by Lauren Layne
“Hey, are you familiar with the name Shayna Johnson?” she asked, tapping her pencil against her notepad.
Brent Davis may be a lecher, but he was a good newsman. His memory for stories, no matter how small, was legendary.
He folded his arms across his beefy chest, blue eyes scrunching as he went into what she thought of as his thinking mode.
“Kidnapping case gone wrong?” he said.
“If by wrong, you mean she died, yeah,” Ava said, glancing at her notes. “And sadly, not all that unusual, especially in the rougher area of Harlem.”
He frowned. “Wasn’t that a couple years ago? What are you doing looking at a story that’s stale and common? You’re not chasing a cold case, are you?”
“No, they caught the bastard,” she said distractedly, her pencil tapping more quickly against the notepad. “He’s rotting in prison.”
“Ah. So no recent escape then.” He sounded disappointed and Ava game him a disgusted look.
Davis had the decency to look ashamed. “Right, right. Glad the perp’s still behind bars. Still not getting why we’re talking about this then. What am I missing?”
“Maybe nothing,” Ava said. But her pencil was moving at warp speed now. Her reporter instincts were buzzing.
Something wasn’t right.
She opened her mouth.
Shut it.
Opened it again.
“It’s just…something’s strange about it. The case was high profile for the entire week she was missing. The little girl was the daughter of a city councilman. But her death barely registered a blip on the local media scene. The story just said that the suspect had been apprehended, but sadly, authorities were too late to save Shayna.”
“And this is related to the Moretti story how?”
“I’m not sure yet,” she mused. “Give me time.”
Davis rolled his eyes, pushing off her desk. “Thanks for leading me down the rabbit hole for nothing.”
“Anytime,” she said sweetly, giving him a little finger wave as he waddled away.
After Davis was out of earshot, a permanently scowled forehead appeared over the wall, followed by shrewd blue eyes, then a long nose and sulky mouth with a red and yellow gummy worm hanging out the side.
“I’m dismayed you weren’t forthcoming with our boss,” Mihail said, wiggling his eyebrows. “Absolutely appalled.”
“How do you know I wasn’t telling the truth?”
His expression didn’t change as he chewed his gummy worm, watching her.
“Okay fine,” she said on a sigh, lowering her voice. “I may know more than I said.”
“And?”
Ava hesitated, then immediately felt guilty. She told Mihail everything. He was her sounding board, her partner, her ball-and-chain when she chased a story that simply wasn’t there.
The fact that she was hesitating showing him this meant that she might have deeper feelings for Luc Moretti than she thought.
And since that scared the crap out of her, she quickly unlocked her computer screen and gestured Mihail to come around to her side before she could change her mind.
Mihail grunted when he saw the masthead on the website she’d pulled up. “That website is trash. Beyond trash. It’s paparazzi bullshit.”
“I know, I know, but look,” she said, scrolling down to a post from two years ago.
“What am I looking at?”
She pointed at a police officer on the right.
“Recognize him?”
Mihail leaned in and squinted. “That Moretti? Sure. So he was there when shit went down. So what?”
Right. So what?
Luc Moretti was a cop. There was nothing unusual about him being on the scene when a kidnapper in a high-profile case was arrested.
It was nothing, and yet…
Why was there so little about the resolution to this story?
Ava suddenly remembered her first reaction upon meeting Luc that day in his captain’s office. She’d thought then that something had been off, but then she’d gotten so wrapped up in, well, him, that she’d gone and forgotten all about it.
But her reporter instincts were buzzing now, and they’d never led her astray before. And Ava loved the thrill of a good story. Particularly one people didn’t want told.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Finally, finally Luc typed up the last sentence on the last report for the week, putting one fist in the air.
Victory.
“You know, for some reason, it never really occurred to me that cops could take sick days,” Ava mused, never looking up from the magazine she’d been flipping through for the past half hour.
Luc dropped his arm. He’d almost forgotten he wasn’t alone. The operative word being almost, because it seemed his subconscious was always aware of Ava Sims.
He reached for his Coke. “Well here’s something to know about Lopez; his ‘sick’ days tend to come on heavy paperwork days. Write that down.”
She scrunched her nose. “You think he’s faking it? He sounded pretty stuffed up on speakerphone earlier.”
“That’s because he thinks he’s allergic to paperwork. It’s psychosomatic.”
“So we’re all done?” she asked, finally flipping her magazine closed.
“I’m done,” he said, giving her a pointed look.
“Hey, I’ve been here too. You think hanging around until eight o’clock in a deserted precinct is my idea of a good time?”
Luc snorted and stood. “Don’t even. I wasted thirty minutes trying to get rid of you. I think we can both agree that the ‘American public’ you’re so anxious to impress isn’t going to give a shit about all the filing we cops have to do.”
“No,” she admitted. “They want the sexy, jumping into rivers, saving babies stuff.”
“So why are you still here?”
She stood as well, putting her hands on the small of her back to stretch. “I need to understand the full picture of Luc Moretti the cop. Even if the boring stuff doesn’t make it into production, our interview will be richer if I’m informed.”
