by Pamela Clare
The printer spat out the report he was waiting for. He scooped it and leaned back in his chair. A casual observer might have gathered he was reading it, but his thoughts were elsewhere. What could he subject her to?
Bowling? Good. Definite plebeian connotations, but not very imaginative.
The local country music bar for some line dancing? Quigg grinned. That’d be perfect, but it would require him to suffer with her. He discarded the idea.
“Omigod, it’s true, isn’t it?”
The words gave Quigg a jolt. With that eerie soundlessness of his, Ray Morgan had materialized beside Quigg’s desk as though he’d stepped out of thin air.
Quigg fixed him with an unfriendly look. “I swear to God, Razor, I’m gonna shoot you one of these days, you keep sneaking up on me like that.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. It is true. I can tell by the look on your face.”
Quigg scowled. “That’s indigestion.”
Ray grinned. “Ah, come on, man. You’re not gonna sit there and deny it, are you?”
“Deny what?”
“You’re doing Suzannah Phelps! How the devil could you keep that under wraps for a whole week?”
Quigg clamped down on a sudden, uncharacteristic urge to deliver a right uppercut to his friend’s chin. “Piss off, Morgan.”
Predictably, Ray did not piss off. Instead, he circled the desk to lean on it. “A whole week you’ve been holding out. I gotta tell you, I’m sorely disappointed.”
Hell with the uppercut. He could drop him with a sharp blow to the side of the knee. He’d go down like a sack of concrete. And he’d probably shut up.
Of course, he’d be off work for three months with a ligament repair, which would leave Quigg with an even heavier workload. Plus the guys would know how bad he had it for the Ice Princess.
“What’s the big deal?” Quigg leaned back in his chair, the epitome of casual. “When have you known me to run off at the mouth about a woman?”
Ray’s jaw dropped. “We’re not talking about just any woman here. This is Suzannah Phelps. She-Rex herself. Quigg, buddy, this is the World Series of conquests, my friend. The Stanley Cup, the Masters, the bloody Triple Crown, all rolled up in one.”
Well, when he put it like that… Quigg grinned. “Pretty weird, eh?”
“I’ll say.” Ray shook his head wonderingly. “Dammit, I knew you had a jones for her. Why’d you go all dark horsy on me when I asked you about it?”
Quigg shrugged. “Guess I didn’t think it was gonna be a go.”
Ray laughed. “From what I hear, looks like it’s green lights all the way now.”
“And where’d you hear that?”
“Staff room was all abuzz about it. You been elevated to God-like status in some guys’ eyes, you’ll be pleased to know.”
Quigg shifted in his chair. “Don’t suppose everybody’s thrilled about it.”
“The general consensus is you’ll slam dunk her when the novelty wears off. The hold-outs kinda warmed up to the idea after that.”
Quigg wanted to endorse the locker room speculation, share a laugh with Razor about it. But he kept seeing Suzannah’s pinched, anxious face. He’d promised her he wouldn’t let her image be weakened by virtue of this association he’d pretty much forced on her.
But who would know? What could it hurt, really?
Damnation.
It would hurt Suzannah.
Quigg sat forward in his chair. “Sorry to disappoint the troops, but that’s not likely to happen. Anybody does any dumping, it’s liable to be Suzannah.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he was struck by how true they felt. Yikes.
Not that that wasn’t always the case. He’d never dumped a woman yet. At least, not actively. He’d never actively pursued one, either. They just seemed to find him. And when his interest started to flag, they found someone else.
But with Suzannah, if this were a real relationship, he couldn’t see his interest flagging. If this were a real relationship and she dumped him, it wouldn’t be as a result of a subtle disengagement on his part. If this were a real relationship, he’d be vulnerable.
He glanced at his friend, who was looking at him thoughtfully.
“Wow.”
Quigg dragged a hand over his face. “Hey, I didn’t say it was serious. All I’m saying is that at this particular moment, I can’t see getting tired of her in a hurry.”
