The Hotshot. Jule Mcbride
handed the Glass Slipper case, however temporarily.
“Before we go,” he said, “I’ve got a few things to take care of here.” Closing the file with his picture in it, he pushed it across the desk, toward Trudy. “My cruiser’s in the garage downstairs.”
“The one with the dice hanging over the rearview mirror?”
“Cute,” he said again. “Mind waiting? I’ll meet you there. Twenty minutes.”
“No problem.” She offered a curt nod. Sweeping the file off his desk, she turned, hugging it to her chest, and he whistled softly, watching her weave through the squad room. He’d been right about the legs. Long and shapely, they were encased in shimmering summer hose. The gentle twitch of her backside could make dry cotton salivate.
He didn’t really have any work to do. He’d come in early this morning, but after meeting Trudy, he needed a moment to think. He needed a strategy for dealing with her. The truth was, she was determined, opinionated and reminded him of Sue, the woman he’d almost married. There was nothing like young love to rip your heart out, he thought. Nothing like losing an unborn child to keep you from healing.
Shaking off the thoughts, Truman headed for his mother, and then later, after she was gone, he sipped a third cup of coffee. Finally, he glanced at his watch. “Thirty minutes.” Long enough to communicate he was a busy guy.
Returning to his office, Truman traced his eyes over the files on his desk. “Where are they?” he suddenly whispered. As messy as things looked, he was flawlessly methodical. Capote and Dern hadn’t picked up the files for the Glass Slipper case, which meant they should still be on his desk. They’d been right here, beneath the PR file that Trudy Busey…
“Oh, she’s good,” he muttered, realizing she’d stolen his files. And then he took long strides to the precinct’s parking lot.
NOT ABOUT TO DWELL on the charged encounter with Truman Steele, Trudy curled a foot beneath her in the seat of his cruiser and delved into his files, scrutinizing photos of the most gorgeous shoes she’d ever seen. Steele was a good cop, she grudgingly admitted, jotting notes as she read statements taken from the theft victims, all of whom were nationally known women working in film, fashion, music or politics.
“These shoes are incredible,” she whispered excitedly, leafing back through nearly a hundred publicity photos taken while the women were wearing them. There was a model on a runway, an actress traversing the red-carpeted entrance to the Oscars, an ex-first lady giving a luncheon speech. On their feet were everything from genie slippers to fabric-covered mules to zippered sandals with spiral heels. The NYPD hadn’t released nearly this many photos to the press.
Assuring herself it was purely academic interest, Trudy started wondering how Truman had handled interviewing women who were so rich, beautiful and accomplished. Inhaling shakily, she tried not to think about how Truman’s every breath and movement was underwritten by the taut thread of his sexuality. It was unbelievable, but nothing more than how he’d looked at her had made her shudder. His eyes were so much more than brown. They were hot honey that warmed, sweetened, promised…
She was almost glad for the distraction when the door against which she leaned was wrenched open. Reflexively, she grabbed the dashboard as her foot quickly gained purchase on the pavement. Scrambling from the car, she was preparing to defend herself when hands that should have been rough, but instead felt warm, strong and intriguing curled over her shoulders.
Suddenly, she could barely breathe. “Officer Steele?” Dammit, she’d been trying to keep an eye on the fire exit, so she could shove the stolen files under the seat when he came outside.
He yanked her toward him. “Expecting someone else?”
She swallowed hard as he slammed the car door. “I thought we were leaving?”
“Not yet.”
Right now, he looked less the pretty-boy, more the cautious cop. Body heat seeped from his uniform shirt, and registering that their chests were just inches from touching, she felt her knees weaken. Oh, yes. It was definitely the wrong time to recall how his chest had looked in that photo—bare and smooth, just the way Trudy liked a man’s chest to look, with pecs chiseled out of marble, the nipples hard. He was staring down at her with slanted eyes the color of undiluted bourbon when he lifted a finger, traced it lightly under her chin and used a thumb to turn her face more fully to his. “Look at me.”
“Quit touching me and I will.”
Male awareness filled his gaze. “Does that bother you?” he murmured. “Me touching you?”
“Of course it does.” He dropped his hand, but not before the tips of her breasts tightened beneath her clothes. He couldn’t see, of course. He didn’t know. But as heat stained her cheeks, she wished they were upstairs again, with all those cops milling around instead of in this deserted garage.
“You stole my files.”
Now that she’d successfully gotten rid of his hand, she vied for more. “Could you give me some breathing room?” Her back was flat against the car door, and the way he’d sandwiched her between his hard body and the metal was stealing her breath.
“What possessed you?”
She arched a brow. “Possessed? Must have been a demon.”
“I’m beginning to believe it’s just your personality.”
“Don’t worry,” she returned dryly, pleased her voice was level. “I didn’t read anything that would offend my finer sensibilities.” Upstairs, the crime scene photos had sickened her more than she’d let on, and despite her usual fury over male protectiveness, she was strangely touched that Truman hadn’t wanted her to see them.
“Are you really as hard as nails?”
“Of course not.” Not usually. But she hadn’t been prepared for what Truman Steele’s photo couldn’t divulge—his energy, core, essence, whatever you wanted to call it. “But I’m here to do a job.”
“However dishonestly?”
“I’m a reporter.” And she didn’t intend to return to the Milton Herald where her lead stories had been even worse than this, involving runaway cows, backed-up town sewers and the occasional birth of twins. “What’s dishonest is leaving a reporter in a parking lot while you pretend to be busy with work. Admit it, but weren’t you eating another doughnut? Chocolate-or vanilla-filled?”
“Chocolate,” he returned without hesitation.
“You kept me waiting intentionally.”
“You stole those files.”
She pointed to a napkin on the dashboard. “Someone was nice enough to give me a doughnut, too.” She smiled. “And the files made for good reading.” Seeing the furious glint in his eyes, she suspected she’d gone too far and tried to soften the blow with flattery. “My compliments. You do a very thorough interview.”
“It’s illegal to steal police files. I could run you back upstairs and book you.”
“True. But Captain Coombs might be disappointed in my public relations article in the News.”
“Blackmailer,” he whispered. “You wouldn’t.”
She shrugged. “I’m interested in the Glass Slipper story. I’m hoping you’ll talk to me. Off the record, if need be.”
Grudging respect crept into eyes that were lingering too long at the open throat of her blouse, and when he leaned, as if to get a better look at her, his bemused lips seemed too close to her own. “Talk about my case?” he said. “I’d be solving it if I didn’t have to chauffeur you around town.”
She frowned. “Somebody else was given that case? Who?”
“Capote and Dern.”
She’d heard of them. “They couldn’t book