All a Man Can Ask

by Virginia Kantra

She cradled her wrist. “Nothing else?”

  “Not a thing.” He flashed her a grin. “Well, you could let me buy you a drink tonight.”

  She didn’t smile back. “Why?”

  “Payback for the beer?”

  She didn’t say anything, just stood there regarding him with those wide, dark eyes.

  He shrugged. “Maybe I want to thank you.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe you just want me to provide you with cover.”

  She was too quick, he thought.

  “How about both?” he said.

  “All right,” she said finally. “But I’m not really involved.”

  “Of course not.”

  Aleksy knew he was lying. He wondered if Faye did, too.

  Her soap was purple and her shampoo smelled like flowers.

  Aleksy grinned as he hung a fluffy green towel on the back of Faye’s bathroom door. If anybody in the squad room got a whiff of him now, they’d think he was a pouf.

  He yanked on the clean shirt he kept in his car and ran his fingers through his damp hair. Good enough, he thought, checking his look in the mirror. This wasn’t a date.

  Faye’s soft voice echoed in his head. Or maybe you just want me to provide you with cover.

  His reflection winced. Yeah.

  He flipped off the light and left the bathroom. “Hey, Faye!” He strode toward the living room. “You rea—”

  He rounded the corner and saw her, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

  The full, flowered skirt was gone.

  The wistful hippie girl was gone.

  In her place was a sleek little number in tight dark jeans and a formfitting black top that exposed a lot of soft, smooth chest and an eye-riveting sliver of skin above a heavy leather belt. Long, funky earrings sparkled against her pretty neck. Her blond hair was spiked, and she’d done something to her eyes to make them look big and shadowed. Sexy.

  His body went on alert. He was in trouble here.

  “Hello,” said Aleksy. “Who are you, and what have you done with Goldilocks?”

  She laughed, an amused, confident, very female sort of laugh, and all the blood left his brain and rushed to his groin.

  “I thought I should change,” she said.

  “Well, you did.” He eyed her up and down. “You look like the kind of girl my brother warned me about.”

  She raised her chin. “Is that a problem?”

  “Not really. I never listened to him, anyway.”

  She smiled at him uncertainly and the lust inside him twisted and slid into something softer and more dangerous.

  Oh, yeah. Very big trouble here.

  “Let’s go,” Aleksy said. “I have to see a man about a boat.”

  No one would patronize the Blue Moon bar for its artwork, Faye thought. The walls sported a glass-eyed deer and an assortment of brightly lit beer signs. A big stuffed fish, its stretched mouth full of teeth, hung over the bar.

  But the view of the lake, coral in the sunset, was breathtaking. And the bartender was gorgeous.

  His face had the dark, secretive beauty of a portrait subject from the Italian Renaissance. A Medici, maybe, or a Borgia. His eyes were black. His body was lean and hard.

  Faye stared. He was almost perfectly proportioned—long legs, narrow hips, fabulous—

  Aleksy took her elbow and nudged her toward a table by the window. “Sit down.”

  “Is that Mark DeLucca? The bartender?”

  “Yeah.”

  She craned her neck to get another look. “I thought you wanted to talk to him.”

  “I will. I have to get our drinks.”

  She tugged her arm from his grasp. “I’ll go with you.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  She was confused. “But I thought you wanted to show him my sketchbook.”

  “So?”

  “Wouldn’t it look more natural if I were there?”

  Aleksy scowled. “Fine. You can tag along if you promise not to drool in my beer.”

  She considered being offended; discovered she felt complimented instead. “You’re jealous.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of him,” she said, pleased with her observation.

  Aleksy looked disbelieving. “DeLucca?”

  “He’s very good looking,” Faye said, enjoying his reaction. Skinny art teachers had so few opportunities to play femme fatale. She liked the role. At least for tonight.

  Aleksy threaded through the crowded tables. “So’s a snake, but I wouldn’t want to be one.” He leaned against the polished bar until the bartender looked their way. “Mark.”