“Interview?”
“Don’t worry, the camera will love you,” she said, patting his forearm before reaching for her handbag.
“I never agreed to that. You said the reason you had to follow me around was because people didn’t want to see a boring interview. Now you’re changing it up on me?”
Ava huffed out an exasperated breath. “No, I said they didn’t want just an interview. Honestly, Luc, what did you think this news special entailed? Of course there’ll be an interview. It’ll be a huge component of the story.”
Christ. He should have seen it coming, he supposed.
Showing the brief video clips of his “good deeds” over and over wouldn’t fill up three hours.
Luc rubbed a hand over his face before leaning to shut down his computer. “You’re going to turn my life into a spectacle. You know that, right?”
“I’m afraid it already is, Officer Moretti. A woman asked you to sign her bra the other day. I think you’ve passed the point of no return.”
He studied her. “Is that why you’re able to do what you do without guilt? You figure my anonymity’s shot with or without you, so I’m fair game.”
She tilted her head. “You really don’t trust me, do you?”
“Should I? Seems to be our relationship’s a lot about you taking, and not much giving.”
And a lot of you running hot and cold, he nearly added, remembering that almost kiss on the ferry when she’d freaked out.
“Relationship, huh?” She smirked.
Shit.
Relationship had not been the word he’d meant to use.
He also hadn’t meant to infer that he expected—or wanted—her to give anything back. He didn’t need to know Ava Sims.
Didn’t need to know what made her tick.
Other than her career ambition, but he suspected even that came from a deeper, dark place. Probably having to do with her m
essed-up family.
But beyond that?
He didn’t know Ava Sims at all.
And it bothered him more than he liked to admit.
Ava slung her purse over her shoulder. “Okay then.”
Luc gave her a wary look. “Okay what?”
“I’m buying you dinner.”
Luc shook his head as he followed her out. “Not exactly what I meant.”
Ava spun around and put a hand against his chest to stop him. “Maybe I wasn’t clear. I’m taking you to dinner…and you get to ask whatever questions you want. About me. My company is asking you to be an open book, with essentially no choice in the matter. I can’t give you that choice back. But I can, at least, make this a two-way street.”
Luc studied her. It was an unexpected move. Every vibe he’d gotten from Ava so far was that she was fiercely private. Sure, she could have a conversation with anyone, flirt with anyone, wrap anyone around her finger, and yet he’d have sworn that the real Ava was on lockdown.
And here she was practically volunteering transparency? There had to be a catch.
But he could handle the catch.
Luc shrugged. “You’re on.”
Ava blinked. “Really? You’ll have dinner with me?”
He maneuvered them so that his hand was on the small of her back as he ushered her toward the door. “Sure. Hey, does your cell have a camera built in?”
“Um, sure?”
“Good.” He ushered her out into the night air. “Get it ready in case I just happen to catch any babies falling from burning buildings, or throw myself in front of an elderly person to protect them from a runaway cab. Gotta document that shit.”
“Crap,” Ava said, skidding to a halt. “We forgot your cape. I was up all night sewing sequins onto it.”
“There goes your whole story,” Luc said with a shake of his head. “I don’t suppose this means we can call the whole thing off?”
“No, although now you know why Clark Kent had multiple Superman outfits on hand,” she said, linking her arm in his and pulling him toward the curb to hail a cab.
“I hardly think he called them outfits,” Luc said as he followed her into the taxi.
“West Village?” he asked skeptically after hearing the address she gave the cabbie. “That’s your neighborhood?”
“Nah, I don’t make enough to live there. Yet,” she added with the sort of firmness that told him she fully expected to make enough someday to live in one of Manhattan’s trendier neighborhoods.
“So where do you live?”
“A tiny box in the Financial District,” she said. “When I first moved to the city, I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, and the broker assured me it was the best I could do while still living in Manhattan, which at the time, I was hell-bent on. You’re in Upper West, yeah?”
He turned to see her watching him in the shadows. “Dying to know how I can afford it, huh?”
“Nope, your grandma filled me in. Roomies! That must be fun.”
Luc grunted. “This morning I woke up to her shouting at the window washers across the street asking them to, and I quote, ‘shake it.’”
She laughed softly. “You love her.”
“I love my whole family.”
Ava’s smile faded a little. “As you should. They’re great.”
The restaurant Ava picked was tiny, trendy, and crowded, even on a Wednesday night, and definitely not a typical NYPD hangout.
“Don’t worry,” she said, catching his expression as they claimed a spot at the bar to wait for a table. “I’ve got this handy thing called a corporate credit card and a hefty spending limit. So what can CBC get you from the bar?”
The restaurant was noisy, so Luc dropped his head slightly so his lips could get close to her ear. “I’ll have what you’re having.”
“You like wine?”
He gave her a look. “I’m Italian.”
“Does that mean I should limit it to Chianti, or are you up for a little adventure?”
Luc’s brain went in a sideways direction. He wanted to take an adventure with Ava all right. And not with wine.
