by Helen Conrad
Adrenaline shooting through her veins, she rushed through the doors and raced down the hallway toward the sounds she’d heard. There was a door ajar. As she arrived, she looked in quickly. And the first thing that met her eyes was the laughing gaze of her thief.
He was sitting back in a padded swivel chair situated at the head of a long table, totally at ease, holding a tall, icy drink in his hand, while a group of men, some in uniform, some not, sat around the table, looking for all the world like an appreciative audience. He'd obviously just told a very funny joke, as all the men were laughing, while he sat smiling before them, looking very pleased with himself.
Laughing. No torture. Jokes. Outrage filled her heart. And here she’d been so worried about him!
As she hesitated at the door, staring into his eyes, he winked again.
Jimmy Cagney, huh? Wrong genre. Life seemed to be one long comedy to this man. To think she'd wasted her time worrying about him. While she, the innocent witness, was left cooling her heels, the “criminal” was being feted in a back room like a hero! What a jerk!
“Miss Carrington.”
The young clerk must have trailed her down the hallway and now she was finally ready to complete the paperwork. After one last angry glance at the man she’d caught, Shelley swallowed her outrage and marched back to the waiting area, suppressing her instinct to rant at the woman. It was hardly her fault. But that didn't make Shelley feel any friendlier toward anyone at this point.
She gave her statement easily enough. With a definite feeling of vengeful satisfaction, she went back over all the details of the crime. She hoped they'd lock him away for years—well, hours at least, just on the strength of her testimony. The clerk typed furiously, then handed her a copy to read and sign and requested that she wait in the lobby once again.
She walked down the hallway, but this time the door was secured, and she couldn't hear any clues as to what was going on inside. She paused for just a moment at the doorway, then resolutely turned away and strode to the battered couches. Impatiently she sat down on the edge of the cushion. It was time to get on with her day. She'd wasted too much energy on this crazy situation already.
“Hi.” Suddenly her thief was standing in front of her, his trench coat draped over his arm, his blue eyes twinkling. “Let's go, shall we?” He gestured toward the lobby with a toss of his head.
Shelley rose uncertainly from the couch. Let's go, he'd said. Did he mean to another conference room, or to the sergeant's desk, or to a judge's chambers?
She didn't have time to think things through before he took her by the elbow and began propelling her through the maze of corridors.
“Sorry about the delay,” he murmured, his breath teasing her hair, “but you know how these agencies are. Nothing but red tape.”
There it was again—the indefinable sense of connection. As though she were in on the joke with him. As though the pictures in her mind fit with those in his in some bewildering jigsaw to form something whole for him. Why couldn't she see them the way he could?
Her mind was so filled with questions, and her senses were so filled with the overall awareness of him, that he had her out the back door of the station and halfway down the narrow steps before she realized where they were going.
“Wait a minute,” she insisted, hanging back, and at the same time a voice came from behind them.
“Aren't you forgetting something, Hudson?”
Her thief turned toward the speaker slowly, his hand still controlling Shelley's elbow. They both looked up at the man standing at the top of the stairs. “Caught again,” her thief said ruefully. “That's twice in one day. My mother told me there'd be days like this.”
Shelley glared at him, trying to pull away from his grasp but not having a lot of luck at the attempt.
“I’ll bet you have a lot of them,” she snapped, wishing she didn't feel so totally at sea. What was going on here? She'd almost run off with a criminal!
The two of them remounted the steps while Shelley looked searchingly at the man waiting for them at the glass door. He was tall and thin, with a dark, gaunt look. She was sure she'd seen him at the station before, but she wasn't sure who he was.
“Is it always so easy for your prisoners to escape?” she asked, a bit flustered by all the confusion and taking it out on the stranger at the door. “I'm surprised Destiny Bay hasn't been taken over by thugs.”
The man managed a stiff smile. “There are those who claim that's exactly what did happen in the last election,” he responded dryly. “But I have to demur, Miss Carrington. After all, a less trusting soul than I might be ready to accuse you of aiding and abetting in this case.”
