Her Special Charm

by Marie Ferrarella

  Santini blew out a breath. “Still fishing. I know somebody in forensic computers who’s inputting all the data we’ve collected. She’s going to try to come up with some kind of common thread besides baked goods.”

  “Forensic computers?” James liked to think that he kept up on the latest techniques and technology that were being brought into the department, but this was something he’d never heard of. He hated being out of the loop. “What the hell is forensic computers?”

  “Just what it sounds,” Santini explained.

  James listened in silence. While his partner spoke, his mind was operating on a different plane, trying valiantly once more to connect the dots. Or at least to come up with a new theory about the placement of the dots.

  As Santini concluded his mini-edification, something occurred to James. “Hold it. What if the common thread we’re looking for is nothing we can get from the restaurant owners’ input? What if the common thread is a customer?”

  They’d examined employees, past and present, suppliers of every item on the menu as well as what went on the table and the linens. This was something they hadn’t looked at. “Come again?”

  New, with all the possibilities that entailed, the idea caught fire. “Follow me here. What if it’s some guy—or woman—who frequents the place, maybe comes in at the same time every day and watches what goes on. Waiting to see when the perfect opportunity to pull off a lucrative robbery might arise.”

  “And just how do we find this ‘common’ customer?” Santini asked. “There are no fingerprints to go on. In most cases, everything has been washed a hundred times over since the robbery took place. And most of these places don’t use surveillance tapes.”

  “The old-fashioned way, Santini.” James was already rising to his feet, ready to roll. “We talk to the waiters and waitresses to see if they noticed anyone.”

  “Which waiters and waitresses?” Santini asked.

  “Which do you think?” James checked his weapon in his holster before slipping on his jacket, which felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds in this heat. “All of them.”

  Santini groaned, following him out of the squad room. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  He hadn’t lied to her.

  He had too much to do. Once he’d come up with his theory of a common customer, he and Santini went at it for hours, using up that day and the next, going from one restaurant to another. They quizzed the food servers at each of the five restaurants if they’d noticed any regular customers. Each positive answer put the food server together with a police sketch artist. The sketches were compiled, then compared. It was slow going especially with the chief demanding results. There was enough work to keep them, and the night shift, busy for days.

  So why was he here, standing in front of John Jay Elementary School, bracing himself to face a room full of pint-sized adults?

  It didn’t make any logical sense.

  Neither did the way her face insisted on haunting him. In his mind’s eye, he could see that look in her eyes when he’d turned her down. Over and over again. So often, part of him began to entertain the idea that he was losing his mind.

  The other part was convinced he already had.

  If he hadn’t lost his mind, he wouldn’t be down here, wouldn’t have taken several hours of personal time to go to the school.

  Shaking his head, he wrapped his hand around the doorknob and pulled open the door.

  “All right, is everyone clear on this lesson?”

  Constance scanned the room slowly. Every seat in her classroom was filled. When she had first come, she’d been warned that student “illness” was up twenty percent from the previous year. When the students did show up, the teacher often wished they hadn’t. They were restless, rude and ready for trouble. Constance had set out to win over every one of them and hadn’t stopped until she had. It had been tough going. Her first year had been fraught with frustration. Trust wasn’t given easily, especially to someone who clearly wasn’t from the neighborhood.

  But she’d won her battles one student at a time. That was three years ago. Now, students came to her, begging to be allowed to take her class. The other fourth-grade teacher was now grudgingly following her lead. Constance felt each day was a mini triumph.

  She glanced at the history books sitting open on the students’ desks. Books she, in a good many cases because funds were short, had bought herself. She knew without asking that everyone had read the assignment. They were a good bunch of kids who wanted to learn. To make something of themselves. They had every right to expect to reach their goals, no matter how lofty. All they had to do was try. And continue to try.

  A girl named Grace Mendoza raised her hand. She pointed over her head toward the door. “Ms. B., there’s a man outside looking in the window. I think he’s trying to get your attention.”

  Constance turned to look, as did the rest of her class. But they were left to speculate as to the person’s identity and his reason for being there. She knew the one and hoped that she knew the other.

  She tried to sound nonchalant as she said, “So there is.”

  Constance rose to her feet and went to open the door. Her pulse had launched itself into triple time, making all of her feel as if she were vibrating.

  She glanced over her shoulder as she opened the door. “Best behavior,” she instructed the class and then slipped out, closing her door behind herself.

  She turned her face up to him, part of her still thinking that maybe she was just imagining all this. But then, her class would have been involved in the same hallucination. “You found the time.”

  She was doing it again, he thought, lighting up like a Christmas tree.

  And making him want to repeat his mistake of the other night.

  He deliberately kept his hands in his pockets. “Looks like. You still short a speaker?”

  The look she gave him made him feel as if he were ten feet tall. “Not anymore.”

  “Don’t expect anything good to come out of this,” he warned.

  “It already has,” she contradicted him. He could hear the Southern lilt coming into her voice. It always seemed to appear when she spoke with emotion.

