by Leigh Duncan
He moved to her side. “The surf is decidedly not up.”
“So, why are you here?” she asked, hopeful.
“I have a few things on my mind.” His voice dropped. “You put most of them there.”
“Me?” She held her breath.
“I’ve been giving some thought to the things you said about job burnout.”
“Oh.” If they were going to waste a perfectly good night on the beach talking about work, she would never give advice again.
“Haven’t done much about it, but I am thinking about it.”
“O-kay.”
“Plus, you looked so worried at the cookout. You said it was your job, but I wanted to help if I can.”
“Oh. That.” And here she was, thinking maybe he wanted to kiss her. Her exhale sounded as ragged as she felt.
Work. They would talk about work.
“Because of the hurricane, I convinced the home office to extend emergency aid—time off and other things. They were against it, but—”
“—you swept them off their feet.”
She smiled. Sweeping Brett off his feet wasn’t nearly so easy. “I appealed to their wallets. In the long run, we give a little and save a lot.”
“Sounds like smart business, but I guess something went wrong?”
“The usual. Someone—the security guard who showed me around my first day, actually—took advantage. I found out after work and, well, it threw me.”
“You going to press charges? If you need help arresting the guy—”
“Whoa, cowboy!” She let her hand settle on his arm. For a minute there, she’d forgotten she was talking to a cop. Of course, he would see everything in black and white, but this problem had several facets. “I was more concerned about Corporate pulling the plug on the assistance program. And, to be frank, how it would affect me.”
“You?” He paused. “Oh, yeah. Your promotion.”
His voice carried a hard edge that made her retrieve her hand. “I’ve worked hard to get where I am,” she said crossly. “But I could get fired for this. Corporate could order me back to Ohio. Either way, I’d lose all that I’ve worked for.”
“But you have to turn him in. You’re not the kind of girl to—”
“I’m not sure you know what kind of girl I am, Brett.” She felt, rather than saw, him bristle. “But, yeah, I’m going to do it. I have to investigate a little further, make sure no one else has abused the program.”
“Or that he hasn’t done anything worse.”
The idea elicited an inward groan. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
Her rhetorical question drew an answer from Brett. “Because you’re not a cop. If you give me his name, I’ll check him out for you. See if anything obvious pops up.”
“Can’t.” She shook her head. “Not until I inform management.”
“Well, at least see what kind of house he owns.” He leaned back from the railing. “Check out the car he drives. You probably know his salary. Can he afford his lifestyle?”
“Probably not,” she whispered, remembering the affordable trailer Paul claimed to live in, the reality of his upscale neighborhood, the brand-new SUV.
Brett turned to face her. “It’s that serious? They’d really transfer you?”
She didn’t want to think about it, but she needed to be honest. “The last HR manager left in a hurry. Very hush-hush. Rumor says he was let go. A transfer is the best I could hope for.”
“That kind of changes things,” he said quietly.
It was exactly what she was afraid of.
She stilled when his body shifted close enough that she felt his breath stir gentle currents through her hair. His arms slipped around her waist and drew her to him. The night was so black she could not read his eyes, but she sensed a goodbye kiss in the offing. If so, she’d make it a good one.
She tipped her head to his and felt his lips brush hers. His mouth pressed against her own, so firm, so strong that her lips parted willingly when he teased them. He tasted of mint and spice and salt, and she sighed into a kiss that was sweet and light.
Hesitantly, she explored his mouth. Because this was a goodbye kiss, because she’d never have the opportunity again, she trailed her fingertips over the sandpaper of his cheek and traced the outline of his jaw. At her touch, he whispered her name.
Sweet and light gave way to urgent and demanding.
One of his hands cupped her face, the other slipped through her hair to guide her even closer. His touch was enough to drive her mad with longing, and her breasts swelled at the low rumble that rose from his chest. Their tongues danced them to the edge of a world where kissing wasn’t enough.
“Brett, I—”
“Right. You’re right.” His hands settled onto her shoulders until he held her at arm’s length.
In this case, being right wasn’t as much fun as it usually was. She sought his chest where she nestled in the crook of his arm, listening to the beat of their hearts while they watched stars blink in the night sky.
“How about dinner when I get off work tomorrow?” he asked after a few minutes.
Dinner sounded like a beginning, not an end.
“Sounds good,” she agreed.
Chapter Eight
Dreams of a certain hunky cop vied with nightmares about wayward guards until Stephanie woke craving chocolate Saturday morning. Hours later her fingers fumbled with the buttons of a chocolate-brown pencil skirt, but she told herself it was uncertainty, not her date, that made her heart race and her mouth water for something sweet.
“Seven o’clock,” Brett had said.
“Dinner,” he had said.
Why hadn’t she asked where they were headed? Tracing the outline of her lips with one finger, she stumbled over the truth. She hadn’t asked because she had been a little distracted at the time. All that kissing had numbed her brain right along with her mouth. “Questions first, then kisses” would be her new motto.
A few minutes before seven, she gave her head a rueful shake at the shiny black Avalanche that pulled to the curb in front of her house. The long swath of fabric narrowly encasing her lower half was no match for a tall SUV. She couldn’t climb aboard without making a fool of herself, and that was one trick she wanted to avoid. So, no matter where they were headed, a change of clothes was on the menu.
