by Linda Howard
But this wasn’t “someday,” this was now, and she had her hands full. A man like Eric Wilder was a time-suck; she instinctively knew it, even though she’d spent little more than an hour, if that much, in his company. He might not insist on having a woman’s undivided attention, but she had the feeling that the sheer force of his personality would make him as hard to ignore as an elephant in the living room. Just because he’d been playing nice tonight didn’t mean she couldn’t see the force beneath that civilized veneer. As a general rule, the meek and mild didn’t become cops. And as another general rule, cops were almost perpetually on call even on their days off, worked long, irregular hours, and, like marrying a doctor, a woman should go into a relationship with a cop accepting that the job wasn’t a regular nine-to-fiver in either schedule or importance. Having Eric around would do nothing but muck up her orderly life.
Not that she’d mind being mucked by him.
Crap!
Exasperated by the way her thoughts kept going back to him, Jaclyn rummaged in her bag, snagged her cell phone, and hit the speed dial for her mom.
Her mother answered with her usual, confident “Madelyn Wilde,” her husky voice touched with a Southern accent deeper and richer than Jaclyn’s. Madelyn had the type of accent that could turn a two-syllable word into four, slow and redolent with a lazy charm that was in no way reflected in her personality. Madelyn was charming, beyond a doubt, but she was also tough and ballsy. She’d been a rock for Jaclyn during the tough days when her marriage was disintegrating beneath her, though maybe that was more along the lines of returning the favor, because Jaclyn had comforted her mother more times than one could count during Madelyn’s own breakup with Jaclyn’s dad.
“How did the rehearsal go?” Jaclyn asked. Sometimes she and her mother shared the duties of an event, if bookings were slow, but when things were busy they would split up. This week, things were way beyond merely “busy.”
“As smoothly as can be expected,” Madelyn drawled, her tone calm and amused. “The groom was late, the bride went into hysterics because she thought he was leaving her at the altar, never mind that they weren’t even at the altar yet, and one of the bridesmaids showed up with a black eye. A door, she said, but no one believed that story. I heard she got drunk at one of the showers, knocked over the punch bowl, and the ladle hit her in the eye.”
Jaclyn took a moment to imagine that scenario, and couldn’t keep the smile out of her voice. “Since you didn’t call earlier with bad news, I’m assuming the groom arrived and the wedding is on.”
“Yes, and Peach called a friend of hers who’s a whiz with makeup. She made an appointment for the girl. Tomorrow evening, no one will realize that one of the bridesmaids is sporting a shiner.”
Peach was Madelyn’s friend and assistant, and together the two women could work wonders. It was a large part of the reason Premier not only survived, but thrived. Between the two of them, they knew almost everyone who was anyone in the Buckhead area—and in Buckhead, everyone was someone. What made Premier different was their ability to handle any situation with aplomb, and Jaclyn was definitely her mother’s daughter.
Middle-of-the week weddings were unusual but not unheard-of. The happy couple had been able to snag the reception site they wanted for a bargain price, and they hadn’t been forced to wait months for the church to be available for the ceremony. The affair wasn’t one of the big, extravagant presentations, but Premier handled weddings in all price ranges, and how many duties Jaclyn and Madelyn handled depended on how much the bride wanted to spend.
Madelyn sighed, and asked the inevitable question. “How did your meeting with the bride from hell go?”
“I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re asking,” Jaclyn said drily. Even though she was the one handling Carrie Edwards’s wedding, no detail was unshared. Madelyn and Peach knew everything about the problems with Carrie.
“Diedra talked to Peach this afternoon, and brought her up-to-date. It’s a bad sign when no one has anything nice to say about the bride. Makes you wonder if the groom has lost his mind. Even if she can suck the chrome off a bumper, there’s no blow job good enough to be worth living with her.” While Jaclyn was still snorting with laughter at the incongruity of the bawdy insult drawled in Madelyn’s lazy-Southern-lady accent, her mother added, “It’s a big wedding, the money is nice, but I swear, if we’d known how much trouble this wedding would be, we would’ve tossed it back like a stinky fish.”
