by Norah Wilson
Chapter 8
Suzannah was deep into case law when her phone rang. Absently, she picked the receiver up. “Suzannah Phelps.”
“Hey.”
John. “Hey, yourself.”
“You taping this conversation?”
She leaned back in her chair. “No. It’s not set up yet.”
A sigh. “You promised.”
He’d wanted her to let the cops put a tap on it, but as a criminal defense attorney, she’d had to draw the line at that. She’d agreed to a tap on her line at home, reasoning that if she got a call from an incarcerated client, she could tell them to clam up until she got there to discuss the situation in person. She could hardly do that here at the office. As a compromise, she’d agreed to run her line through the dictating equipment so she could record a conversation at the flip of a switch.
She rolled her shoulders to ease the tension that had built up there from too many hours at the same task. “The tech guy is coming this afternoon to do it.”
“Good.” A brief pause. “So, I guess this means we can talk dirty.”
A little jolt of excitement spiked her pulse. “I guess we could if we were so inclined.”
“What are you wearing?”
That was his idea of talking dirty? “Some detective you are. You saw what I was wearing when we left the house.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t see what you were wearing under it.”
Just like that, she was hot. All he had to do was pitch his voice low and raspy. She didn’t think it would even matter what he said, especially if those eyes were on her. She closed her eyes and reproduced that look he gave her, all banked heat and patience. She swiveled her chair toward the window, oblivious of the view. “Maybe I’ll give you a little preview at lunch.”
“You’d let me look down your blouse?”
“Like it would be the first time that happened.”
“Damn the bad luck.”
“What?”
“I can’t make it for dinner. That’s why I'm calling. Trial went into a voire dire and I’m stuck here until they get back.”
That’s right. He’d said he had a jury trial. Local businessman on a decade old sexual assault charge. She squelched her disappointment. “Sounds like you’ve got your hands full.”
“You know how it is, these hot-shot criminal defense attorneys from Upper Canada. Gotta justify that fat fee somehow.”
Frankly, she was inclined to agree with John’s assessment, but there was no way she’d tell him so. “You are such a cynic, Detective,” she said, careful to keep the smile out of her voice.
He snorted. “Like you’re the original Pollyanna.”
She didn’t try to hide her smile this time. “So that’s why you called? To stand me up for lunch?”
“No choice about standing you up, I’m afraid, but I’d like to send a stand in.”
Suzannah tipped her chair forward so fast her elbow connected painfully with the desk. She transferred the telephone to her other hand, grimacing as she shook the pain out of her left arm. “You want to send a stand in?”
“Yeah. Ray Morgan.”
John’s sidekick. His image came instantly to mind, as impeccably pressed as John was carelessly rumpled. “That’s not necessary.”
“Not to look down your blouse or anything. Just to keep you company.”
“No.”
A pause. “No?”
“I don’t need a cop to babysit me over dinner, John.”
“Hell, Ray’s a friend. He’d be doing it as a friend.”
“Your friend is a cop.”
“Suzannah...”
“I’ve gone as far as I care to go by filing a complaint.”
“Well, of course you filed a complaint. Any person with two clues to rub together would –”
“Hey, I agree,” she overrode him. “And I don’t regret it for a minute. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to have the entire force think I’m scared to cross the street for a burger without a police escort.”
She heard his sigh loud and clear through the receiver. “Order in, then.”
Not so long ago, the command in his tone would have gotten her back up. She knew now that he was motivated by genuine concern, abetted by an overdeveloped sense of protectiveness. She might even have complied to alleviate his anxiety. But today she just couldn’t.
“John, I’ve been hunched over this desk for three hours. I need a stretch, some fresh air and a change of scenery.”
“You’re walking?”
She rolled her eyes. “The whole block and a half.”
“Take somebody with you.”
She glanced at her wristwatch. Ten to twelve. In all probability, Vince would have just left and Candace would be just getting back. “Okay,” she agreed.
“Got your alarm with you?”
Her gaze automatically went to the small gadget she’d clipped to her purse. Sacrilege to ruin the clean lines of the Prada, but it was better than wearing it around her neck as John had wanted. “Yeah, I’ve got it,” she said. “Any more orders?”
“Yeah. Talk dirty to me.”
She laughed. “I wouldn’t know how.”
“Sure you do. I’d give you a demonstration, but I’m standing at a public pay phone in a crowded hallway. Wouldn’t want to draw a crowd.”
A crowded hallway in the Justice Building. Her lips curved in a wicked smile. She might not be very good at it, but she might never get another chance like this one. “Well, there is this one fantasy...”
