationed together and they’d even both made detective within months of each other. Later, both had landed positions as investigators on St. Louis’s Major Case Squad.

Garrett often wondered if some of his career advancement had been due to Cliff—after all, Cliff’s family was rich, and powerful in St. Louis politics. But Garrett didn’t really care. He loved his job. He’d been a cop since graduating college, and cops shouldn’t be writing personal ads.

“Lucky for you and your occupation that you get to live another day,” Garrett snorted, not quite ready to let Cliff off so easily.

“Oh, I’m so worried,” Cliff taunted. Cliff knew he could push Garrett’s buttons—they had an eleven-year friendship, one that had included Cliff being best man for Garrett’s now-failed marriage.

“I’m sure I could commit the perfect crime if I wanted to,” Garrett threatened as he waved the paper. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Yeah, whatever. Besides, I’m always lucky,” Cliff said, cuffing his white shirtsleeves. He ignored Garrett’s scowl and reached for his mug. “I’d probably end up killing you in self-defense.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be? An appointment?” Garrett asked, eyeing Cliff’s Cops Do It shootin’ expression mug. At least Cliff’s sip of java had ended his annoying laughter.

“Aw, come on, Garrett, lighten up,” Cliff said before taking another sip. “None of us means you any harm. We just agree that you should get back into dating. It’s been three years since that ugly mess with your ex.”

“Don’t even mention her.” Garrett’s scowl deepened. Although three years had passed since his divorce, he still hated dealing with his ex-wife, especially where their four-year-old son was concerned.

Cliff tilted his head to the side and studied his friend. “Garrett, really. What’s wrong with you? Everyone’s more than a little concerned about your hermit status.”

“I am not a hermit. I’m busy,” Garrett insisted.

Cliff shook his head. “No, you aren’t. You work hard, granted, but that’s not what’s bugging you.”

Cliff contemplated that assertion for a moment and then his expression changed. “I got it. You’re still smarting over that charity calendar. Come on, let it go. It’s been almost a year since it debuted, and all the hubbub has died down. In a few months people will throw the thing away and replace it with next year’s version.”

“Whatever,” Garrett said. As with his ex, he tried to avoid dwelling on that mistake, as well.

“Though I still think you’re crazy,” Cliff continued. “If I’d gotten one of those prime spots, can you imagine what I would have done?”

That was the last straw. “What—you’d have dated the woman from Potosi who sent me her underwear?” Garrett arched his eyebrow skeptically and studied his friend. It was now almost two p.m., and already Cliff needed to shave. Because Garrett was blond, his face wouldn’t show a beard until well after five.

Cliff shrugged, conceding slightly. “Well, maybe not that,” he said, retreating before going back for round two. “But some of those babes who dropped by the police station were hot. I would have taken the normal ones up on their offers. Wasn’t one a Rams cheerleader? Get real, Garrett. Just hop back in the saddle again. Being celibate this long just doesn’t suit a man. Makes him crack. God knows we see the results of that enough in our line of work.”

Garrett glared. His self-chosen celibacy had so far suited him just fine. Being celibate meant he’d make no more mistakes such as thinking he was in love and the time was perfect for him to settle down. That was how he’d come to marry Brenda. The only good thing to emerge from that tempestuous relationship had been their son. And that adorable four-year-old deserved his daddy’s full attention.

“Don’t knock celibacy. It’s the best alternative to marriage, that’s for sure,” Garrett said.

“Who said anything about marriage? Saddles are for riding in, buddy boy.” Cliff grinned, but his smile vanished when he saw the sour expression on Garrett’s face. “Oh, loosen up. At least none of us is trying to drag you out to strip clubs anymore under the guise of doing a stakeout.”

Thank God for small favors, Garrett thought. Exploring East Saint Louis’s “nightlife” was not anywhere on his to-do list, nor would it ever be. The Illinois city directly over the Mississippi River from the Gateway Arch was known for strip clubs and seedy bars—something he’d outgrown long ago. And since Garrett wasn’t a gambler, even Casino Queen river-boat, decent as that was, held little appeal. He shook his head, sending blond hair into his face. Loosen up indeed. As if he could.