They were all counting the days until Carrie’s wedding was over and behind them. In their years of business they’d dealt with some doozies: angry brides, demanding brides, brides who cried at the drop of a hat, brides who probably heard voices telling them to kill. Then there were the mothers of the brides, who could be even worse, and the toxic bridesmaids, the grooms, the grooms’ parents, the squalling flower girl and/or ring bearer … the list went on and on. But never before had they all been so anxious to be rid of a client. Carrie Edwards would be legend; she would be the bridezilla against which they’d measure all future bridezillas for pure meanness.
Jaclyn sighed. Most brides were perfectly wonderful, happy women; some were even a joy to work with. It was a shame that a few bad apples had to stain the reputation of so many.
“You’re on your cell. Are you in the car?” Madelyn asked.
“On my way home.”
“I thought you’d be home by now; were you working late?”
“I stopped at a bar for a much-deserved drink.”
“I should’ve done the same after the rehearsal, but I was anxious to get home and take my shoes off. I rubbed a blister on my foot today. If you ever see me wearing those navy blue shoes again, slap me.”
Madelyn had been invited to the rehearsal dinner, but as usual she’d declined. After a long day, blistered foot or no blistered foot, a frozen dinner in front of the television was always preferable to being “on” for a couple more hours. Besides, without official duties to keep them busy, attending the rehearsal dinner meant hours of casual conversation with people they didn’t know and would likely never see again once the ceremony was over, so neither of them usually attended unless the bride specifically requested that they do.
Jaclyn considered telling her mother about Eric, but really, what was there to tell? I met a nice guy who’s maybe more wolf than lamb. Jaclyn shivered, just a little. More accurately it would be, I met a guy who makes my toes curl, which wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have with her mother. They shared all the details of work, but definitely not the details of their love lives. She didn’t want to think about her mother having a love life, though she knew Madelyn dated—much more often than she herself did, as a matter of fact—and she imagined Madelyn felt the same about her.
They made plans to meet at the office in the morning before they both got busy with their workday, said good-bye, and Jaclyn ended the call as she pulled into the one-car garage that each condo possessed. To her, having the garage space was worth the cost of the condo. Though they weren’t rolling in money, she and Madelyn each made a nice living from Premier. She lived in a nice place: spacious but not huge, sort of upper middle of the road, if such a thing existed. Overall she was very happy with her life and home, and the business they’d built.
There was something innately satisfying about what she did. She made sure marriages got off to the most spectacular, beautiful, and trouble-free start possible. She planned and executed wedding ceremonies and receptions that were events to remember with fondness if everything went right, and it was her job to make sure everything did. Relationships were her business, in a way, and yet she didn’t have time for one of her own.
She was pretty sure that made a statement about her life, but she didn’t know exactly what the statement was.
Eric had remained sprawled at the table after Jaclyn had left, staring at his empty beer glass and wondering if he should order another. No, he had to drive home; one was his limit. And if he wasn’t going to order anoth
er beer, he should be nice to the waitress and get his ass out of the chair so the table would be available to customers who actually intended to order something.
Someone slid into the empty chair across from him, and he glanced up to see Gillespie leaning toward him, his expression one of good-natured mischief. “Okay, old man, what did you say to her that would make a woman like that talk to someone like you, when she gave me the brush-off?”
Eric snorted. Old man, his ass; he was only seven or eight years older than Gillespie. He could tell by the small pool of silence around them that eager ears were listening, hoping to hear something they could use to rag Gillespie in the locker room tomorrow. Not that the patrolman wasn’t well-liked—he was—but an opportunity was an opportunity, no matter who the target was.
“Listen closely, Grasshopper,” he intoned, holding up one finger as if to focus the attention of a thick-headed student.
“I’m listening, Master,” Gillespie said in a falsetto.