Shelley flushed, but her thief answered for her.
“Not a chance, Sam. This is the good citizen who turned me in. She had no idea I was trying to lead her astray.”
The man he'd called Sam held the door for the two of them to reenter the building.
“She couldn't see where she was going?” he asked skeptically as he followed them in.
“Blinded by my charm, Sam,” the thief answered jovially. “Blinded by my charm.”
Shelley looked from one to the other of her escorts with perplexity, not sure what to make of what had just happened, nor what to think of their good-natured bantering.
“Just exactly who are you?” she asked the tall dark man at last, as he took her free arm. She had an odd sensation of being the rope in a tug-of-war. “And where are you taking me?”
“Shelley Carrington, meet Detective Sam Gladstone. He's the right man to cultivate in this town. Knows all the best restaurants.”
They stopped before the sergeant's desk, but Shelley turned to look at the thief.
“You know who I am?” she asked.
He nodded. “I was filled in. They know all about you here.” He grinned. “Could be that somewhere in the files there's a hidden dossier containing every secret of your young life…”
Sam's growl stopped that discourse, but Shelley still wasn't satisfied.
“Just who are you?” she asked, her frown evidence of just how annoyed she was. “And why do you seem to run around here like you own the place?”
He glanced from her to the dour detective.
“Michael Hudson's the name,” he told her smoothly. “And right now, shoplifting's my game.”
Looking at him, she suddenly knew she didn't believe a word of it.
“I hope you're not planning to make a living at it,” she said tartly. “You're really not very good.”
He nodded. “But that's just the point,” he said softly. “I'm not supposed to be.”
The detective cleared his throat and Michael raised an eyebrow. “I think Sam has some papers he wants us to sign,” he said. “Then we can get out of here.”
Shelley frowned again, still confused, but Sam moved forward and took the sheaf of papers from the sergeant's hands. “It doesn't pay to be careless. This is for your own protection.” He assumed a more formal tone.
“We're releasing Michael Hudson on his own recognizance, provided he agrees to a complete psychological evaluation. It has been determined that his crimes are very likely the result of stress and overwork rather than proclivity for thievery. The department store has agreed to drop charges if he agrees to seek help.” He held out a pen. “Sign here, Hudson. And will you please sign for your partner, Miss Carrington?”
Shelley looked down at the form she was expected to apply her signature to. It certified that Jeff Kramer would provide psychological counseling for Michael Hudson and would report any noncompliance on the part of the patient. A complete report was to be submitted within six weeks and a review of the case would be made by the department at that time.
The man was going to come to her office for testing. She remembered, suddenly, how she'd wanted to get him on the couch herself. Luckily this would be Jeff's problem.
She signed quickly, ready to duck out of the building, but as she turned to ask Sam Gladstone if she c
ould leave, and if someone would be available to take her back to the department-store parking lot where she'd left her car, she felt the strong hand on her elbow again.
“I'll see that Miss Carrington gets back to her car,” Michael Hudson told the detective. He glanced smoothly at the expensive-looking watch on his wrist. “And I think I’ll take care that she's fed a good lunch as well. She deserves it after all she's been through today.”
Shelley tried to pull away, amazed at how the man thought he could take over. “I don't need any help, or any lunch,” she protested. “I can take care of myself.”
He refused to let go of her elbow. Looking at her, he sighed deeply.
“Tell her I'm harmless, Sam,” he pleaded. “Make her love me.”
Sam made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. “I wouldn't advise you to have anything more to do with him, Miss Carrington,” he said pointedly. “Hudson, do us all a favor and leave the young woman alone.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed for just a moment. “The young woman is of age, Sam,” he said coolly. “She can do as she pleases.”
