She's Got the Look

by Leslie Kelly

  “You owe me many, especially for having to drive the P.O.S. during the Miller stakeout. But who’s counting?”

  “Hey, we got him, didn’t we?”

  That they had. They’d gotten him and the scumbag wouldn’t be putting his filth onto the streets of Savannah anytime soon.

  Muttering under his breath about spoiled society brats with conspiracy complexes, Nick left the precinct and drove the short distance to the café. He could have walked the few blocks, but it was too hot and he was too irritated.

  Dex had to have named the location for the meeting, which was the one good thing about this whole mess. Because this place sure knew how to serve biscuits and gravy.

  “Red hat,” he reminded himself, shaking his head as he walked in the front door. “Just what I need, a red-hat lady.”

  Once inside, he remembered another good thing about this restaurant. The air-conditioning worked a darn sight better than it did at the precinct. Or in his city-issued car.

  Standing in the doorway and taking in a resigned breath, he looked around the place, which was decades old but still popular with locals and tourists. He kept his eye out for a red hat and blue hair. Because, really, if the woman was one of those red-hat ladies, she had to be at least one hundred and four.

  No red hat. No big red feathers, or jewels or lace, like he’d seen on the more flamboyant headgear sold at the boutiques around here, which catered to the rich and to the tourists. Definitely not his shopping grounds. He felt much more at home at the Wal-Mart near his west Chatham apartment.

  A few late-morning customers chatted at a couple of the tables in the front room, occasionally beckoning to a harried-looking waitress who carried a steaming pot of coffee. Two men sat at the counter, and another was paying at the cash register.

  Skirting the edge of the place, he walked into the second room, where a dozen more tables took up nearly all the available floor space. Several of the tables were occupied, but only one had a person sitting completely alone. And that person, he realized, was wearing a baseball cap. A red baseball cap.

  So maybe she’s only ninety.

  Unfortunately, the woman sat below a stained-glass window depicting the most overutilized image in all of Savannah—the Bird Girl statue that’d been on the cover of The Book…Midnight In The Garden of Good And Evil. Nick could happily live the rest of his life without seeing another book, window, magnet, bookmark, T-shirt, mug, poster or postcard with that particular picture. But it’d never happen, not unless he moved away from Savannah. It was as intrinsic to this city as the Gordon Low house, where giddy, giggling Girl Scouts flocked by the thousands to worship their founder.

  Pulling his attention off the window, he peered around the few customers and waitresses, staring at the woman in the cap. He noted a pair of tanned shoulders, exposed by the sleeveless blue tank top the woman wore. And, of course, the cap, with a short, dark-colored ponytail sticking out the opening in the back, looking too damn bouncy and jaunty in this wilting heat.

  Reminding himself that Dex would never send him on a wild-goose chase when they were working a case, he made his way down the narrow aisle, nodding to the waitress. The busy woman paused to stare back and give him a once-over.

  Nick didn’t necessarily like the attention he got from women—particularly because of the bullshit he caught about it from the other guys in the squad. But, on occasion, it came in handy. Like now. Because with one quick smile and a hand gesture, he had the woman promising to be right over with a fresh pot. If history was any indication, he’d have a cup of coffee within twenty seconds of sitting down.

  Moving toward the woman he was to meet, he continued to study her without her knowledge. Each step that brought him closer to his target seemed slower than the one before. Because the more he saw, the more suspicious he became.

  Her shoulders weren’t merely tanned and soft looking against the pale blue shirt. They were also toned. Curved. Leading to long, slim arms. Definitely young looking.

  She moved one of those arms, reaching to adjust her ball cap. Her movements were graceful. Fluid. They drew his eyes to the thick dark hair, a rich, reddish-brown. A familiar reddish-brown. “My, oh my,” he whispered.

  It was her. He knew it as sure as he knew the way the sun winked orange and purple as it went down over the horizon. Sitting in front of him was the woman he’d helped a few weeks ago. The one who’d fallen on the mattress the day he’d nailed Manny Miller, the drug trafficker.

