by Anne Calhoun
Not once did she mention Eve’s job or single status.
But despite all the press for Eye Candy, Eve had seen neither hide nor hair of Matt Dorchester in the three weeks since she’d climbed into the ambulance transporting her father to the hospital, and she wouldn’t push. She was a lifelong Eastie with a thriving business. He knew where to find her, if he wanted to.
The fall breeze caught Caleb’s red silk tie. He smoothed it down. “Are you the first person on the East Side to organize a demolition party?”
She smiled. “Maybe,” she said. “I hope I’m not the last.”
He gave her a quick look. “Sleeping any better?”
“A little.” Half her dreams were of the business end of a semiautomatic pistol, of the gun clenched in Lyle’s fist and swinging at her head, of her father’s pale, clammy face. Loud noises made her jump. The bruise on her face got double takes at the bank and the supermarket, concerned inquiries from customers, and when the whole story broke in the news, a flood of publicity that took days to handle, which was fine, because she wasn’t sleeping much anyway.
For the first time in weeks, standing outside was a pleasant activity. Summer’s heat and threat were both gone, replaced by fall’s crisp air and deep blue skies, and a sense of possibility for the East Side’s revitalization. Before the demolition ceremony she’d gone out to pick up the sandwiches donated by Henry from Two Slices, and cupcakes donated by Cindy’s Cinful Cupcakes. According to Henry and Cindy, traffic was up at both locations, and optimism and purpose infused the East Side’s main shopping district. For a moment, for just one moment in her afternoon, she let herself savor the victory.
Heels tapped briskly across the storeroom’s cement floor, too brisk to be Natalie. Eve and Caleb turned in unison to find Sorenson behind them, wearing a navy suit the same shade as Caleb’s.
“Hi,” Eve said. “Thanks again for coming to the demo ceremony. It meant a lot to me.”
“It was a good chance to get reacquainted with some of the community leaders,” Sorenson said. “We’re looking into the matter we discussed a few weeks ago.”
The corruption festering in the Eastern Precinct. Caleb perked up, but Eve didn’t give anything away. “I’m glad to hear it. I’ll do what I can to help.”
Sorenson’s visit wasn’t her first, or the only, from a member of the Lancaster Police Department. Lieutenant Hawthorn, Captain Whitmore, and several stone-faced officers from Internal Affairs had visited at other times, all asking the same questions about the shooting at the warehouse, and with the exception of Sorenson and Lieutenant Hawthorn, all carefully probing to see how she intended to portray the department in the upcoming media storm. Her responses to any and all questions followed the same basic script: “The Lancaster Police Department and the East Side citizens worked together in unprecedented and productive ways to stop a threat to our community. We hope that this is a sign of continued engagement and partnership.”
“Care to clue me in?” Caleb said mildly, turning an inquisitive eye to Eve.
“That’s up to Detective Sorenson,” Eve said.
Caleb turned to Sorenson and lifted his eyebrows.
“I think not, Counselor,” Sorenson said in a tone as smooth as silk. She shot Caleb a look obscured to Eve by the setting sun, but something about it made her brother go still. “Keep in touch, Eve.”
“You too, Jo,” Eve replied.
“How come you’re ‘Eve’ and I’m ‘Counselor’?” Caleb asked after she left.
“I didn’t come on to her in front of her male lieutenant and colleagues,” Eve answered. “Matt told me once that he’d never hit on her because if he did, he’d be dead to her. I’d say you’re dead to her. Regretting your runaway mouth for once in your life?”
“There’s no such thing as a lost cause,” Caleb said, still staring at the doorway into the bar. “Speaking of Detective Dorchester…”
The name hung in the air for a second before Eve could breathe in and answer. “No, I haven’t seen him,” she said evenly.
“He’s an idiot,” Caleb said matter-of-factly.