Brett’s feet struck the ground on the far side of the vehicle. She watched until he stepped around the back bumper and into full view. Thoughts of her own attire faded as her mouth went dry and her body stilled.
She was willing to bet her date looked better in Banana Republic and J. Crew than Michelangelo’s David ever could. What better clothes to showcase slim hips and muscular thighs? What could possibly display broad shoulders to better advantage? She let her eyes roam from Brett’s sculpted and freshly shaved jaw to his dark, wavy hair. Her palms itched to press themselves against his chest.
Stephanie shook her head and reminded herself to breathe.
The doorbell rang.
“I’m coming,” she called out, and sped to answer the bell.
“Hey.” Brett loomed in her open doorway. “Am I too early?”
One hand fluttered as she imagined the finely honed muscles that must lay beneath the well-pressed fabric of his shirt. She trapped the protesting fingers and led them to safety behind her back. “You’re right on time, but I need a few minutes to change.”
“Why?” He tugged off sunglasses as he stepped into her living room.
“Your truck. It’s so…” She followed his jawline until she reached his devastating eyes. The appreciative look she found there sent her tongue on a quick trip around her lips.
“Big,” she managed just as a chill swept through her. She ran a smoothing hand over her skirt while she summoned up the ability to speak. “Your truck is so, uh, tall that I’d have to make like a mountain goat to get into it wearing this.”
“Not a problem,” Brett said with a shrug. “I’ll wait if you want. But you shou
ld know, I think what you’re wearing looks great.”
Stephanie weighed the odds of making a fool of herself versus choosing something that might not bring that particular gleam back into his eyes. She could handle foolishness, she decided.
She needn’t have worried. As she stood at the door of his truck pondering the best way to hike her skirt and scramble into the cab while retaining some measure of decorum, Brett swept her into his arms and deposited her in the passenger seat. He did so without even breathing hard. Which was fine with Stephanie—his touch made her breathe hard enough for the both of them.
They sped over the causeway, turning south onto a black ribbon of Tarmac that trailed the river’s edge. “Old U.S. One,” Brett called it as they wove slowly beneath and between ancient oak trees on a road never intended for wide-bodied SUV’s. Few of the original shotgun-style houses remained, he said, pointing to one where a front porch crumpled beneath a tangle of kudzu. A battalion of heavy equipment was parked nearby. As riverfront values soared, he explained, so did the minimansions built by local politicians and businessmen to replace the teardowns.
“That one belongs to John Sanders.” He slowed the Avalanche to a crawl.
A wide veranda and functional, slatted shutters dated the home to a pre-air-conditioning era but the wood-frame house had aged gently beneath its canopy of immense trees.
“I’ve met him,” she offered, picturing ramrod-straight shoulders and a garrulous smile. “We’ve spoken several times in the last few weeks.”
“I thought he retired ages ago.” Brett gave the SUV a bit more gas as they hit a straighter stretch. “Doesn’t surprise me that he’d keep a hand in, though. Built that company into what it is today. It’s the county’s biggest employer.” He caught himself with a half laugh that made her grin. “But I guess you know that already.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I think I heard that somewhere.” Beneath her seat belt, she shifted. Thinking of John Sanders reminded her of work and its problems. Problems she could have spent the weekend investigating, but had put on hold to be with Brett. She refused to let her troubles interfere with the evening and deliberately twisted until she could look at her date without turning her head.
She loved everything about Brett’s face, from the tumble of dark hair over his eyes to the rugged edge of his chin. She had never felt so protected as she did with his strong arms wrapped around her, her face pressed against his broad, solid chest. The memory of their embrace rushed back and she recalled the way his long legs pressed against hers. She ached to feel that way again.
One tire thunked into a pothole and bounced out, jarring some sense into her. He wasn’t taking her to his place for “pasta and whatever.” And she couldn’t seduce him in a public restaurant. Not unless it was called The Horny Toad.
“So where are we going?” she asked hopefully.
“There’s a little place I like on the river down south. I haven’t been there in a while and thought we’d check it out. It’s called The Yellow Dog Café,” he said.
The name was close enough to make one of her eyebrows dip just as Brett glanced her way.
“It’s a nice place. Trust me.” He pointed to the river where a pair of hooked dorsal fins sliced through the water. “Dolphin,” he said as they disappeared. “They’ll surface again in a minute.”
She settled further into the bucket seat and pretended to watch the large mammals cavort in the river. If Brett said The Yellow Dog was okay, it was fine with her. She would trust him with dinner. But, she wondered, as he treated her to a minitravelogue based on a bottomless well of knowledge about the area, could she trust him with her heart?
Maybe. Maybe not.
The host at the restaurant probably thought he was being Mr. Excellent Maître d’ when he greeted Brett by name. Surely the man had no clue he was waving red flags as he led them to a coveted corner table overlooking white sails and blue water.
Stephanie glanced across the linen tablecloth and sparkling silver to the handsome man who ordered wine and appetizers without so much as cracking open his copy of the leather-bound menu. He had been to the restaurant often enough that the staff knew him by name. And how many of those times had he been alone?