  Nick’s heartbeat kicked up a notch as a nearly unfamiliar sensation crawled through his veins. Interest. It was as unexpected as it was exciting, and for some reason the quiet, stale morning suddenly seemed ripe with expectation.

  He’d been thinking about her for weeks. And fate, or Rosemary Chilton, had given him another chance to meet her.

  Suddenly the woman looked to the side, her attention drawn by a passing busboy. The movement gave him a glimpse of her profile. Long enough to confirm her identity by the full lips, the stubborn curve of her chin, the sweep of her long lashes.

  More importantly, it was long enough to see the absence of those shadows beneath her eyes. And to notice that her face had filled out, looking less gaunt, less distressed. More beautiful.

  The cop in him analyzed her features and noted the changes.

  The man in him took a much more carnal inventory.

  Setup or not…he wanted her with a rush of attraction so completely overwhelming it turned his feet into lead weights until he couldn’t take another step. He just stood there, a foot behind her, staring down at the top of her head.

  Then she turned around again, as if aware of his presence. Slowly tilting her head back, she peered up from beneath the rim of her baseball cap, looking at him with those big baby blues.

  He paused, studying her head-on. The glimpses he’d had of her as he’d made his way through the diner had only provided tantalizing clues. Now, under the full-frontal assault of that face, those wide eyes, that sexy mouth—now parted in surprise as she returned his stare—he realized he was already in deep.

  He’d been attracted to her weeks ago. But now that the sadness seemed to be gone from her eyes, his attraction took a big leap forward. He wanted her. Sex with this woman instantly became number two on his list of personal goals for the year. Right after saving enough money to put a down payment on a house, but before getting his mutt Fredo to stop chewing his shoes.

  “I think I’m supposed to be meeting you,” he murmured. He stepped closer until his thigh touched the edge of her table, coming very close to her hands, which were flat on the surface. “I’m Detective Walker.” He gave her a little smile, just to put her at ease since she still had that deer-in-the-headlights look on her face. Then, with an exaggerated shrug, he added, “You’re the only person here wearing a red hat.”

  Still nothing. Nada. Not one word, not one gesture. Not a smile. Certainly not a phone number and an invitation, which were, to be honest, the words he’d really like to hear coming out of her incredible mouth. But she merely sat there, frozen.

  “Ma’am? Are you okay?”

  And finally…finally…she blinked. Her mouth snapped shut. Her jaw visibly tensed. On the table, her hands curled into fists, as if she were suddenly feeling violent.

  When she spoke, he realized she was feeling violent. Because in a low, shaking voice, she said, “You’d better arrest me, because I swear to God, the minute I find Rosemary Chilton, I’m going to murder her.”

  UNLESS ROSEMARY HAD gone into the witness-protection program last night after she’d set up this outrageous meeting, she was dead meat. Because Melody was going to track her down and kill her for this. After she tortured her by throwing her entire collection of Manolo Blahniks into the Savannah River.

  She’d been set up. Completely, totally, shockingly blindsided…by one of her best friends. She hadn’t felt this taken for a ride since her divorce hearing.

  It was humiliating enough to tell a cop that people might be getting
killed because of a sex list she’d made as a joke six years ago. That was when she’d figured she’d be talking to some cuddly Father Bear of a cop.

  This guy was no Father Bear. And cuddling was the last thing a woman would want to do if she got him into bed. Because Detective Walker was him. Her ultimate fantasy. Her marine from Time magazine. And oh, God, was he to die for.

  “Why do I get the feeling we’ve been set up?” he asked, lifting one corner of his wide, drool-worthy mouth in a smile.

  Melody had to swallow, not yet able to answer. Her throat was tight, her voice having dried up when she’d made the mistake of glancing at his jean-clad hips, mere inches from her arm.

  Soft, slouchy, threadbare jeans were made for bodies like these. Made to ride low on lean hips, to bulge in the most interesting places, and to hug long, hard legs.