  He was noticing things about her, subtle things, and that wasn’t good.

  Constance surprised him by taking his hand, as if he were one of her students facing stage fright. “C’mon. I’ll introduce you to the class.”

  The noise level within the room died down the moment she opened the door. He had to admit he found that unusual. Kids were kids and noisy these days, if not worse. But then, most classes didn’t have Constance as its teacher. He would have been quiet, too, if she’d been his teacher. He was more than half-convinced that she was a witch and they were under her spell. He wasn’t all that sure that he wasn’t, too.

  “Kids, I’ve got a real treat for you,” she announced. Letting go of his hand, she gestured toward him. “This is Detective James Munro and he’s going to tell you all about what he does. I want you to give him your very best attention.” Her gaze swept over them, taking in each student. “There’ll be questions later.”

  As she indicated that he should stand in the center of the room, James thought the first question was what the hell was he doing here?

  The experience turned out to be far less agonizing than he’d anticipated. He’d barely gotten started when one of the students raised a hand and asked a question. He’d no sooner answered that, than another hand shot up. And another and another. He hadn’t expected questions until after he’d come to the end of his hastily composed lecture.

  He discovered that it went better that way, answering questions instead of trying to figure out what to say that might interest them. The fifteen minutes she’d asked of him became twenty. And then twenty-five. Constance had to cut him short because they ran out of time. The next minute, the lunch bell rang. Everyone jumped to their feet, their minds on food and freedom.

  But no one left, he noticed. They were waiting for C
onstance to dismiss them.

  She approached the door, holding it ajar. “Okay, kids, what do you say?”

  “Thank you, Detective Munro,” they chorused. Constance opened the door and they filed out of the classroom. Filed, not ran, not pushed and shoved, but filed.

  Once they were alone, he looked at her in amazement. “You’ve got them well trained.”

  She took no credit. “They’re a good bunch of kids. They want to learn.”

  There was a huge gap between wanting to and learning. He’d found that out for himself. “That’s because you make it interesting for them.”

  “That’s all it takes,” she agreed. “Interest.” He could feel her eyes on him, as if she were trying to decide something. “So, how was it, talking to them? On a scale of one to ten.”

  He shrugged carelessly. “Five.”

  Constance suppressed a smile. She had a feeling that it was a little better than that, but she didn’t press. He was here, which was what counted. “What made you change your mind?”

  “The look in your eyes the other night before I left made me feel about ten inches tall.”

  That hadn’t been her intent. She hated manipulation. Josh had tried to manipulate her during the course of their relationship. She’d sworn to herself that she’d never do that to anyone. “I didn’t mean for it to do that.”

  “Yeah, you did. And it worked.”

  She didn’t feel like arguing. Once he got to know her better, he’d realize that wasn’t her way. “I’m surprised you’re swayed by the look in anyone’s eyes.”

  “That makes two of us,” he replied. The words left his lips in almost slow motion.

  He was keenly aware of the fact that she was standing too close again.

  Chapter Nine

  It was as if his body and mind had quietly gone on automatic pilot without his knowledge.

  One second, James was looking down into Constance’s face, thinking that maybe he had seen more attractive women during the course of his lifetime, but even the most exceptional had not attracted him the way this woman did with her soft Southern lilt and her hypnotic blue eyes. If he listened closely, he was certain he could hear the crackle of electricity between them.

  The next second, he was lowering his lips to hers without any conscious decision to do so. It just happened. Inevitably.

  He had no say in the matter. He had to kiss her.

  He had to kiss her.

  Struggling for some kind of control over himself, James lightly brushed his lips against hers, silently insisting that was enough.

  He rarely lied, especially to himself. He did this time. Because it wasn’t enough. All it did was create a hunger in his belly for more. A hunger he couldn’t deny. The look in her eyes pulled him in completely, leaving him without any kind of marker to help him find his way back.

  Framing her face in his hands, his breath caught in his throat, James kissed her again. This time, there was no pretense, no attempt at a fleeting brushing of lips. This time, the kiss was more intense. Somewhere inside of him, he still hoped that he could somehow navigate his way through the rapids to the shore on the other side without being completely lost.

  Hope died quickly.

  In its wake came a need, a desire, the likes of which he couldn’t recall ever encountering. Not even with Janice. Not even with the first woman he’d ever made love to. He knew he should be backing away. Now. While he still could. But there were forces greater than his will at work, forces that impeded his following through.

  A tenth of a moment later, he forgot why he wanted to flee.

  Constance knew there had to be a law on the school board books that prohibited kissing in the classroom. But until someone came and physically hit her over the head with the book that contained the rule, she was content to be blissful in her ignorance. Blissful because this man stirred up something wonderful, something delicious within her, made that much more so by the edge of danger she knew was present.

  Not the danger of being discovered here with this dark, brooding detective. That was almost insignificant compared to the danger attached to caring for this man. Even now, with her head spinning out of control and her pulse rate breaking every speed record, she knew caring about James came with a penalty.