He shuddered, revulsion shivering down his spine as he remembered some of the women’s letters and photos he’d received in the months following the appearance of the Hometown Heroes charity calendar.

Reading the letters and seeing the lengths women would go to to entice him, including those naked full-body shots, had not been pleasant. He’d felt like a pervert, so much so that he’d finally stopped opening the letters at all, or letting his cop buddies and Cliff raid his mail. Crime scenes were easier to deal with.

He winced. Hindsight was twenty/twenty. When the department asked for his cooperation last summer, Garrett had followed orders, not caring about the “honor” attached to being selected.

His mistake was that he hadn’t thought through the calendar’s aftereffects. Oh, he’d considered that he might get some recognition and second glances, but this was St. Louis and not Hollywood. St. Louisans were, for the most part, discreet—not rude autograph-seekers. Even professional sports stars were usually granted their privacy in public places like restaurants or movie theaters. The crazy attention paid to him and his fellow police, fire and rescue workers from across the metropolitan region had surprised Garrett, not to mention vexed him.

Today, it appeared, there would be no end to his weary annoyance. Cliff was on a mission he’d started this past weekend when Garrett lost the weekly Friday night poker game with the guys.

“Let me see that personal ad again,” Cliff said, getting back to the matter at hand. He snagged the paper from Garrett. “HWP. That’s good. You don’t want someone whose height and weight aren’t proportional. But, do you think it’s a good idea to tell them your measurements?”

“Earlier you wanted me to tell them I was Mr. August so that they could go ogle me. Why don’t I just include my address in the ad? Even better, how about I include my cell phone number and the note ‘Call Garrett for a good time.’” Irritated, Garrett wrestled the piece of paper away from Cliff. “This is a dumb idea. I’m not doing it.”

Cliff snatched the paper, ripping off a piece in the process. “Yes, you are. You backed yourself into a corner Friday night when Ben asked how long it had been since you’d had a real date. You even went double or nothing without chips—and lost. So unless you really want to eat crow—”

“I thought I had a good hand,” Garrett interrupted. Two of a kind should have been enough to win.

“Well, you didn’t, so even fate agrees you’re doing this. You’ll never live down the ribbing if you don’t. It’s a personal ad or a blind date.”

The last blind date Garrett had gone on had been an absolute disaster. She’d been five years older and around the block way too many times, and had boldly asked him if he knew any kinky ways to use his handcuffs. No more blind dates, period.

“Fine, I said I’d do this,” Garrett said with another growl to indicate that he still didn’t relish the idea. “One date with one woman. That was the bet, and that’s all I’m doing. Understood?”

Cliff’s smile widened and he gave Garrett the crumpled piece of paper. “Okay. One date. That’s the deal. But place the ad today. You’ll pass by the Monitor office on your way home.”

Garrett narrowed his eyes and glared. The Monitor office was actually out of his way, but Cliff, again intent on revising the ad’s wording, disregarded his friend’s displeasure.

“Don’t forget to add ‘no smoking,’” Cliff said. “Just in case you want to kiss her.”

“I won’t be kissing anyone,” Garrett snapped, but he did write down n/s on the paper.

Cliff’s laughter again echoed in the room. “No kisses? You never know, Garrett. You never know.”

“OLIVIA! OH, AM I GLAD to see you!” Chrissy Lambert said as Olivia entered the classified-ads department of the Mound City Monitor on Tucker Street. Located on the first floor, the office was open to walk-in clients until six o’clock. Chrissy buzzed Olivia through the security door.

“Hi, Chrissy. I wanted to check on you personally.” Olivia gave her best friend a quick hug.

“They were Braxton-Hicks contractions,” Chrissy said as she hopped on one foot, clearly needing to go to the restroom. “You’re a godsend. Lula called in sick today, which means she’s more likely at the stadium playing hooky, than on her deathbed. I’m here alone.”

Chrissy wiggled her very pregnant body. She was due any day now.