“No, he isn’t,” Eve countered. “When he does something, when he commits, he commits forever, and with everything in him. He takes his responsibilities seriously. I love that about him.” She paused but kept her gaze trained on the rubble filling her alley. “I love him. But I don’t want to be an obligation. I want to be his partner, his lover, someone who helps him shoulder his burdens. If he can’t let me in, then I’ll just have to move on.”
Caleb had no response to that, and she was grateful. She missed Matt so much she ached, and while the bruise was fading, her longing wasn’t.
Her brother turned to go, then said, “I almost forgot. No dinner tonight. Mom caught me as they were getting in the car and said Dad’s too tired from all the talking. He needs to rest. We should come over for lunch later in the week.”
“Fine by me,” she said. “I could use a night off.”
He bent and kissed the top of her head. “Take care, sister mine.”
Silence settled into the storeroom after Caleb left. The package with the concert tickets and the newspaper announcement should have arrived three days ago, but she hadn’t expected him to come to the demolition. The gift was for her as much as for him. It was closure, or it would be, when she felt it.
Behind her she heard the scritch-thump-scritch-thump of hard-soled shoes. Natalie, who’d stayed behind on her day off to handle the cleanup process while Eve finished off the last of the interviews. She’d buy Nat tickets to the New Kids on the Block reunion concert as thanks, maybe even go with her.
“Check out that view, Nat,” she said with a quick peek over her shoulder. “It’s—”
“Beautiful” died on her tongue as a tall, broad-shouldered figure disappeared from the light of the bar into the storeroom’s darkness. Her heart leapt in recognition, fierce joy surging inside her, but in a split second her brain discounted her body’s visceral response.
Suit, tie, wingtips. Audible approach. Not Matt Dorchester.
Probably a reporter, or one of the city councilwoman’s peach-fuzz assistants. She turned to face the newcomer and got the same electrifying jolt she felt every time their eyes made contact, sending her heart rate into the stratosphere and cutting off her breath.
Matt Dorchester.
In a suit and tie and wingtips, his badge clipped to his belt, his service weapon visible on his right hip. In his left hand he held a rectangular box wrapped in shimmery green paper. He stopped by the doorway, his gaze taking in her sleek hair and shadowed eyes, the fading bruise on her cheekbone, her conservative pantsuit and sensible heels, flicking over her as if afraid to linger.
Transfixed by one detail of his appearance, she didn’t hesitate to stare. “Your hair,” she said. It was cropped close to his head, gladiator-style.
“Regulations,” he said. He ran a palm over it, crown to forehead, the move practiced and automatic, and for a split second the aura of uniform, helmet, and rifle hung around him like a mirage. Then it disappeared, and in its place stood a man. Just a man. An all-too-human cop, a brother. Maybe, just maybe, a lover. “I’m done undercover. My face was all over the internet and the news. They’ll figure out what to do with me after IA clears me and McCormick for the shooting.”
Jo had already told her as much, but despite the fact that their efforts to stop Lyle Murphy had cost him the work he loved, he didn’t seem all that upset, or locked down, for that matter.
“How do you feel about that?” she asked cautiously.
He looked out over the rubble. “It’s the right thing for the department.” Another one of those quick, skating glances, then he added, “And for me.”
Oh. “That’s good, then,” she said. Her heart thunked against her chest, and heat rose into her face, making the still-tender spot on her cheekbone throb a little more acutely.
“Nat’s inside,” he said nodding over his shoulder. “Want me to get her for yo
u?”
“No! Ah, no,” she said, striving for the same cool attitude he projected, as if seeing him walk back into the bar didn’t fulfill the other half of her dreams.
“Good,” he said. “She told me I was six kinds of asshole for lying to her and to you, and if I thought I could drink free because I was a cop, I had another thought coming.”
“That sounds like Nat,” she said wryly.
“What did you want her to see?” he asked with a nod at the gold-dipped skyline.
“The future,” she said. “A long way off, but coming.”
