Читать книгу Never Say Never Again - Tori Carrington, Tori Carrington - Страница 10

CONNOR MCCOY NEEDED HER HELP.

Incredible. Impossible. As unlikely as her waking to find the sun rising from the west. Bronte chewed on the information. Then chewed some more, not quite ready to accept it as edible. She stared at him. Stared at where the glass in his hand might shatter at any moment given his own apparent uneasiness with the admission.

Obviously, this wasn’t easy for him.

Obviously, it wouldn’t be easy for her, either.

What he was asking her to do was illegal—forget bad business. She’d never shared information with anyone. Not as a favor. Not even when she’d been in the middle of her rotation in the gang division and had been threatened by a Jamaican drug lord outside the district courthouse. And then she’d had a knife held to her neck.

She caught herself absently rubbing at the spot in question. “I see,” she said quietly.

But did she really?

“Actually, no. I don’t see. Just, um, how, exactly am I supposed to help you?”

Connor drew the tip of his index finger along the length of his brow, then sighed and dropped his hand to his side. A large hand. A nicely shaped, well-muscled, fascinating hand it was impossible to look away from. Somewhere in the back of her mind Bronte remembered the saying that a man’s…intimate parts were made in proportion to his hands. She shook her head—in denial of the ridiculous notion that big, tough Connor McCoy needed her help…and to dislodge the very private images sliding through her mind. She remembered the other night in the park all too clearly. Standing under the cool shade of the cherry tree. The bark nipping at her back. Connor’s heat at her front. Her hand slipping between them on a hunting expedition all its own.

She chewed on the scorched bit of flesh that was her bottom lip. “Sorry…I didn’t hear you?”

“That’s because I didn’t answer.”

She nodded. That would explain it. He hadn’t said anything.

“So will you do it?”

Bronte budged her gaze back up to his face rather than his hands. “Do what?”

“You know. Help me.”

Facing him wasn’t helping her. The neck of her blouse seemed abruptly too tight, her skirt too short, the beat of her pulse far too rapid. She turned around and made herself busy. “You’re talking about the Robbins murder.”

“Yes.”

She thrust her own hands into the sink as if the glass and fork in it were the remainders of a feast. “What exactly did you have in mind?”