“One must be subtle with women,” he continued, raising his voice just a little so their audience could catch every word.
“Subtle.” Gillespie refrained from snickering. Eric wasn’t exactly known for his subtlety; he was more of a kick-ass type of guy who’d had to learn restraint.
“Anything overtly sexual is a turnoff, not a come-on.”
“Roll up your pants legs, the bullshit’s getting deep in here,” came a loud whisper from their audience.
“You’re going too fast. Let me take some notes,” said Gillespie, pulling out his notebook and pen and flipping to a blank page. He wrote down one word. “Okay: subtle. I got that. What else?”
“There’s one thing about me that gave me a big advantage,” said Eric, and their surrounding buddies erupted.
“Come on, Wilder, it ain’t that big; we’ve all seen you in the shower, remember?”
“Yeah,” added a black detective, grinning. “You’re not even the right color, man.”
Eric kept his tone solemn. “Confucius say, sleeping tiger look small; attacking tiger look big as fucking rhino.” While everyone was still hooting with laughter, he slid his chair back and stood. When the bar was quiet enough, he looked at Gillespie and said, “But I wasn’t talking about the size of my dick. There was something else.”
“Yeah? What was it?”
“We’d met before,” Eric said, grinning, and walked out of the bar with their laughter and groans following him.
He stood on the sidewalk in the thick, humid heat of a summer night, taking a moment to look around at the city lights, his immediate surroundings, the passing traffic. It had been a long day, and he’d killed more time in the bar than he’d intended, thanks to Jaclyn Wilde. He should be hitting the sack pretty soon, but he still felt antsy, coiled with tension.
He didn’t want to go home, not yet. Normally he looked forward to the peace and quiet, when he could kick back in his recliner, turn on the television, and watch some baseball or a fishing show, maybe a thriller, or read the newspaper he hadn’t had time to look at that morning. But not tonight; tonight, he wanted … something else.
Hell, he knew what he wanted. Her. Ms. Classy. Jaclyn Wilde. Expensive complication or not, he wanted her naked. She was easy on the eyes, easy to talk to, and unless he missed his guess she was as attracted to him as he was to her. She’d also made it plain she put her business first and wouldn’t make time for him until her schedule wasn’t as hectic.
He walked to his car, restlessly jingling his keys in his hand. Like all cops, he paid attention to everything around him, all the noises, the cars driving by, anyone he saw on the street, but it was as if he did so on autopilot. A big part of his brain kept seeing Jaclyn’s legs, and thinking of sliding that black skirt up them.
To hell with it.
He pulled out his phone and her card, and thumbed in her cell number. After two rings she answered with a crisp, “Hello.”
“I don’t want to wait a week,” he said bluntly, not even identifying himself. “Invite me over.”
There was a pause during which he could feel his heart beating and his balls and dick getting heavier with every second, waiting for the yes he knew she wanted to say, a pause that went on so long he began to think she might say no instead.
“Yes,” she said, her voice low. “Yes. Come over now.”
What the hell have I done?
Jaclyn stared at the phone in her hand. Oh my God. She hadn’t asked him if he’d lost his mind, she hadn’t simply given a polite “no,” instead she’d actually told him to come over. It was as if her mouth had been acting independently of her brain … and her brain was nowhere near being on the same page as her body.
For a moment she seriously considered calling him back and telling him that she’d changed her mind, or that she’d been suffering delusions and had just regained her senses. Either way, the end result would be to send him elsewhere, anywhere but here. Every functioning brain cell, and admittedly she didn’t seem to have a lot of them right now, told her she was crazy to get involved with him, or any man, in any way. It wasn’t logical for her to trust a man she’d just met. Cop or not, polite or not, he was a stranger.
But her instincts were whispering—hell, singing—a different tune. She wanted him pressed against her, into her. She wasn’t ready for the night to end; she wasn’t ready to let him go. She didn’t often ignore her common sense in favor of gut instinct, but tonight she was going with her gut.