Raising her eyes to Michael's, she was prepared to tell him she agreed with the detective. But it happened again. The connection was made, and it sizzled. This time it felt almost as though something was flowing between them. And instead of stomping off in a huff, she found herself walking docilely beside him, out the door, and down the steps.
Was he taking over her mind?
CHAPTER TWO:
Sushi Fixes Everything
Maybe.
Her heart was beating very fast and she was concentrating hard. This man was a crook of some kind. He might be working with the police right now, but even Sam the detective had warned her to stay away from him. She ought to go and go quickly. She glanced up at him and her heart did a flip.
Okay, she knew what she ought to do. But she also knew that he was the most beautiful and sexy and dangerous man she’d ever met. She’d been to Europe twice and Mexico for Easter break and she’d spent years at university. But she was at heart a small town girl. And this was by far the most interesting man she’d come this close to. Did she have to guts to take things further?
“Where are we going?” Shelley asked breathlessly as Michael propelled her through the parking lot and out onto the sidewalk. “Where are you taking me?”
“To lunch, of course,” he answered, smiling down at her. “It's way past your mealtime. I can tell. You're getting peckish.”
“Peckish!” She had a rough idea what the word meant, and she knew she didn't like it applied to her. “I'm not a bit peckish.”
“You most certainly are,” he insisted with maddening good nature. “I know the signs well.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Short temper. Flashing eyes. Diminishing sense of humor. You're a classic case.”
Despite her misgivings, she felt her mouth relaxing into an answering smile. “And you're a major diagnostician, I suppose,” she replied, but there was no sting in her words.
They stopped to wait for a light to turn green. He reached up his free hand to straighten the knot in his silk tie with easy grace. “One of my many talents,” he admitted. “I've often been told I'm a master at analyzing these things, and even more adept at prescribing the perfect cure.”
The light changed and they walked on, steps matching perfectly despite his much longer legs.
Shelley caught a glimpse of their reflection as they passed a bright storefront. Michael looked cool and sophisticated. His bearing had a casual elegance that was uniquely complemented by his perfect suit, while she . . . what could she say? She looked like a college girl in her plaid skirt and nubby sweater. Even her freckles seemed to stand out, branding her for what she was. Funny how she'd never noticed it before. She looked young and careless and out of place at Michael's side.
Pretty, she thought with sudden anxiety, but naive.
“What's the cure for peckishness?” she asked, as much to banish the thoughts of inadequacy from her mind as to find the answer.
“Sushi,” he answered with sublime aplomb.
“Sushi?” She stopped dead in the center of the sidewalk, heedless of the people pushing past. Oh oh. She couldn’t eat sushi. She’d had a bad incident years before. She’d been sick for days. She could hardly even look at the stuff. But she couldn’t admit that to him. He would think she was a hick. “Uh, I’m not really hungry.”
His eyebrows rippled. “Nonsense.”
She shook her head slowly, her dark eyes wide. “No, really. Actually, now that I think about it, I really should get back to work. If you'll just ...” Her words trailed off as she winced, knowing she was being a coward.
The ghost of an impatient frown feathered between his brows. “Don't you like sushi?”
She swallowed. “Like” had nothing to do with it. “I uh…”
He dismissed what she'd said with a wave of his hand and took her by the elbow again, walking with a long, sure stride that had her jogging beside him like an eager puppy. “No one is too busy for this kind of thing,” he informed her sunnily. “Sam recommended a sushi bar in the next block. Let’s give it a try.”
There was no more time for protest. Michael was leading her in through a doorway marked by a bright cotton banner, and before she had a chance to think of a new means of escape, she was seated at the long, blue-tiled counter, staring into the eyes of a man who looked for all the world like a Samurai warrior, sword and all.
“We'll need just a moment to discuss our order,” Michael told him, testing the air with anticipation. “What’ll it be, Shelley? Squid? Octopus? Abalone?”
“I told you I wasn't hungry.” Shelley was gripping the edge of the counter as though afraid she wouldn't be able to stay in her seat without help. She wasn't sure why the thought of this food terrified her so, but she knew she'd never make it through a meal of it without an embarrassing incident.