  Mark DeLucca jerked his head in acknowledgment. “Alex. What’ll it be?”

  “Whatever’s on draft.” Aleksy raised an eyebrow at Faye. She nodded, amused by his possessiveness. “Two.”

  “Two drafts.” Mark reached for and filled two mugs with easy, economical movements. Beneath the sleeve of his black T-shirt, a tattoo rode his right bicep. Faye squinted to read it but she couldn’t make it out.

  “There you go.” He set their beers in front of them. “Anything else?”

  “Jarek says you know boats,” Aleksy said, a faint challenge in his tone.

  “I know some.”

  “Could you identify one from a drawing?”

  Amusement gleamed in those flat, black eyes. “Depends on the drawing.”

  Aleksy nudged her arm. “Faye?”

  That was her cue. She scrambled for her sketchbook, flipped to the right page and laid it on the bar. “This one,” she said, laying it open on the bar. “The boat here.”

  Mark studied it, his brows drawing together over his straight nose. “Could be a Parker Pilothouse,” he said after a moment. “The color’s right—that kind of off-white beige—and the cabin. Is this drawing to scale?”

  Faye stiffened. Maybe she was a little dissatisfied with her recent work, but she hadn’t lost her grasp of the basics. “Yes, of course.”

  “Okay. So, looking at the dock, your boat’s maybe twenty-five feet long. Pointed prow. Yamaha engine?”

  “Excuse me?”

  One long finger tapped her drawing. “The outboard engine. Was it a Yamaha?”

  “I don’t remember,” she confessed, feeling inadequate again. “It was black.”

  “Yeah, I can see that. Parker Pilothouse,” Mark said to Aleksy. “Late 90s, at a guess. Kind of surprising to find one around here.”

  “Why is that?” Aleksy asked.

  “The manufacturer’s down in North Carolina. They only build around six hundred boats a year. Not a custom boat, but nice and fast.”

  “It would be,” Aleksy said grimly. “Storage?”

  “Plenty in the V-berth. Why?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Suit yourself.” Mark wiped his bar and smiled at Faye. “Nice picture. One of yours?”

  She smiled back tentatively. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “You the artist who took the Harper cottage for the summer?”

  “Why, yes. Eileen Harper is my aunt. I used to visit her sometimes when I was growing up. For an entire summer, once, when I was fourteen.”

  “Summer girl, huh?”

  Something about the way he said it made her defensive. “Maybe to you. I always felt like I belonged here.”

  “We won’t keep you,” Aleksy said. “Thanks for the help.”

  “Anytime,” Mark said blandly.

  Aleksy picked up both beers and started across the tiny, scarred dance floor.

  “Nice meeting you,” Faye called over her shoulder.

  On the jukebox, Donna Summer yielded to the theme from Hawaii Five-O. Faye grinned as she trailed Aleksy to a booth at the back. It was too funny. Too perfect. She already felt like an unpaid extra in a bad police drama.

  “So, what was that about?” she asked after they were seated.

  Aleksy angled to face the door. “I can’t discuss an ongoing police investigation with Mark DeLucca.”

  Oh, r
eally. “We weren’t discussing your investigation. We were talking about my painting.”

  A gleam entered his coffee dark eyes. “So, talk.”

  Oh, dear. “You don’t want to talk about my painting.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You never said anything about my work before.”

  And it stung.

  “Maybe I didn’t want to sound dumb.”

  “Yes, I can see that insecurity is a problem for you,” she said dryly.

  He laughed. “Is it for you?”

  Yes.

  She traced the condensation on her glass with her finger. “I suppose all artists want approval to some degree.”

  He leaned back in his seat. “So, what do you want? You want me to tell you I like your stuff?”

  Her heart beat faster. She gulped her beer. “I want you to tell me what you think,” she said firmly.

  Well, unless he hated it.