Her brain whispered, That’s not your gut you’re listening to.
She didn’t care. Tonight she simply didn’t care. For years, the most impulsive thing she’d done was when she and Madelyn decided to open their own business, even knowing the horrible percentage of new businesses that failed within the first five years. Premier was almost seven years old, was stronger than ever, but she and her mother had worked their butts off for those seven years and tonight she didn’t want to be sensible, she didn’t want to take things slow, she wanted … hell, she wanted him.
There was a small sense of disorientation as she placed her cell on the end table and walked into the bathroom, not hurrying, but not dawdling, either. After getting home she’d stripped off her business suit, removed her makeup and washed her face, then taken a quick shower and put on her comfortable thin white pajamas—a simple tank and loose-fitting pants. She’d taken her hair down and thoroughly brushed it, the strokes of the brush easing the last bit of tension from her scalp. Her scintillating plan for the evening had been to relax in front of the television for an hour or so, watch something easy like House Hunters or maybe the Food Network, then lights out. Tomorrow was going to be a very busy day.
Now … this. Eric was coming over. For a moment she stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, wondering if she should slap on some makeup again, maybe spritz on a little perfume, put on some clothes. It didn’t take her long to decide. No, this was her, fresh-faced and unadorned, her shoulder-length black hair hanging loose. She glanced down at her bare feet, glad she’d recently had a pedicure. Her toenails were a bright red, the only splash of color on her body tonight.
As for putting on clothes … who was she kidding?
She did brush her teeth, before returning to the living room to wait for him. Should she put on a pot of decaf? No. That would be just as ridiculous as rushing around to put her clothes and makeup back on. Eric Wilder wasn’t coming here for coffee and more conversation. He was coming for sex, because he wanted her and she wanted him. They were adults, they both knew what this was about, and there was no reason for her to play games.
Her toes curled in anticipation.
When the doorbell rang she didn’t jump, not exactly. Her heart jumped; something deep and low within her jumped. She took a deep breath, walked to the door, and, just as a precaution, she glanced through the peephole to make sure it was him before opening the door wide.
They stood there facing each other almost like adversaries, gunslingers standing in the street, each waiting
for the other to make a move. Eric had loosened his tie, but nothing else had changed in the short time since she’d seen him last. Because she was barefoot now, he was a lot taller. Well, to be accurate she was shorter, but the end result was the same. He towered over her a good seven or eight inches.
He looked her over, blatantly, without an ounce of discretion or subtlety or pretense, just the way he’d looked at her ring finger. His gaze traveled up and down, then slowly back up again, taking his time, lingering on the places of most interest to him. Jaclyn took a deep breath, then backed away from the door, stepping out of his way, inviting him inside. He strode forward two steps, into the room and closer to her, and then he closed and locked the door behind him.
His eyes were slightly hooded, his gaze pinned on her—her face, at the moment, which was good form on his part because she knew damn well her erect nipples were evident against the thin fabric of the white tank. Then again, he’d already seen all he could see while her clothes were on. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he said.
Ditto. “Good … I think.” She didn’t know anything for certain, except she felt as if her skin might blister at any moment from the heat building inside her. Everything else was moving both too slow and too fast, events jumbling and bumping against each other even while time crawled.
He looked her up and down again; his gaze lingered on her toes for a moment. “Good God, I could eat you up.”
Butterflies fluttered in Jaclyn’s stomach. It had been years since she’d been nervous or anxious enough to suffer from butterflies, years since she’d simply let go and felt. “So what’s stopping you?”
“Nothing, thank God,” he said roughly, catching her wrists and sliding his palms up her forearms, then cupped her elbows and pulled her forward until her progress was stopped only by his muscled body, the thin fabric of her pajamas doing nothing to cushion the impact or protect her from his heat. As naturally as if they had been together forever, his hands moved from her elbows to her back, down to her bottom, gripping and urging her hips forward until she was nestled against the hard length of his erection.
