All A Man Can Ask. Virginia Kantra
and used her left hand to massage her right wrist. Without the support of the cast, it ached when she used it too long.
“Never mind,” she said. “I won’t press charges or—or whatever it is. I don’t have time, anyway. I’m here to work.”
“Really?” the chief asked politely. Well, now that he had what he wanted—her cooperation—she supposed he felt compelled to be polite. “What kind of work do you do, Miss Harper?”
Once she would have told him with pride that she was a teacher. Now she stammered. “I, um…not work, exactly. I should have said I paint.”
“Lots of pretty scenery up here,” the chief said, still politely.
She made an agreeable noise—it seemed the fastest way to get him to leave her alone—and hoped he wouldn’t start to tell her what views she ought to paint while she was here or about his aunt/sister/cousin who used to model clay/draw her own Christmas cards/do decoupage.
He didn’t. He thanked her again formally and got off the line.
Faye drew a shaky breath and looked around her aunt’s living room, now serving as her temporary studio. Brushes stood in mayonnaise jars. Paint dried in plastic trays. Photographs—a bright sailboat slicing the horizon, a flock of birds above an inlet, a skyscape at midday—spilled across the table. The metallic strip board she’d hauled from her Chicago apartment propped against one wall, her most recent work held in place with small round magnets.
I paint.
Beautiful scenes. Bright scenes. Safe scenes.
She bit her lip, aware of a faint dissatisfaction. Maybe they did lack a little of the energy and edge that characterized her earlier work, but they were pretty. Soothing.
Lame, Jamal would have said, with a shake of his head and his wide, white grin…
The tight control she’d held over her thoughts fissured, and through the gap, bitter self-accusation swept in a flood. Don’t go there, she told herself. Do not. Go there. Don’t.
She picked up one of the trays and headed to the kitchen to rinse out the old paints in the sink. She was scrubbing burnt umber from the palette’s crevice when the doorbell rang.
Her heart began to thump. She turned off the water. She wasn’t expecting visitors. She didn’t know anyone in town, not really, and while she had left a forwarding address at the school, no one in Chicago cared where she’d gone. Mail delivery came around three and her aunt’s cottage was too far off the beaten path to attract many salesmen.
Drying her hands on a paper towel, she went to the door. A man’s tall outline blocked the afternoon sun. She squinted through the screen. Her misgiving swelled.
It was him.
Aleksy Denko.
Chapter 2
Aleksy was used to one of two reactions when he knocked on a woman’s door. Either she stalled him while the man of the house bolted down the fire escape. Or, sooner or later, she invited him in for sex. Some women did both.
Faye Harper didn’t look like she would do either one.
She hung back in the shadow of the house, her arms crossed and her body language shouting “go away.” He didn’t hold it against her. Even with Jarek’s phone call smoothing the way, he probably made her nervous.
“It’s okay,” he said with an easy grin. He could do charming. Karen used to say it was his best interview technique, though he liked to think he had a nice line in subtly threatening, too. “I’m not selling anything.”
Faye Harper didn’t smile as he’d hoped and half expected. But she did take a half step closer to the screen. “That’s good. Because I’m not buying. Anything.”
This time his grin was for real. Score one for the cream puff. And she looked cute, with her short blond hair and her small pale face, scowling at him through the screen. Cute wasn’t his type, but he could understand the appeal.
“Well, now that we know where we stand, do you mind if I come in?”
She hesitated. “Will this take long?”
Not if she gave him what he wanted.
“I’ll try not to take up too much of your time,” he promised.
She unlocked the screen—he could have told her that was useless, any punk with a razor would cut through that flimsy barrier in seconds—and stepped aside to admit him. She smelled like spring flowers and line-dried sheets. He sniffed in appreciation.
She sniffed, too. “Can I see your ID?”
He gave her credit for asking and showed her his driver’s license.
She studied it gravely and then asked, “Don’t you have a badge?”
He winced. “A star,” he said. “We call them stars. Security guards have badges.”
The corners of her mouth dented, like she was amused, but she only said, “May I see it?”
He handed her the leather holder that held his detective’s star with its black metallic band and raised white letters. He saw her surprise as its weight registered.
She turned it in her hand. “Why didn’t you show this to the other officer this morning?”
She might be nervous, but she sure wasn’t dumb.
“I didn’t want to blow my cover,” he said. “I’m working a case.”
And if his lieutenant heard that one, he’d bust Aleksy’s butt down to traffic patrol.
Faye tipped her head to one side. “Then why tell me now?”
He tried for a little sincerity. “Because I need your help.”
“No.”
Okay. Screw sincerity. Back to charm. “Maybe help is too strong a word,” he said, leaning forward to take his star and her hand with it. “Cooperation.”
She withdrew her hand, leaving the leather holder behind. “You’ll have to recruit someone else. I’m not cooperating. Well, I’m not pressing charges, but that’s as much as I can do. I can’t afford to get involved. I’m here to rest and recover.”
He looked her over. She looked good to him. “Been sick?”
She had very fine skin. She flushed. “Not really.” But he noticed her left hand moved to cover her right wrist. Interesting.
“I’m on vacation,” she said.
Not cooperating. And not divulging much, either.
“Faye—can I call you Faye?—what do you do?”
She moved her shoulders uncomfortably. “I teach.”
That fit. He could see her in a kindergarten classroom, surrounded by adoring five-year-olds. She wasn’t much more than a kid herself, with her wide brown eyes and her short, messy hair. Under that ridiculous skirt she wore, her narrow feet were bare. Unbelievably he got turned on looking at her feet.
Poor timing.
Remember Karen.
Do the job.
He switched his gaze back to her face. “A teacher, huh? Where do you teach?”
“Lincoln High School.”
Lincoln? He almost whistled. The high school was adjacent to one of the most notorious projects in Chicago. Enrollment was high, graduation rates low, teacher burnout and turnover at epidemic rates. No wonder cream puff needed rest-and-recovery.
“What do you teach?” he asked, not just making conversation anymore.
“Art,” she said flatly.
They