Ray tugged at the cuffs of his perfectly tailored shirt as he digested that. “You realize Grace’ll want to meet her.”
An image of Ray’s wife sprang to mind, an earnest young newspaper journalist, poised and polished beyond her years and determined to make a name for herself. Yeah, Grace would like Suzannah, and vice-versa. “If you’re thinking about a double date, forget it. I didn’t even do that in junior high and I’m not about to start now.”
“I was thinking more about a backyard barbecue on Saturday afternoon. You know, a couple of neighbors, a couple of the guys, some of Grace’s friends from the paper.”
A barbecue? Quigg turned the idea over in his mind. Perfect! This was better than bowling, better than line dancing. A real taste of suburbia. Hamburgers cooking on the grill on a too-small deck in a too-small back yard, guests talking and laughing within earshot of neighbors on three sides. Men drinking beer straight from the bottle, women sipping wine dispensed from a box with a spigot.
“Sounds good,” Quigg said. “But what about the guest list?”
Ray grinned. “Don’t worry. I won’t invite anyone she’s personally boned and filleted. At least, not recently.”
“Much appreciated.”
“No problem.” Razor pushed himself off the desk and left as soundlessly as he’d arrived.
Quigg linked his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair. Now all he had to do was figure out how to get Suzannah to agree to the invitation.
Chapter Five
What was I thinking?
That was about the only intelligible thought Suzannah could manage as she sat in the passenger seat of John’s car, en route to a cop party. A cop party, for pity’s sake. It was all she could do to keep from pressing a hand to her stomach to calm the butterflies there. How had she let herself be talked into this?
She glanced over at John, whose attention seemed to be firmly fixed on the road. He was wearing a nice black t-shirt, which appeared to be new, and a pair of jeans which were definitely not new.
She chewed her lip. Was she over-dressed? It was hard to measure by John’s apparel. Honestly, the man needed a keeper, someone to dress him in the morning. Still, since she’d opened her door to him twenty minutes ago, she’d been plagued with doubts about the tobacco brown Halston halter dress she wore.
But dammit he’d said casual. He’d said patio party, for crying out loud. So she’d tied her hair back, threaded plain gold hoops through her pierced ears and left her tanned legs bare. That was as casual as this little chickadee got.
Which brought her full circle. What the hell had she been thinking?
You let yourself be railroaded, that’s what.
He’d begun by pointing out how uncomplaining he’d been about attending her functions. And he had. Not a single groan or eye roll, at least not that she’d caught. Which was pretty remarkable considering she’d dragged him to the dullest, most tedious engagements she could muster invitations for. She’d expected him to decide her social life was far too boring to require such close monitoring.
But he hadn’t buckled under the boredom. Night after night, she’d searched his face for evidence of frustration, but all she encountered in his gaze was a quiet watchfulness, a patient, purposeful waiting that put her feminine senses on full alert.
Her mind skittered away from that thought. The last thing she needed to do right now was to add that to the mix of apprehensions that had her normally steady nerves vibrating.
She steered her thoughts back to how gracious he’d been about those yawn-fests she�
��d subjected him to. No doubt about it, she definitely owed him for that. Still, her guilty conscience would not have been enough to secure her agreement to attend this party, and he’d known it. So he’d pulled out the big guns—he’d accused her of being a snob, unwilling to subject herself to his middle-class world.
Her blood heated at the memory of that confrontation. She was most definitely not a snob! Granted, she didn’t have much experience of that world. But darn it, it wasn’t her fault.
She’d been reared and educated among the world’s most privileged, moving among them with the ease of someone born to wealth. Rich, spoiled, indulged—she readily admitted she’d been all those things. But she also devoted much of her energy to helping the most underprivileged and socially marginalized of souls. Unfortunately, she had little personal experience of anything in between.
She felt Quigg apply the brakes and heard the turn signal’s rhythmic click-click, click-click as he waited for oncoming traffic to clear. A moment later, he turned left onto a quieter street. The trees lining the sidewalk at intervals were new, tall, sparsely leafed saplings, which indicated a relatively new subdivision.