  Aleksy took her open sketchbook by the edge and turned it around. She tried not to fidget as he thumbed slowly through the pages—sky, bank, water, woods, viridian and blue, sienna and gray.

  “Pretty,” he said at last, and closed the book.

  That was it? She had hours, days, weeks of work in there.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He watched her steadily. “You’re disappointed.”

  “No.” She bit her lip on the lie. “Maybe I hoped you’d be… I don’t know.”

  “More perceptive?”

  “More—” interested “—impressed.”

  “Sweetheart, I have to use a ruler and a compass to draw an accurate crime scene. Believe me, I’m impressed.”

  “Art’s not about accuracy. It’s supposed to evoke an emotional response.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, well, the D.A. gets very emotional over badly drawn crime scenes.”

  Faye tried to work up a little indignation. But it was tough with Aleksy sitting across the table, strong and reassuring, a grin on his lips and an invitation in his eyes.

  “Philistine,” she said, without heat.

  “I told you I didn’t know anything about art.”

  “But you know how you feel.”

  He shrugged. “Sure.”

  “And my work doesn’t make you feel anything.”

  “What do you want? I said it was pretty.”

  Right. What did she want? She painted pretty. She wanted soothing. Didn’t she?

  She took another sip of beer, her second that day. She was turning into a real wild woman.

  “You should see what I was painting six months ago,” she said.

  “It wasn’t pretty?”

  “Some of it was.” She defended her work. “Well, not pretty. Vibrant. Dynamic.”

  “Bragging, teacher?”

  “No, I—” She smiled. “Maybe I am.”

  Aleksy looked at her, his expression arrested. “You should do that more often.”

  Her laughter spurted out. “Brag?”

  “Smile.”

  She was vaguely offended. And maybe just a little drunk. “I smile.”

  “Not a lot.”

  Two beers. She’d only had two beers. “Well, excuse me. I just had my home broken into. Maybe I don’t have a lot to smile about.”

  He watched her across the scarred and darkened table. “I could help you with that.”

  “With the break-in? You already—”

  “No.” His eyes were hot and steady. “Let me take you home and see if I can give you something to smile about.”

  Faye’s mouth gaped. She must look like that fish over the bar. She closed it. Opened it. Asked, “Are you out of your mind?”

  “Nope. I don’t think so.”

  “You barely know me.”

  “I know enough.”

  “Enough for what?”

  Aleksy smiled, all male confidence. She felt the heat spread low in her stomach and in her cheeks. “Don’t answer that,” she said hastily.

  “Okay.”

  He sounded agreeable. Relaxed.

  Frustrated, tempted, she glared at him, at the coiled energy in his chest and arms, at his long hands restlessly turning his glass. Not so relaxed after all, she thought. Good.

  “It wouldn’t work,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “I need to know someone better before I… I need to know you better.”

  “Let me take you home,” he said again. “I guarantee you’ll know me better.”

  Her lungs emptied of breath. Her mind emptied of thought. There was a part of her, a large and surprisingly vocal part, that wanted to say yes.

  Maybe it was the beer.

  Or maybe it was him, tough cop Aleksy Denko. He was warm and vital and fearless, and she was sick of being alone and safe and sad.

  Tonight, at least, she wanted to wrap herself in his heat. She wanted to absorb some of his energy, borrow a little of his confidence. She wanted to rub up, quite literally, against danger.

  The realization panicked her.

  “That would be—” Wonderful, she thought. Reckless. Exciting. “—a very bad idea,” she said.

  “Are you sure?” he asked softly.

  A lot of guys think it’s a waste not to take what’s on offer, married or not.

  “Yes,” she said.

  He shrugged and slid her a crooked smile that snagged her like a fishhook. “You can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  “That depends. How often do you try?”

  “You want a list of prior sexual partners?”

  “How about a clean bill of health?” She felt her face heat to scarlet. “I’m sorry. That was unnecessary.”

  “Maybe not,” he drawled, and her flush deepened.

  If they became lovers, he meant.