“Surprise me,” he said, turning to face the bar more fully in hopes that nobody noticed that his response to this woman was immediate and potent. At least he wasn’t in uniform tonight. Boners and cop uniforms didn’t go well together.
Out of habit, Luc surveyed the restaurant while Ava chatted up the bartender about the wine list. He didn’t eat out much, beyond the odd late-night cheeseburger run, and he had to admit that while he wasn’t much of a “scene” guy, there was something sort of nice about being out for a late dinner with a beautiful woman.
It made him feel his actual age.
Despite the fact that his family frequently reminded him of his status as the baby, the truth was, Luc generally felt a good deal older than his twenty-eight years.
The job had aged him. The things he’d seen, the long hours…Mike.
Shayna.
He closed his eyes briefly to block out the haunting image of her tiny body. Not now, he pleaded his subconscious. Not when I’m having dinner with a reporter.
But Ava would never connect him with the case.
Somehow, Luc had gotten lucky, and none of the follow-up news reports of the kidnapping gone sideways had gotten into the specifics of the first responders.
As far as the world knew, this was just the sad case of a sick fuck-wad killing little kids.
Of course, everyone wished that it would have worked out differently; that the cops could have gotten in front of it. But the public was sadly accepting that sometimes it didn’t work that way. There was an assumption that the cops had tried their hardest, but sometimes it wasn’t good enough.
It was a mistaken assumption.
But nobody knew it.
Except Luc.
“Here,” Ava said, turning around to face him. Luc grasped at the oversized red wineglass like it was a lifeline.
Her head tilted a little, her brown eyes worried. “You okay?”
Luc clinked his glass to hers. “Never better. Now what are we drinking?”
“Pinot Noir from Oregon. The good ones are expensive, but hey. We’re worth it.”
Luc didn’t buy into the whole swirl and sniff routine with wine—any wine—but he did appreciate the good stuff, and his taste buds told him right away that this was good. Very good.
“So,” Ava said, slipping onto a recently vacated bar stool and crossing her legs. The motion made her pencil skirt ride up just a little, exposing smooth knee and long calf. His fingers itched to run from her ankle all the way up to her knee, to her inner thigh and beyond…
She snapped her fingers against his upper arm. “Do not look at me like that,” she said, her voice husky. “When I suggested a get-to-know-Ava evening, I didn’t mean little Ava.”
Luc choked on his wine. “Is that what you call your—”
She laid a finger over his lips, although she looked as surprised by the gesture as he felt. Very slowly she removed her hand, shaking her head slightly as though to erase it.
“Let the questions commence,” she said, taking a sip of her wine. “And keep it clean, Moretti.”
She licked a little speck of red wine from her bottom lip, and it took every ounce of self-control not to crush his mouth to hers.
Clean. Right.
“All right,” he said, clearing his throat. “Let’s start with the basics. How long are we going to pretend that we don’t want to be in bed right now? Or against the wall? Or on a kitchen counter?”
She gave a strangled laugh. “Clearly you don’t understand the art of interviewing. It’s all about finesse.”
Unable to stop himself, Luc traced an index finger along the sharp line of her jaw, dragging the pad of his finger down to her stubborn chin. “Guess you shouldn’t have flirted with a cop then, lady. No such thing as an interview in my line of work.”
“No?”
“Nope.” He moved in closer
, shifting so that his upper body leaned into hers. “We start with interrogations.”
“And then?” Her voice was flirty and light, but her eyes were pure heat.
His gaze dropped to his hand, which had found its way to her knee somehow. “Depends. If the cop’s skilled at interrogation, things generally progress to handcuffs…and other things. If the cop’s unsuccessful…”
Luc broke off and shrugged.
Ava looked at him over the top of her wineglass. “Which one are you? The skilled interrogator or the other?”
“Depends.”
“On.”
He leaned in and pressed his lips to her ear. “Whether or not you like handcuffs.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The hostess at La Printemps either had very good timing, or very bad timing, depending on how you looked at it.
Considering that sex with Luc Moretti was a terrible idea, Ava was inclined to think she should tip the hostess for interrupting.
Her humming body said otherwise.
And although the sexual tension eased slightly as they were seated at their table, the evening continued to feel like a date.
The best date she’d had in a long, long time.
Luc leaned back as the server cleared their appetizer plates. “I just can’t picture you as a small-town, Midwest girl.”
“Believe it,” she said, looking down as she swirled her wineglass. “My graduating high school class had under a hundred people. I passed cornfields on my way to cheerleading practice.”
“Cheerleader. That’s hot,” he said, taking out a piece of bread after offering the basket to her.
She rolled her eyes. “What is it with men and cheerleaders?”
Luc chewed his bread thoughtfully before leaning toward her. “What is it with women and men in uniforms?”
“Nuh uh,” she said, holding up a finger, even as she enjoyed his blatant cockiness. “We already established that I’m not going to be one of your groupies.”
“Is that why you kept that parking ticket as a love souvenir of our first meeting?”
Ava giggled. Giggled. What was wrong with her? “Believe me, that is so not what it was.”
“No? Because it had lipstick on it, Sims.”