“Are you okay?” Olivia asked. She’d known Chrissy ever since junior high, when, despite their different socioeconomic backgrounds, they’d become best friends at Bible camp. Olivia’s family had viewed the month-long adventure as a natural extension of their daughter’s religious education; Chrissy’s family had hoped that discovering God would tame their daughter’s wild ways. The ultimate bad girl, Chrissy hadn’t truly reformed until she met Derek, fallen fast for him and gotten married.

Chrissy palmed her stomach. “I’m doing well except for the baby having stationed itself right on top of my bladder. Watch the floor for me, will you? Don’t worry, the bosses aren’t around. Since the Cardinals lead the Central division, everyone cut out early to attend today’s baseball game.”

“No problem,” Olivia said. “Besides, I know the paper’s owner.” Olivia’s cousin Darci was married to Cameron O’Brien. In fact, Darci and Cameron had first met when Cameron, the head of O’Brien Publications, had visited St. Louis to finalize the purchase of the Mound City Monitor and add it to the O’Brien Publications family.

“That’s great, ’cause I really gotta go. You know what to do, right?”

“You showed me last time,” Olivia said. “Remember? It was so slow here we filled out phone ad forms pretending to find me a date.”

“Yeah. Mr. B. Right at 4 M. Drives.”

A movement outside on the sidewalk caught Chrissy’s attention, and she paused for a moment. “Whoa! I don’t believe it. That’s really him. Too bad nature’s calling. But you’re about to get lucky. See that guy out there?”

Olivia glanced out the Monitor’s large storefront window. She saw the subject of Chrissy’s focus immediately.

The man standing just outside the glass doorway was gorgeous. Under the dark blue T-shirt he wore, well-toned muscles rippled and the golden hair dusting his arms glistened in that late-afternoon sunlight. He stood at least six foot three, and even his faded red Cardinals baseball cap added to his allure.

Olivia swallowed. What would it be like to touch a man like that? Unlike Chrissy, who had more skeletons in her closet than were in a graveyard, Olivia had never been bad enough to know. Her wimpy ex-fiancés had been physically small men whose presence wouldn’t intimidate a flea.

She fisted her hands, then stretched her fingers one by one in order to relax. The man seemed familiar, but Olivia couldn’t place him. “Chrissy,” she hissed as the man began to pull open the door to the office. “What are you talking about? You know him?”

“The calendar in the file drawer. He’s one of the ‘months.’ Oh, too bad it’s against the rules to get his autograph or hang it up.” Chrissy paused for one last peek before hurrying away.

Whoever the man was, he was now inside the office, and Olivia couldn’t help but gape as he approached the service counter.

Never had a man so filled the room with his presence. His dark blue Levi’s fit tightly and he wore boots. Olivia stood rooted to the floor as he approached, her only movements those of her fingers as they twisted the strand of cultured pearls her father had given her for her twenty-fifth birthday. Brad Pitt, Dennis Quaid and Robert Redford combined wouldn’t hold a candle to the Adonis before her. He must have come to place an ad, Olivia decided as she regrouped. Maybe he was selling his truck or something—although the Mound City Monitor really didn’t handle many of those kind of classified ads.

Yes, Olivia fantasized, he would be the type to own a big truck.

He was wearing Levi’s and boots and Olivia could picture him riding on the range, roping some cattle, coming home to his woman and making love to her on soft flannel sheets in front of the fire. He was the stuff of romance novels, the ultimate lover—which meant not her type. Besides, how could she handle a man like him? She wasn’t even bad enough to find something bad to do. After leaving work and playing hooky, the only “bad” thing she could think of to do was shopping. Her one last ditch attempt at badness before heading home to a freezer full of microwavable dinners and bad television shows had been to visit Chrissy. All in all, not a great start at becoming a bad girl.

“I need to place a personal ad.”

His warm baritone voice jerked Olivia into the present and her gaze connected with his. Since only a forty-inch counter and some Plexiglas stood between them, she could see that his eyes were a mesmerizing shade of blue.