Suddenly she found Michael's hand covering hers. “Hey,” he said softly, a puzzled look in his eyes, “don't worry. I'm not going to force-feed you.” His fingers tightened. “We'll go somewhere else.” He hesitated. “The only thing is, we’ve got to lay low. I really shouldn’t be seen with you right now. Sam suggested this place. It’s dimly lit and not all that public. But if the food really doesn’t agree with you…”
She felt color flooding her cheeks. Great, she thought. Just the thing for a freckled face. A nice rosy background to make the freckles stand out like ants on a picnic cloth. She'd been acting silly and she knew it. Somehow she had to erase the image of skittish filly she knew was being implanted in Michael's mind. Forcing back her feelings of fear, she managed a tremulous smile.
“Don't be ridiculous,” she said as breezily as she could. “This is fine. I'll just have some tea and watch you”—she couldn't hold back a quick shudder—“eat.”
He hesitated, then grinned. “Good girl. But we won't make you watch the sushi preparation. Not this time.” He called over the sushi chef, ordered something incomprehensible, and asked him to deliver the order to a table on the other side of the room.
“A secluded booth,” he said softly to her as he led her to it. “You won't have to watch how sushi is made, and others won't be able to watch what we're up to.”
The strong attraction she felt for him had been obvious from the beginning, but she hadn’t expected him to practically come right out and reference it. She threw him a startled look and purposefully slid only halfway across the red plastic seat, leaving no room for him on her side of the table. He sighed, but didn't make an issue of it as he sat down across from her.
A waitress quickly followed, serving them tea and bowing gracefully as she backed away.
“Now,” Michael said firmly, leaning forward to look deeply into her eyes, “tell me all about yourself. How does a psychologist come to be so afraid of unfamiliar foods?”
She stared back at him, thrown off-guard by his direct approach. It wasn't really true. On the whole she was as ready as anyone for new exper
iences. Wasn't she? Suddenly she realized just how long she'd been caught up in her work, totally immersed in it. Maybe it was time she took a little pause for reassessment. But this was hardly the time to think about that.
So instead of answering, she came through with a counterpunch. “First you explain to me how a shoplifter comes to be so buddy-buddy with the police,” she asked tartly.
His laugh was soft and low. “Criminals and cops have a symbiotic relationship. Just like those little birds that live on top of hippos in the wild. We couldn't do without each other.”
There was more to it than that. She'd sensed it before, and she could see it in his eyes now. She wanted to know. She needed to know.
“You're not really a shoplifter, are you?” she guessed, narrowing her eyes as she studied him. “What were you really doing in that department store today?”
His smile faded a bit. “I hope the man I created that charade for isn't as perceptive as you are,” he answered. “If he is, all will have been in vain.”
“Ah-hah,” she pounced. “So it was for show. But why?”
He stretched back in his seat, a smile on his face. “Send a thief to catch a thief, they always say. There was a man—his identity is unimportant— working on that floor, who badly needed proof that I have sticky fingers. And so I was providing it for him.” He chuckled. “You wouldn't believe how many things I picked up right under people's noses, and no one said a thing. Until I found you.”
A light went off in her memory. “He was the one you were looking for when you made me wait before accusing you out loud.”
He grinned. “And you waited too. That surprised me. One look at your determined face and I thought the show was going to be all over before the audience arrived.”
The waitress appeared at their table with the food, giving Shelley a reprieve from having to explain how he'd fascinated her, how she'd been consumed with curiosity about him and his strange activities. She sat back in the seat, watching with wary apprehension as the waitress set a beautiful black lacquer tray in front of Michael. Strange things were sitting in little mounds on the tray, and she avoided looking directly at them. She felt almost as though she were sitting across from someone who was gleefully looking forward to consuming live ants on a stick, followed by a chaser of wriggling earthworms.