Matt surveyed the dust-covered rubble. “You did good, boss.”
“So did you,” she said. “We did this together.”
“I know.” He extended the box to her. “This is for you.”
“You didn’t have to get me a present,” she demurred even as she automatically accepted the offered box.
“I wanted … I wanted to.”
She gave him a startled glance, this time seeing the nerves under the calm. “You did?”
“I did.” He nodded at the box. “Open it.”
Turning so her back rested against the doorframe, she slid her finger under the tape securing the end of the carefully wrapped paper, then continued the motion across the top of the box. The paper dropped away to reveal a Bose SoundDock, the latest version of the one Lyle’s flunky destroyed that fateful night.
Hope flickered to life. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I missed this. I missed you.”
A really sweet flush stood high on his cheekbones as the cool façade melted even more. He’s nervous. Not under control. He feels nervous. He feels.
“I … ah … haven’t been around lately, so maybe you already replaced it. If you did, I hear the Backstreet Boys are touring again.”
She threw back her head and laughed. “This is perfect, because I put a new sound dock on my Christmas list and spent the money on a wrecking ball.”
That laugh seemed to rumble from his chest a little more easily now, and lingered as a smile on his mouth. He looked at the pile of concrete, shook his head, looked back at her. Then he pulled two sheets of folded paper from his inner suit pocket, unfolded them so she could see the bar codes. The concert tickets. She’d thought he would take Luke, never dared to hope he’d want to take her.
Matt straightened away from the door, squared his shoulders, and held out his hand. Alexi Murdoch’s “Orange Sky” played quietly in the background. “I’m Matt Dorchester,” he said. “I’m a detective with the Lancaster Police Department.”
She’d heard a million lines in her time, but that one … that one took the cake.
She set the sound dock on the counter, slipped her hand into his. “Hi, Matt,” she said and gave his hand a firm shake. “I’m Eve Webber and I’m not fronting for a psychopath drug dealer.”
“Nice to meet you, Eve,” he said, but he didn’t let go of her hand. “I’ve got two tickets to the Maud Ward concert. Want to go with me?”
“I hoped you’d ask me,” she said. “But really, you can take Luke, or—”
Still gripping her hand, he stepped right into her personal space, and stopped her babble with a soft, thorough kiss. “Go to the concert with me, Eve. Please.”
“Okay,” she said breathlessly, propriety forgotten in the desire hanging over them like the afternoon sky.
Matt’s thumb stroked over the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. “It’s Monday night. Are you having dinner with your parents?”
“Dad still gets tired easily, so Mom’s taking him home to fuss over him. We’re getting together later in the week.”
“Do you want to go get dinner?”
“I’d love that,” she replied. “If you want to.”
“I want to,” he said softly.
The words lingered in the air like the dust motes in the setting sun. She waited for him to release her hand, but he held onto it, his thumb now slowly stroking her palm. “You’re going to have to let go of my hand.”
“I don’t want to let go,” he said. In the background Alexi Murdoch sang about love and salvation. “I need to not let go.”
Eve tilted her head and looked at him. Happiness, relief, reassurance lingered on the surface of his expression, while the depths held a possessiveness that was pure Matt Dorchester. Energy poured from him in waves, but the guarded look in his eyes, the sense of iron walls under muscle and skin, was gone.
“So don’t,” she said simply. “Don’t let go.”
He dropped her hand, wrapped that arm around her waist, and cupped the back of her head with his other hand to hold her close. “I missed you. God, I missed you.”
Absolutely astonished, a heartbeat passed before a bubble of emotion—joy, surprise, tears—expanded in her throat, but joy rose to the top. She slid her arms into his suit coat, above all the gear on his belt, and curved them up to flatten against his shoulder blades and pull him closer.
When she rested her forehead at the hollow of his throat, a long, slow sigh eased from him. He buried his face in her hair and drew in breath, exhaled again, and all that restless, tense, masculine energy prowled through her. Tension slipped from his muscles as he softened against her.