“So, Brett.” In the glow of his warm smile, her courage plummeted. She gulped water from a crystal goblet. “What is this, your standard first-date place?” It hurt that she didn’t mean more to him.
His head tilted just enough to throw her heart off balance. “What?” he asked.
“You’ve been here before,” she said. It took a surprising effort to keep the crush of disappointment from her voice. “The host knows you.”
Brett nodded to another table where the dark-haired man was distributing menus to newcomers. “We’ve been on a first-name basis ever since I busted him for peddling drugs at the junior high school.”
She bolted straight up in her chair. “Really?” Her head yo-yoed back and forth between the man and a smiling Brett. “You’re teasing.”
“You deserved it,” he said. “I take first dates to a movie—no talking required. If that goes well, we see each other a couple of times before I introduce her to my friends.” He reached across the table to take her hands in his. “I think we’re past all that, don’t you?”
His voice warmed her to the core and set off a series of tremors that shook the foundations of her structured future. “Yes,” she whispered. “We definitely are.”
“But to answer your question, I did bring a date here once. She didn’t like it so we didn’t come back. Mostly I used to come here with my folks before they moved to the Carolinas. It was kind of their place, if you know what I mean. Do you like it?”
Fresh flowers sprang from wall sconces, hundreds of framed dog photos lined the stair rails, and kitschy marionettes danced from overhead beams. Everything about the restaurant, from the polished oak bar to the stairs that led to an outside deck, promised solidity and permanence. The eclectic collections only added to the allure, as did immense windows offering spectacular views of a river as changeable as the man seated across the table.
“What’s not to like?” she asked.
When their waiter slipped bowls of fragrant chowder before them, Stephanie’s eyes fell to the pale gold crackers adorning the crockery. Dog-shaped, they were poised on the rims as if ready to leap. Thinking the crackers could be either one of them, she smiled up at Brett who quirked his eyebrows in acknowledgment.
One taste of the pink soup, though—rich and thick with crab—and her smile faded.
“Oh, this is wonderful,” she murmured between spoonfuls. “What idiot dissed your favorite restaurant?”
For the first time since they’d met, her self-assured date looked a little out of his element. “You might know her,” he said.
Despite the warning, she prompted him. “Yes?”
“Deb Peters.”
“My real estate agent? The woman who swore I’d never have to worry about hurricanes? Who conveniently forgot to mention the storm that nearly destroyed the house she sold to Space Tech? That Deb Peters?” Her simmering distrust of the woman she once considered a potential friend morphed into full-fledged, green-tinged dislike. Stephanie grasped her wineglass, forcing herself to sip slowly when she really wanted to chug it all and ask for more.
Maybe she shouldn’t ask about first dates. Maybe she should ask about last ones.
“How long has it been since you and Debbie, you know, quit seeing each other?” She held her breath while, across the table, Brett blew out his.
“A year. Maybe more.”
She exhaled. A year was certainly long enough to get over someone so unappreciative though Stephanie felt certain she’d never forgive the woman. She knew better than to ask, but her mind latched on to the image of Brett with the tall blonde and it wouldn’t let go. There had to be others. “And since then?” she asked.
“No one,” he said firmly. His blue eyes held hers while the waiter whisked empty bowls from the table
, replacing them with chilled salad plates.
“And you?” he asked. “Any ex-boyfriends going to descend from Ohio to steal you away?”
“Remember me? I lived with my parents.” The quip earned a laugh, but Brett kept looking at her, waiting for a real answer. She studied her plate where lemony vinaigrette slicked greens and red beans. The pages in her love diary were embarrassingly empty. She sighed.
“It’s been all work and no play for far too long,” she admitted slowly. “I hired on at Space Tech right out of college. Between work and getting my master’s, and work and writing my thesis, and work…” She shrugged. “I haven’t had much time for anything else.”
She frowned as a familiar tightness settled onto her shoulders. Talking about her job would ruin the whole evening if she let it, and a single glance at Brett told her what a terrible mistake that would be. Deliberately, she straightened to issue a challenge.
“Pick a topic. Anything but work. Even religion and politics are fair game. Go.”
After a pause long enough to let her know they were both thinking the same thing, amusement danced in Brett’s eyes. “Fly fishing,” he said with a grin that could disarm a bandit.
Not what she would have chosen, but she’d laid down the rules. Now she had to follow them. “I’ve always wondered, how is that different from regular fishing?”
A waggish, horrified look dropped over his features. “You’ve never been fishing? Ever?” When she shook her head, he continued. “Everyone who lives in Florida has to fish. It’s a state law. As a police officer, it’s my job to uphold the law so, unless you want me to arrest you—”
“Again?” She clutched at her heart and aimed a finger. “No shop talk, remember.”
“—I’ll have to introduce you to the sport. How about tomorrow?”
With another whole day to kill before Monday, floating down the river in a boat seemed like an excellent idea.
“Sounds good to me,” she agreed.
“Great.” Brett grinned. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“In the morning? That’s awfully early for the weekend,” she protested.