“Are we nearly there?” she asked.
“The next block. White bungalow with black shutters, on the right.”
Her stomach gave another unaccustomed lurch, and she clutched her bag closer. The driveway was already plugged with cars, so Quigg parked the Taurus by the curb about a half-block past the Morgan house.
She looked over at him as he killed the engine and extracted the keys. “Do I look all right?” she blurted.
Something flickered in his eyes. “You’ll be the most beautiful woman in the crowd.”
Oh, God. She smoothed the fabric of her dress over her knees. It had made her feel so good when she’d examined her reflection in the mirror at home. “I am over-dressed, aren’t I? Why didn’t you tell me?”
He grinned. “Relax, Princess. You look gorgeous. Everybody’ll love you. Especially the guys.”
She shot him a look that said she’d kill him for this. He merely laughed and climbed out of the car, coming around to open her door for her. With as much dignity as she could command, she slipped out of the car.
“Quigg, ol’ buddy, you made it.”
Suzannah glanced up to see Ray Morgan wandering down the drive toward them. Eddie Bauer khakis, a black Armani t-shirt and deck shoes. She let a sigh of relief escape. Okay, this wasn’t so bad.
“Ms. Phelps,” he said, extending a hand. “Glad you could come.”
She seriously doubted that, but Detective Morgan’s expression looked welcoming enough. Deciding to accept the sentiment at face value, she took the hand he offered.
“Suzannah, please. It’ll be a very long evening if I have to answer to my mother’s name for the duration.”
He grinned. “Suzannah it is, then.”
Suzannah felt her jaw go lax. Ray Morgan was a fine-looking man by anyone’s standards, but when he smiled that crooked, boyish grin, he was astonishingly good looking.
Quigg cleared his throat. “If you’re quite finished pawing my date, I think she could find a use for that hand.”
“Ignore him,” Ray encouraged. “He’s obviously out of practice escorting beautiful women.”
She couldn’t have stopped the smile that curved her lips if she’d wanted to. The easy way these two men insulted each other was an obvious testament to a deep affection.
“In fact,” Ray continued, finally releasing her hand, “the last date Quigg brought to one of these shindigs was a real dog.”
Suzannah’s smile faltered.
“Ray Morgan!”
The admonishment came from a tall brunette who was making her way toward them across the paved driveway. “You’ll have to excuse my husband,” she said.
Husband? This had to be Grace Morgan, feature writer from the daily newspaper. Suzannah watched the other woman approach. Slim-hipped, full-busted, fit without being overly athletic. The pretty floral sun dress she wore was off-the-rack, but nothing else about this woman appeared to be. Her precision-cut hair, for instance, was the work of a master, and one didn’t achieve skin like that without benefit of regular facials. She was, Suzannah decided, quite beautiful in an intensely feminine kind of way. If it weren’t for the warmth lighting her eyes and the quick smile that softened her mouth, Suzannah would have been quite prepared to dislike her.
She reached Ray’s side, sliding an arm around his waist. “Before you write my husband off as a complete jerk, I should explain that he’s talking about an actual canine.”
Realization dawned. “Of course. Bandy.”
“Oh, so you’ve met the mutt?”
“Not yet, but I’ve heard a lot about him.”
Grace’s smile widened, showing even white teeth. “That’s only fitting, I guess. He’s a whole lot of dog.”
“That’s enough from you, young lady,” Quigg growled in mock severity. “You’ll scare Suzannah off.”
“I think we can safely leave that to Bandy,” put in Ray.
“Make yourself useful, Morgan, and put this on ice or something,” Quigg said, handing him the bottle of wine he’d brought.
Ray read the label aloud and whistled admiringly. “This, my friend, is a fine Burgundy. We do not put leggy red beauties like this on ice. We chill then for ten or fifteen minutes, just to drop the temperature a few degrees.”