  It wasn’t the kind of consequence she would have had to face with Josh. Had she married Josh, she would have risked depleting her bank account.

  With James, she was risking her heart.

  She sensed heartbreak shimmering on the horizon. Because she had no idea if this man could ever truly open himself up the way she wanted him to.

  The way she needed him to.

  She had to be in touch with the person she cared about, the person she loved. The thought of continually having to knock on the closed castle door twisted her heart.

  But this was logic. What she was feeling right now was light-years removed from anything logical. Light-years removed from classrooms and responsibilities.

  At this moment in time, as her body leaned into his, rising in temperature, she was smack-dab in the middle of a passion that made it hard for her even to remember that breathing was a prerequisite to survival.

  When he moved back, she felt herself drifting down slowly to earth, a leaf separated from the branch of the tree that had given it sustenance.

  After a beat, she realized that her eyes were closed. She forced them open to look at him. Had he just gotten handsomer? More rugged? She was willing to believe anything, knowing as she did that she was on very, very dangerous ground. Crossing Niagara Falls on a tightrope made of dental floss.

  She tried not to sigh and just barely succeeded. “I should have you give a talk to the students more often.”

  For a second, he made no response. James was struggling with an urge so basic and so adolescent he was utterly stunned by it. With the smallest of signs from her, he would have found a place, a broom closet if necessary, and made love to her until he dropped from exhaustion. Maybe then this insanity would finally drain away from him and leave him in peace.

  But he was a responsible adult. A police detective for God’s sake. Responsible adults didn’t make love in broom closets.

  Not unless there was no other choice.

  But he had a choice. He had free will. Or prayed he did. Summoning it, he nodded toward the door that stood closed, a million miles away.

  “I’d better be going.”

  She pressed her lips together, not trusting herself to say anything coherent until she could pull all of herself together. It took longer than she’d hoped.

  “Thanks for coming,” she finally managed to say as she walked with him to the door.

  Out the door, all you have to do is make it out that door and you’re home free, James told himself. Just a little farther.

  And then he stopped abruptly, knowing he was making another mistake. He turned toward her and asked, “Would you be interested in getting a cup of coffee with me somewhere? Sometime?”

  Her smile went straight to his belly, curling there like smoke. “I imagine I might.” Her eyes were shining again. And he was getting lost in them. Again. “Somewhere, sometime.”

  When his words echoed back to him, he saw how absurd they must have sounded to her. What the hell was wrong with him? This wasn’t like him. He was forceful, made life-and-death decisions in a blink of an eye. How could one small-boned female change all that in less time than it took to draw breath?

  “Okay.” He looked directly into her eyes, challenging himself. Trying to steel himself off from her effects. “How about Friday night?”

  Since she’d broken her engagement, unless there was some kind of charity function that required her presence, or a school conference taking place, Friday nights found her home with her television set and a bowl of homemade popcorn.

  “Sounds perfect.”

  He nodded, the way he might when arranging to interview a suspect. Doing his damnedest to keep it on a less than intensely personal level. “I’ll pick yo
u up at your place. Seven-thirty.”

  She grinned. “Still perfect.”

  Her lips pursed around the second word. Temptation swooped in, whispering in his ear for him to kiss her again. But he knew if he did, he probably would opt for the broom closet.

  So he mumbled goodbye and left.

  Before he couldn’t.

  Santini combed his fingers through his wet hair, getting rid of the excess moisture. It was misting and he’d been standing on the corner for the last ten minutes, waiting for James to come by and pick him up. They were both responding to the same early-evening call that had ruined both their plans.

  He’d tried several times to engage his partner in conversation. Each attempt had been met with stony silence. He’d seen Munro pensive before, but this brought new meaning to the word.

  “Well, you’re in one hell of a mood tonight,” Santini declared, annoyed. “If you were a rain cloud, I’d be running for high ground.”

  They were driving down to Lexington and the scene of yet another restaurant robbery—R Squared the papers were calling it. It didn’t put James in the best frame of mind. The extenuating circumstances didn’t either.

  He slanted a lethal glance toward Santini. “Might not be a bad idea, anyway.”

  But over the years, Santini had learned to stand his ground. If he didn’t, Munro would plow right over him. “If I’m going to drown, mind telling me what crawled under your saddle and died?”

  It was Friday night. And instead of being on his way to pick Constance up for dinner, something he’d told himself all week that he was dreading rather than looking forward to, he was driving with Santini to the scene of yet another R Squared. This time, the stakes had gotten higher. This time, someone had died at the scene.

  Munro made no attempt to answer his question as he glared straight ahead at the glistening windshield with its sprinkling of summer rain.

  “Hey, at least this didn’t ruin your plans like it did mine.” Santini’s anger mounted as he talked. “Rita’s mother took the kids to her house for the night. We were going to go out for dinner and a movie and then come back to an empty house.” He shifted in his seat, his seat belt straining as he looked at James. “I was looking forward to getting lucky tonight.”