  “It was still rude,” she said.

  “It was smart,” he corrected. “A good detective decides cases on the evidence.”

  “I’m not a detective.”

  “No.” The warmth in his eyes made her heart stutter. “But I like you anyway.”

  Maybe she liked him, too.

  Bruce Springsteen took over the jukebox. Under the cover of music, they talked, getting-to-know-you stuff about favorite parks and who made the best pizza in Chicago.

  Faye finished her beer, which may have been a mistake, but she wasn’t driving. She waved to Mark DeLucca as they left the bar. She didn’t have to worry about getting mugged in the parking lot, either. Not with the virile Detective Dynamite at her side. The thought made her giggle.

  Aleksy narrowed his eyes at her. “How much have you had to drink?”

  “Two beers.”

  “That’s all?”

  “I’m small. And I didn’t eat much.” She swayed toward him in challenge. “Are you going to make me take a Breathalyzer test?”

  “No. I’m going to pour you into the car and take you home.”

  “Okay.” She leaned against the padded headrest and drifted through the starlit drive, feeling relaxed and cared for.

  Aleksy opened her door and escorted her up the walk.

  “Key?” he ordered at her door.

  She dug it out of her bag and handed it over. He left her on the lit porch while he did a quick search of the inside.

  Checking for intruders, she realized. A little of her well-being leaked away.

  Returning, Aleksy steered her inside and closed the door behind him. The click of the lock prodded her to full awareness. Somewhere along the way he’d retrieved his bag from the bathroom and parked it under an end table.

  She sobered fast. “You’re not staying here.”

  Aleksy heard the edge in her voice. He had to back off, or he was going to lose her.

  “Relax, cream puff. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  “No. We agreed—”

  “Whoever ripped you off thinks you’re here alone. I’d like them to see my car parked in your driveway overnight.”

  “Why? They weren’t looking for proof that you’re living here. They we
re after the photos.”

  Damn. She was back in teacher mode. Loose and woozy would have made things easier on both of them. Not that he would have taken advantage of her drunken state to get any closer than her couch… At least, he didn’t think he would. He wanted her willing in bed. And he needed her compliance on this case.

  “Maybe they were after the photos,” he said.

  “And they got them.”

  “And this makes you feel better?”

  “Yes.” Her little chin stuck out. “If they already have what they want, I’m safe.”

  He forced himself not to yell at her. “Only if you take reasonable precautions.”

  “Since when is letting a strange man sleep on my couch a reasonable precaution?”

  “Since they broke into your house. Faye, these bastards are already responsible for one woman’s death. I need to be here. That way if they try anything else, I’m in a position to protect you.”

  “And catch them.”

  Wasn’t that what the good guys were supposed to do? Although in this case, his hands were tied until he had more evidence.

  “If it comes to that, yeah. Otherwise, I’ll just be here to keep an eye on things.”

  She crossed her arms under her small, perfect breasts. “Is that why you put the moves on me earlier? So you’d be here to keep an eye on things?”

  Hell.

  “No.”

  Maybe.

  He used his discomfort to fuel the heat in his voice. “Come on, Faye. You don’t think I find you attractive?”

  “I think you find me convenient. I think you’d do anything to bring your Karen’s murderers to justice.” Her big brown eyes were clear and hurt. “Including lie to me.”

  Yes.

  It was a lousy admission to take to bed. Especially since he figured that if things had only been different—if he had only been different—he might have had Faye instead.

  Chapter 6

  “Would you like coffee?” Faye asked politely the next morning as Aleksy came out of the bathroom.

  Whoa. And a howdy good morning to you. His body, still warm from sleep and heavy from a lingering dream, reacted fiercely to the sight of her—her messy blond hair, her pale, nude lips, her bare, arched feet. He wanted to back her through her bedroom door and flat onto her mattress.

  He met her eyes. Not going to happen, they announced. Not in a million years.

  He cleared his throat. “Coffee would be great. Thanks.”