“Yeah? Go on.”
He did it again, dropped his voice to that register where it seemed to shiver right through her. “Not a fantasy, really. More of a wish.”
“One we can make come true?”
She closed her eyes. “Easily. And you wouldn’t even have to move a muscle.”
“Sounds ... intriguing. Care to elaborate, counselor?”
“I was thinking it’s my turn to get under your shirt this time.”
Background voices surged and receded. Then John’s voice in the receiver, lower and more gravelly. “I think that could be arranged.”
“Good. Because my hands seem to have developed a will of their own.”
“Yeah?”
“Mmmm. You see, they’ve got this bone-deep need to touch warm skin. Your chest, your back, your shoulders.” Voices again in the background, this time very close. She pictured him angling himself away from the others.
“Sounds wonderful.”
“When these hands are finished with you, Detective, I expect to be able to sculpt a three dimensional model with my eyes shut.”
He swore softly.
“Problem, Detective?”
“Witch. I think you know what my problem is.”
She laughed. “You asked for it,” she reminded him.
His answering laugh warmed her all the way through. “I guess I did, didn’t I?”
“Goodbye, John.”
“Wait! Don’t hang up. I can’t walk away from the phone.”
Her grin broadened. “I recommend calling the local radio station. Maybe they’ll spin a special request for you.”
Fifteen minutes later, as she popped the lid off her taco salad, she was still smiling at the mental image of John staring in disbelief at the dead receiver in his hand. Life was good.
Beneath the table, her cell phone buzzed from inside her purse, its ringer muted. Swiveling in the chair, she groped awkwardly for the bag. It rang twice more before she managed to open the bag and retrieve the slim phone. She turned away from the crowd and flipped the phone open, pressing a hand to one ear to drown out the lunch hour din.
“Suzannah Phelps.”
No reply.
“Hello?”
There were muffled noises in the background, but nothing else; no breathing, no caller carrying on a second conversation.
“Hello? Are you there, caller?” she repeated.
Again, no reply.
Shrugging, she snapped the phone sh
ut and slipped it back in her purse. This time, she parked her bag on the table for quicker access if it rang again, and returned her attention to her meal.
Half way through the salad, she started to feel a little giddy, though not unpleasantly so. All this thinking about John, she supposed. She picked up her diet cola and drained it. There’d be hell to pay tonight for their little phone conversation. The sweetest kind of hell. He’d insist she make reality of the mind pictures she’d conjured.
Suddenly, in the middle of a busy fast-food family restaurant, at the height of the lunch hour, she was fully aroused. Her face felt flushed, her breasts tingled and her body ached. Tonight was too far away.
What if she were to meet him at the Justice Building? Maybe she could whisk him away when he finished his testimony.
Her breath came hard at the thought. Pushing her tray out of the way, she grabbed her purse and headed for the door. Briefly, the faces around her seemed to swim together. She blinked twice, and everything came back into focus.
Her eagerness to reach John suddenly struck her as funny. She laughed, drawing a few curious looks. God, she’d better shut up or the lunch time crowd would think she was drunk! Carefully, she made her way through the parking lot. Three more steps and she gained the sidewalk, except as she walked, the concrete slabs beneath her feet seemed to undulate, making her stagger.
Good God, she was drunk! But how? She hadn’t consumed anything even mildly alcoholic.
Finally, fear penetrated her confusion. Going hot and cold at once, she glanced back toward the parking lot. Cars, faces, clothing ... everything blurred. She tried to gauge the respective distances to the restaurant and to her office. The restaurant was a little closer, but if someone had doctored her drink or her food, they must have done it back there.
Why hadn’t she listened to John?
Then she heard it, brisk, purposeful footsteps approaching from behind. Heart tripping, she lurched into motion again. She had to get to her office. A man’s voice called her name. Instead of turning, she broke into a run.
The voice called her name again, much closer, shouting for her to stop in a tone so commanding she almost obeyed. She was so close now, her office building just across the street, but with her pursuer closing in, she’d never be able to cross the busy four lanes. She could hear his breathing now, close behind her and knew she wouldn’t even have time to reach one of the commercial businesses on the north side of the street.
This was it. Her only choice was to turn and fight, hope someone came to her rescue.
The alarm! She was carrying a personal alarm. Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner? Fingers clumsy, she fumbled for and found the electronic gadget attached to her purse. Seconds later, the air was rent by the high-pitched, intermittent shriek. It was the last sound she heard before she sank to the sun-warmed sidewalk in a dead faint.
