Untameable. Diana Palmer
He glared at her. “No reason to become conceited.”
“But, sir, I have so much to be conceited about,” she said haughtily. Her blue eyes twinkled. “Want to know what the stylists are doing for the holiday season this year? How about the latest fashion buzz from Paris?”
He was looking more irritable by the second. “When I want to know those things, I’ll call Cammy and have her send her matrimonial prospect right over to enlighten me,” he said sarcastically.
Her eyes widened. “I can call her for you. Right now, if you like.”
“If you do, you’ll really be out looking for a new job,” he returned.
She shrugged. “Okay. But you don’t know what you’re missing. All those color predictions, skirt length changes …”
He stood up. “Out!” he said, pointing to the door.
She stood up, too. “Ingrate,” she muttered.
He came around the desk. He was really tall, she thought, when he stopped less than an arm’s length away from her. “You’re a fountain of wisdom from time to time, Joceline,” he said very softly. “We have our differences, but you’re a real asset here.”
She flushed. “Thanks.”
He looked down into her eyes for longer than he meant to, and was suddenly aware of a new tension, a new electricity that arced between them.
Joceline felt her heart bounce up into her throat at the intensity of his gaze. She couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away, and a huge shock surged up inside her like an almost tangible joy.
His eyes narrowed as he felt the same impact of pleasure. His jaw tautened noticeably.
“Your eyes are the oddest shade of blue I’ve ever seen,” he remarked quietly. “Almost a royal blue.”
“Yours are black,” she replied, searching them.
“Yes.” Involuntarily his lean, beautiful hand came up and touched her flushed cheek. “This is very dangerous,” he said in a deep, velvety tone. “I might think of it as an invitation.”
“I might point out that you’re the one inviting trouble,” she retorted and stepped back. There were reasons why she could never allow him closer than arm’s length. “My legions of male admirers would set upon you like flies on honey and sunder you limb from limb. Not only that, there’s this famous gorgeous movie star who calls me three times daily … and there he is, on the phone again!” she exclaimed, and almost ran from the office to answer the phone on her desk.
He was still laughing when he closed the door.
IT HAD BEEN a narrow escape. Joceline’s knees were weak for the rest of the day every time she gazed at her gorgeous boss. She avoided looking directly at him, because she was afraid that he was right: she had been inviting trouble.
On the other hand, he’d touched her cheek. He was the one who’d come so very close to her. It was only the second time in their years together that he’d ever approached her in an intimate way—although it wasn’t actually intimate. And he didn’t remember the first time. She hoped, she prayed, that he never would.
An hour later, still dreaming of her boss, Joceline was feeding information into the computer when the part-timer, Phyllis Hicks, stopped by her desk with a question.
“These forms are so boring,” she complained. “My dad works in the homicide department at San Antonio P.D. and I get to look at crime scene photos.” Her eyes gleamed oddly. “Murder is such an exciting thing, don’t you think?”
“Murder?”
Phyllis shifted. “The investigation, I mean. You get to catch criminals. My daddy’s real good at it.”
“Who is your dad?”
“His name’s Dave Hicks, he works with Marquez.” She made a face. “I don’t like Marquez at all.”
That was a surprise. Most people did. Most women found him attractive.
“Of course, he’s not my real dad,” she added. “My real dad is special. He thinks outside the box. He’s not afraid of anything.” She laughed. “He lets me do stuff with him. It’s very exciting.” She caught herself and gave Joceline a beaming smile. “Sorry, I get carried away. Now about this form, do I have to fill in every single space?”
Joceline told her how to input the information, but long after Phyllis went back to her typing chores, Joceline sat quietly in her chair. She felt vaguely uneasy about the young woman. Was it normal to enjoy looking at crime scene photos? They made Joceline very ill. Once she’d even thrown up when she saw one in a file that involved the vicious killing of a young woman who’d threatened Senator Will Sanders. The woman had been brutally killed, a crime for which Jay Copper was charged. But Phyllis liked them?
There was no accounting for taste, she supposed, and there was the notorious forensic investigator, Alice Mayfield Jones Fowler, who really got into her work at crime scenes and never seemed to be bothered by what she had to see. On the other hand, Alice didn’t find murder scenes exciting, either.
“I’ll never fit in this modern society,” Joceline muttered to herself. She didn’t understand the fascination with death, with zombies, with vampires …
Well, she loved the very popular vampire movie trilogy, so that wasn’t quite true. Perhaps Phyllis was just exaggerating. She might have never seen a crime scene photo. She was working in an office that dealt with violent crime, so perhaps she felt being excited by the process of crime-solving was expected.
Joceline shook her head and went back to work.
When quitting time came, she grabbed her purse, called good-night through the closed door and almost ran out of the building. She’d had enough for the day, after Phyllis’s strange questions.
Even the fact that she had a worrisome meeting with school officials next was less disturbing than her boss’s odd behavior. Joceline kept dark secrets. She had no wish to ever display them, least of all to Jon Blackhawk.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE HEAD OF the school, Mr. Morrison, and Markie’s teacher, Ms. Rawles, were very nice about it. But they were emphatic that Markie’s antics were disruptive and that he needed medication to prevent him from being a distraction to the other students.
Joceline just looked at them. She didn’t agree or disagree.
“We would like your assurance that this matter will be resolved,” Mr. Morrison said kindly. “Your pediatrician can put Markie on a medication to control his outbursts.”
She smiled blankly. “In other words, you want me to go to my doctor and order him to put my four-year-old son on drugs?”
There were shocked, indignant looks.
She stood up, still smiling. “I’ll have a long talk with my son. I’ll also speak with our family physician. We don’t have the funds to afford a pediatrician, I’m sorry to tell you. Markie’s hospital visits are expensive, and we have an allergist in addition to a family physician, but we’re rather limited in our budget. I have to have medical care for both of us, and a family practitioner is the best we can do right now.”
They were still speechless.
“I will, however, speak with my family doctor about your insistence that Markie needs to become drug dependent. And if my physician agrees with you,” she added sweetly, “then I will find another family physician.”
“Uh, Mrs., that is, Miss, I mean Ms. Perry,” Mr. Morrison stammered.
“I believe the politically correct designation is Ms.,” she said helpfully.
“We only think Markie, being so young, requires some help with his difficulty