  She jerked her attention up, trying to focus on his face. That move was just as bad…and every bit as dangerous. Because his face—those eyes, that intensity—had been what had drawn her to him the first time she’d seen him six years ago. And they hadn’t changed a bit. She wondered if he was the real reason she’d always had a thing for dark-eyed men, up to this very day.

  “You do think we’ve been set up, right?” he asked, obviously trying to pry her out of her silence.

  “Yeah. Definitely a setup,” she finally muttered, already wondering if he’d chase her down and arrest her if she got up and ran for the door. They always arrested people who took off from the police on the TV cop shows. But only after patting them down.

  Oh, Lord, she was better off sitting here with her face turning twenty shades of red and her butt feeling as if it were superglued to the chair than being patted down by this man. Being touched by him at all would be like throwing a lit match on a box of Fourth of July firecrackers. She’d start sparking and popping and two seconds later she’d be on the man like an actor on an Oscar statue.

  “Can I sit down anyway?” he asked.

  He didn’t wait for permission. He simply moved to the other side of the table and slid into the seat, facing her.

  Facing. Goodness gracious, his face. The handsomeness she’d imagined behind the blood and grime in the magazine photo hadn’t come close to the reality. His face was lean, his cheeks closely shaven, emphasizing the strength of his jaw. His lose-yourself-in-them eyes were the color of rich chocolate. He had a strong nose, and a mouth she wanted to suck on like a lollipop.

  The body simply defied description. From the broad shoulders clad in a tight black T-shirt, to the thick arms bulging with muscle, the man personified strength. His chest was impossibly broad and she’d already gotten a load of what he could do for a pair of aged jeans. Delightful things. Sinful things.

  Somehow, it seemed impossible that he should look exactly the same. Just as big. Just as masculine. Just as intense and brooding, but God, so incredibly sexy.

  He somehow seemed to have been plucked out of the field of battle and dropped right here into civilized Savannah, but hadn’t quite caught up with his change of venue. Because he looked dangerous. From the thick, dark head of hair to the glitter in his eyes, to the coiled strength of his body, held so tight and aware, he screamed danger.

  “My first name’s Nick,” he said, breaking the silence.

  Nick Walker. A good name. A strong name. Definitely not a cuddly, fatherly name. Rosemary, you demon.

  “And you are?”

  “Call me Mel,” she mumbled.

  So, there was the introduction. What happened next depended on how single he was and whether Melody decided her list was more than just a joke, like Rosemary had.

  Of course, she didn’t even know if he’d want to have wild, passionate, completely unexpected sex with her. She didn’t know if she’d want to.

  Liar.

  “So, what story did Rosemary use to get you here?” His voice was low, gravelly almost, but in a few drawn-out syllables there was an unmistakable Southern softness. A bit of twang that she liked a lot. And, she had to acknowledge, she didn’t like only the soft lilt in his voice, she also liked the way his mouth moved with every word he spoke. “I figure she made up some excuse for you to come down here and meet with a complete stranger.”

  Before Melody could reply, the waitress appeared beside their table with a mug and a steaming pot of coffee. She quickly served the newcomer, giving him a warm look. Mel waved her fingers toward her own nearly empty, rapidly cooling cup, but was totally ignored by the woman.

  For some reason, the smile on Nick Walker’s face after the waitress breezed away without a single glance at Melody really annoyed her. Cocky. He was cocky. She hadn’t seen that in his picture, though she shouldn’t be surprised. A man as handsome and as obviously brave would have a lot to be cocky about, right?

  But she didn’t like it…she’d never liked arrogant men. Which was good. Because she needed to find things she didn’t like about this man, and fast. She could start by amending the rules of the list, by adding a cocky out-clause. Otherwise, she could end up making a fool of herself by oh, say, asking him if he wanted to retreat to the nearest hotel.

  He stirred his coffee. “Judging by the look in your eye, I’d say Rosemary told you who I really am.”

  Melody closed her eyes and counted to three, clenching her fingers together in her lap. The man knew she knew he was the Time magazine hero. Meaning Rosemary had to have told him. But please, oh, please, God, she couldn’t have told him about the list. She wouldn’t have, right? Rosemary was her best friend. She wouldn’t have.