Olivia had never understood what people meant when they said “time stood still,” but at this moment she swore it was happening. Her heart seemed frozen, although she could feel it beating and could hear it pounding in her ears.

“A personal ad,” he repeated, obviously irritated at her incompetence.

He drummed his fingers on the counter, the staccato sound forcing Olivia to regain her senses.

“Yes, of course. I’d be happy to help,” she somehow managed to say. She couldn’t have anyone complaining to the bosses about Chrissy.

“This is the ad I wish to run.” He slid a wadded piece of paper into the metal channel and underneath the Plexiglas. “Can you take care of it?”

If she were a bad girl, she’d take care of him in any way he needed. Be a bad girl, something unfamiliar inside her whispered.

She smoothed out the paper and turned her attention to reading his ad. She glanced up sharply. “You need a date?”

His blue eyes gleamed, and she swallowed. Just the power of his look held her attention. “I apologize. That was quite unprofessional of me.”

He didn’t agree or disagree; he just watched her. Years of PR training came in handy as she hid her trembling and presented a poised appearance. She reached for an advertising form and a pen.

“So. How long do you want your ad to run? Our best value, which I suggest, is five days at five dollars a day. If not you can—”

He cut her off. “That’s fine.”

Olivia’s forehead wrinkled and her headband itched. Something wasn’t right in Mound City. Her extensive PR experience had also taught her a lot about body language.

For someone placing a personal ad, the man standing in front of her wasn’t keen on the idea.

He came across like a man sitting in a dentist’s chair, waiting for a tooth extraction. But whatever his problem, she had an ad to sell. “We have three retrieval services, depending on what type of response you’d like,” she said, warming to her sales pitch. She and Chrissy had held a contest to see who could say it faster. “You can place a voice-mail ad, meaning the person calls a special phone number and presses your mailbox number. You receive a code to retrieve the messages. For an additional fee, we can set up a temporary e-mail account for you, meaning we act as your firewall. You can also go with the traditional snail-mail option, which—”

“Which one gets this over with the fastest?”

His blunt query had Olivia losing her train of thought and flubbing her sales spiel. “The phone messages,” she said as she recovered. “The people interested in you dial a nine-hundred number—you retrieve the messages using an eight-hundred number.”

“Fine,” he said with a curt nod that caused a lock of blond hair to fall into his face. “That’s what I want for the shortest period you offer.”

“One week.”

He didn’t smile. “Perfect.”

She pushed the contract under the glass. “I’ll need your contact information. If you could please fill this out…”

As he put pen to paper, Olivia couldn’t help but watch him, observing the way his muscles flexed even when he did something so simple as write. He’d barely finished printing his first name in the required block letters when he glanced up at her.

“Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” Olivia said, the words escaping her lips before she could even think to stop them. “Why does a gorgeous man like you need to place an ad?”

His blond eyebrows arched. “For the same reason a grown-up woman like you dresses like a Catholic schoolgirl.”

“Fashion,” Olivia retorted.

His unexpectedly wide smile undid her. It crooked into two dimples, lighting up his whole face. She gripped the countertop.

“No, the obvious,” he said. “Because like everyone else who places these personal ads, I need a date. Just one, but a date nevertheless.”

As his gaze remained locked with Olivia’s, she inwardly melted. All those romance clichés fit. An invisible string tugged her insides and her toes curled. Blood drummed in her ears. The man had turned her into molten jelly with a mere glance. Made her feel wanton with only his simple, sexy manner.

At that moment, Olivia’s inner bad girl roared to life and took over. She wanted to experience life to the fullest, right? This man would make her feel full, that was for certain. Many women had no doubt propositioned this beautiful, sexy man, but the prodigal daughter didn’t care. He only needed one date.

She only needed one night.

She could atone for her many sins later.

Olivia turned on her best smile. Her baby blue-eyes with the outer rim of dark blue—the blue eyes that every Jacobsen family member shared—were her strongest feature, and she refused to blink. The husky voice leaving her lips sounded unfamiliar.

“So if you only need one date,” Olivia said, “why not save your money and just ask me?”