Suzannah turned wide eyes on John. The vintage Ray had named was one her late father used to favor, and it didn’t come cheaply. Had he done that for her?
Quigg shrugged. “Whatever.”
Ray just shook his head, muttering something that sounded like “cretin”.
Grace ignored her husband, gestured with a nod of her head to the garden gate. “Everyone’s back there. Shall we join them?”
Suzannah felt the warmth of John’s hand briefly at the small of her back. It was the most fleeting of touches, more reassuring than sexual, but it made her catch her breath. If this relationship were real, it would be exactly the kind of gesture she’d welcome in the circumstances. Reassurance, physical connection, a hint of possessive pride.
But it’s not real. It’s pretend. And he’s very good at this pretend thing.
They passed through the gate on the tall cedar fence. Boisterous voices punctuated by feminine laughter carried to them as they rounded the corner of the small bungalow.
“Hey, guys, look who’s here,” someone called.
The voices stopped as all heads swiveled in their direction. Suddenly Suzannah could hear the vocals of Matchbox 20’s Rob Thomas issuing from unseen speakers inside the house.
I feel stupid.
Perfect sentiment, Rob.
Wrong attitude, she scolded herself. If she gave a damn about popularity, she’d have smeared petroleum jelly on her teeth and become one of those TV weather girls who smiled until their jaws locked.
Still, it was going to be a long evening. She lifted her chin and strode across the small stretch of sun-baked lawn to join the group on the deck.
Two hours later, Suzannah gazed at her own reflection in the mirror in the Morgans’ small downstairs bathroom. She didn’t really need the facilities, but she did need to fortify herself.
Not that anyone in the small crowd had been overtly hostile. After falling silent on her arrival, the guests had come back to life with a vengeance. Each had welcomed her. Many went out of their way to include her in conversation. But she still felt exactly what she was—an intruder. The false note in the choir. The elephant in the room nobody wanted to mention.
Pulling a gold tube from her handbag, she quickly retouched her lips, though they hardly needed the repair despite the burger she’d eaten. Lipstick was like any other product. If you paid enough for it and used an equally expensive lip pencil under it, it would stand up to anything.
She grimaced at her reflection. None of the other women’s lipstick had held up nearly so well, a fact which she was sure each of those women not
ed. Like the Halston and the Italian sandals, it served to set her apart. Of course, most of the women were cops’ wives. They wouldn’t have embraced her even if she’d worn a drug store lipstick that disappeared with her first glass of wine.
She snapped her handbag shut with an audible click. Well, there was one person she could hang around who wouldn’t give her attitude. At least, not here, not now. Tonight’s program required him to be concerned and attentive, and she felt dangerously in need of concern and attention.
A last quick look at her reflection, and she exited the bathroom. She found John on the deck, deep in conversation with one of Grace’s male co-workers, a sports columnist, who was expounding on what was wrong with professional hockey. As much as she wanted to sidle up to John, to shelter in his protection, she wasn’t about to squash hockey talk. These people already had plenty to reasons to dislike her.
The sun had set, leaving the western sky smeared with pinks and purples, but it wasn’t entirely dark yet. Rescuing her half-full wine glass from the table where she’d left it, she made a comment about wanting to see Grace’s garden before the last of the daylight faded.
She’d reached the bottom of the steps and had started across the lawn when she was stopped by a male guest. At the brief touch of his hand on her bare arm, she turned toward him.
Bruce Newman. She dredged his name up from earlier conversation. A constable with a decade worth of service, both John and Ray had worked with him. And thank God, Suzannah had somehow managed never to cross-examine him.
“You shouldn’t do that,” he said, his face stern.
“Do what?”
“Leave your drink unattended like that, then resume drinking it.”
Suzannah’s gaze dropped to her glass, which held several ounces of the very nice Burgundy John had bought, then flew back to Constable Newman’s face.
“A lady should never take her eyes off her drink. You never know what unscrupulous predators are lurking out there. Even a little town like this sees its share of guys putting roofies in ladies’ drinks.”