  If she had, Mel was going to die. Collapse right across the table and land face-first in his nice, hot, steaming cup of coffee and die.

  “I guess we didn’t get off to the best start, huh?”

  “I’ve always thought it was the finish that mattered,” she mumbled before she thought better of it.

  “Don’t tell me you’re leaving already.” With a boyish smile that suited the way a thick, dark lock of his hair fell over his brow, he added, “Can I confess I’m surprised you came anyway, despite my, uh, disreputable appearance the first time around?”

  “Disreputable?” Shock made her eyes widen. “No, you weren’t disreputable looking at all.” Heroic, admirable, determined and courageous were more like it. How could he possibly think a little dirt and some blood would make him look disreputable when he’d been holding three children whose lives he’d just saved?

  “Not at all,” she repeated, not wanting him to think he had reason to be embarrassed. Lord, there went the whole cocky out-clause, because the man obviously had no idea how amazing that picture had really been. Or how it had affected her.

  “You do know who I am, right?”

  She swallowed hard. “Yes. Sure. I mean…who doesn’t?”

  His brow shot up in surprise and his head tilted to one side. “Really? You think I’m that easily recognizable?”

  The man had been the hunk of the known universe six years ago on the cover of one of the most widely circulated magazines in the world. Of course he was recognizable! “Hate to break it to you, but yes, you are.”

  Her answer didn’t seem to make him feel any better. He rubbed a hand across his smooth jaw and muttered, “I must be losing my touch.”

  Goodness, he really was feeling bad about that. As if he wasn’t happy being recognized as a national hero.

  And suddenly, she thought she understood. Hadn’t she hated being recognized for one photograph that didn’t represent the real person she was inside? The journalist who’d taken this man’s picture and circulated it around the world had caught only one moment, one selfless act. There was a lot more man here to be seen. A lot more man.

  Like there was a lot more woman to Melody than was revealed in that horrid peacock-feather ensemble. Not physically, since almost all of her body had been revealed. But emotionally.

  “I think I understand,” she said, wanting to comfort him, to let him know he really wasn’t alone in what he was feeling. “We all project an i
mage for the world to see. It can be a little disconcerting when someone sees the person behind the mask.”

  “Or the person beneath the dirty clothes,” he said with a rueful laugh. “For the record, I do bathe regularly.”

  Huh? He was embarrassed because he hadn’t been able to bathe in the middle of a war-ravaged battlefield? Good Lord, her first instincts had been way off base. Far from being cocky, this man had hardly any self-confidence at all!

  “You really don’t have to make any excuses to me, Nick.” Almost unable to help it, she reached across the table and touched the back of his hand. She’d meant to be consoling, comforting. That would have seemed strange if she were reaching out to the big, strong, larger-than-life man who’d been on the cover of the magazine. But she was reaching out to the nice, low-confidence guy she’d been speaking with.

  Somehow, though, she realized that the big, sexy stranger was the one she was touching the moment their hands connected. Because as soon as her fingers brushed against his skin, something snapped and sparked a reaction, surprising her. She suddenly got all hot and flustered, though the room was cool enough.

  He was so warm, that was it. The electric warmth of his skin had just taken her by surprise. But his next move nearly made her come right out of her seat. He turned his hand a bit, so he could scrape the tip of one finger on the fleshy pad of her palm, and the touch was so unexpected, so…personal, somehow, that she could barely remember to breathe.

  She finally pulled her hand away, reaching for her water glass in a stall for time. After swallowing, she admitted, “You should never make excuses for doing something heroic. Something wonderful. You stepped in and helped when others wouldn’t.”

  Looking at him, she noticed the confused expression on his face. As if he couldn’t quite figure her out. Shrugging his shoulders, he said, “It wasn’t that big a deal.”

  “Yes it was a big deal.” Hadn’t the whole world thought so?

  “I mean, it wasn’t like it was that heavy a load.”

  Three small children might not have weighed a lot in terms of pounds, but the responsibility for them must have been an enormous weight. “I don’t agree with you there.”