My Only Vice. Elizabeth Bevarly
for everything from hand mixers to washing machines. Or was it just Rosie who had discovered dual uses for stuff like that…?
Sam watched warily for a moment as Alice and Don continued to snuggle, then his expression softened. Well, okay, maybe softened was a little too extreme a word to use, since what his expression actually did was…um…become less hard. Then he lifted a hand to the back of his neck and rubbed it in that way men did when they were a little uncomfortable about something.
He asked, “So, Alice, does this mean you won’t need me to include your house and studio on my daily rounds anymore?”
For a minute, Rosie didn’t think Alice had heard the question, but then she turned a distracted gaze to Sam, as if she only now remembered where she was and what was going on. She seemed to remember then, too, how she’d been mad at Don for weeks, because she pushed herself away from him and fisted her hands on her hips again, making a halfhearted attempt to look angry.
But the resentment in her voice was clearly forced when she said, “Well, Don and I have a lot to talk about. Just because he brought me a gift doesn’t mean all is forgiven.”
Hah, Rosie thought with a smile. That wasn’t just any gift.
“But no, Chief,” Alice told him, “you don’t have to stop by anymore. For now,” she added with a chilly look at Don…which inevitably turned into a warm smile.
Sam dropped his hand back to his side and nodded, then turned to go. He first strode past the line of women, including Rosie, without looking at any of them. But as he gripped the handle of the studio door, he pivoted back around and met her gaze levelly with his own. “I’m sorry about sacking you the way I did,” he told her.
Well, that made one of them, Rosie thought.
“I was aiming for Don,” he added. “Then you stepped in front of him, and…” His voice trailed off, since it really wasn’t necessary to say anything more.
She started to tell him it was okay, that his sacking her had in fact been the closest thing she’d had to a sexual encounter with a living, breathing man in a long time, and could they possibly get together for another sacking sometime soon? But she checked herself after a simple, “That’s okay.”
He started to turn around again, but halted, clearly wanting to say something he wasn’t sure how to say. Finally, though, his gaze ricocheting now from Rosie’s face to the wall behind her, he asked, “How do you know it can be a stick of dynamite in the right hands?”
In lieu of a response, Rosie waited until he was looking at her again, then she lifted both hands and wiggled her fingers at him.
He arched his brows again, and she watched to see if he would blush as he had before. He didn’t. But his dark eyes grew darker, and his lips parted fractionally, as if he suddenly needed more air. He didn’t say anything else after that, only spun around again and made his way out of the studio. Rosie’s gaze fell to his rump as he went, then climbed to those broad shoulders straining at the seams of his white cop shirt. She remembered how happy he’d been to see her when he was lying on top of her.
And, just like that, all thoughts of the Xtacy 3000 were gone.
2
ONE THING ABOUT small-town Northaven that hadn’t surprised Sam was its police station. Nestled at the center of Main Street in what was called the town’s historic quarter, it was housed in a restored brick-front building that hosted several small businesses—one of which just happened to be Rosie Bliss’s flower shop, Kabloom, three doors down. The walkway outside was cobbled, of course; the windows were paned, naturally; and the interior could only be described as quaint, a word Sam normally, manfully, avoided.
But there was no other term to capture the mood of the hardwood floors and plaster walls painted what Vicky, their dispatcher, called Wedgwood blue. Whatever the hell that was. The desks—all three of them—were antique monstrosities that could comfortably serve dinner for twelve, and the chairs were spindled wooden numbers that creaked comfortably whenever anyone sat down. In fact, the creaking of chairs and floors made up the bulk of the sounds in the place, interrupted only by the soft strains of music from the radio, which Vicky kept tuned to a light jazz station.
It was nothing like the soulless cinder block and dented metal and cracked plastic of Sam’s Boston precinct. And the stench of too many unwashed perps and overworked cops had been replaced by freshly baked bread from Barb’s Bohemian Bakery next door. Also absent was the constant ringing of phones, the whining and jeering of the hookers and pushers in the cages, and the free-flowing profanity of his colleagues. Sam, like his two full-time deputies and the half-dozen volunteer deputies who visited the precinct from time to time, had learned to watch his language, because Vicky fined anyone who swore within her hearing a dollar for every inappropriate word used. Then she donated the money to the Northaven Free Public Library.
The new Maguire Browsing Collection was named after Sam, since the bulk of his first year’s paychecks had gone to Vicky.
As different as his life in Northaven was, however, he wouldn’t go back to Boston for a million bucks. He might never quite get used to living here, but he liked it. A lot. It appealed to that thing inside him that had made him become a cop to begin with—a belief that decency and goodness did exist in the world. In Boston, he’d begun to think that was only a fantasy. But it was true in places like Northaven, places that needed to be protected at all costs. So Sam would do his best to keep the small town and all its residents safe from outside corruption. Of course, now that he knew women like Alice Stuckey and Rosie Bliss—and the handful of other women in the morning aerobics class—were all vibrator enthusiasts….
He gave his head a hard shake as he pushed open the door to the precinct, in the hopes that doing so would chase away the image of Rosie, buck naked and flat on her back, legs spread wide and hips thrusting upward as she did things to herself with that vibrator he’d much rather be doing to her himself.
He bit back a groan as he strode into the precinct, hoping Vicky didn’t notice he had a woody at half-mast. But she had her dark blond head bent over a book, as she usually did during non-crime-spree times—which was pretty much always. To add a bit of color to her dispatcher’s uniform of white shirt and brown pants, she regularly added a sweater in a different color. Today’s was red. It matched the scrap of fabric she’d used to pull her curly hair back into a stubby ponytail.
“Any calls?” Sam asked as he hurried past her desk, trying to keep his back to her and his woody to himself.
“Only one for you specifically,” she told him. She turned in her chair to look at him as he seated himself at his desk. “From Ed Dinwiddie at campus security. Again.”
“The usual?” Sam asked.
“The usual,” Vicky confirmed. “He’s still sure there’s someone selling drugs at Northaven College, and he wants to coordinate with you on an investigation and possible stakeout.”
Sam didn’t bother to hide his groan this time, since it was one of regular frustration, and not the sexual kind. Ed Dinwiddie, the chief of security at Northaven College, had been sure someone was peddling drugs on campus since before Sam’s arrival in town. At first, Sam had taken the other man’s suspicions seriously, because he hadn’t had any reason not to. But a brief investigation had produced nothing but Ed’s overactive imagination to support the existence of anything narcotic going on at Northaven—save a lot of caffeine abuse and OD’ing on Green Day around midterm and finals time. Then, when Bruno and Dalton, Sam’s two full-time deputies, had assured Sam there was nothing out of the ordinary going on because they’d investigated it themselves a time or two, Sam had let the matter drop.
Ed, however, hadn’t.
He sent monthly reports to Sam describing in detail his suspicions and everything that made him suspicious. The problem was that Ed Dinwiddie found suspicious anything from what he considered incriminating dialogue between students—which consisted largely of slang words for coffee and oral sex—to what he was sure was drug paraphernalia—even