Let her hold him. He was utterly open to her. She threw open the doors of her soul and welcomed him in. She held him, he held her, and something clicked into place inside her. She turned her cheek to rest on the hard plane of his chest, breathed the simple, clean scent of him, and gently stroked his back.
The music played quietly in the background, and the setting sun filtered through the dust as they stood together under the orange sky.
“I really, really like it when you do what you want to do, Matt,” she whispered, and felt a smile curve against the top of her head.
His hand slid through her hair to cup her cheek. He stroked his thumb over the fading bruise, then bent his head and kissed the mark, a soft, gentle, healing kiss. Nerves ignited under his mouth, sending sensation streaming to her lips, parted on a skittering inhale.
“You sure? Maybe we should experiment a little. Make sure you want what I want.”
She traced his lower lip with her tongue, then he kissed her, just a gentle, open-mouthed kiss. It had never been this sweet. Never.
“For example, I wanted to do that. You?”
“I wanted you to do that,” she replied. “How did it feel to you?”
“It felt right,” he said against her uninjured cheekbone. “Really, really right.”
The confidence in his tone made her smile. “Me too.”
He did it again, then said, “This is definitely going to take weeks, because God knows we both have to work.”
“Months.”
“Years,” he said. The air flooded out of her when he tugged her out of the sunlight, into the cool dark of the storeroom, and backed her into the door, finally releasing her hand to slide his palm along her hip. “We’re talking about a lifetime commitment.”
She leaned back, and looked up into his face. “Are we?”
“I am.” His gaze searched hers. “I love you, Eve.”
A tremor ran through her at the words, but she continued to look into his eyes. “How do you know? We’ve been under duress.”
“I feel it,” he said simply, then brought her hand to rest flat on his chest. Through the white dress shirt she felt his heart beating. “Here. And here,” he added, moving her hand up to his throat. “Everywhere. You’re everywhere inside me, and I want you with me forever.”
She stroked the five o’clock shadow emerging on his jaw. “I want to be with you forever. We’ll make our own reality, you and me.”
“Sounds good, boss.”
Read on for an excerpt from Anne Calhoun’s next book
GOING DEEP
Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
CHAPTER ONE
It was good to be home.
Cady Ward stood under the spotlight, the crowd’s manic, vibrant energy rolling at her in waves, all
but lifting her off her feet with the surging roar and applause. She smiled, lifted a hand in acknowledgment. The clapping and whistles ticked up again. Sweat trickled down her ribs and spine. Her silk tank top clung to her skin as she shifted her guitar to her back, put her hands together, and bowed her appreciation to the crowd. Some of them were still singing the refrain to Love Crossed Stars, her biggest hit, the final song of her encore set.
“Thank you,” she murmured, not sure if the sound engineer had cut her mike feed or not. They echoed back into her earpiece, but the spoken words were lost in the din inside Lancaster’s Field Energy Center.
Hometown crowds were always generous. By this time in the show, after two encores and several minutes of applause, people started to trickle out, maybe making one last stop at the merchandise table for a T-shirt or a magnet or a CD. But these folks showed no signs of dispersing. Just as reluctant to leave the high behind, Cady bent over and made her way along the edge of the stage, high-fiving and clasping hands with the people in the front rows. Her grandmother’s bracelet, a cherished keepsake she always wore when she performed, nearly clonked a girl on the forehead as Cady swept by. “We love you, Maud!” she cried out, borderline hysterical as she waved her homemade poster.
Maud was her stage name, borrowed from her grandmother back when she needed a persona to work up the courage to put her voice out there, back when all she wanted was to be Beyonce, Sia, Adele, a one-name wonder with multiple hits, Grammys, platinum albums. But after eight months of touring as Maud, she was back in her hometown, able to spend a few weeks being herself. Ordinary Cady Ward.
