by Leigh Duncan
“Hey, look who decided to pay us a visit.”
Jake spoke to Mac, who was wiping down the long wooden bar. Last call was only minutes away and the place had emptied.
“It’s about time, bro.”
Experience told Brett that Jake had come there straight from work and had been drinking steadily. Waving off Mac’s offer of a draught, he accepted a sloppy handshake from the senior cop and pulled up a chair.
“How you been, Jake? And how’s—” He stopped. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember the latest in Jake’s string of three-month stands.
“Becca,” Jake provided. “She’s gone to visit her sister.”
Brett nodded. Another relationship had run its course.
“So, hey. That was some takedown at Patel’s, wasn’t it? Just the way I taught—”
Brett eyed the third most influential person in his life and tried to look past the fact that the man was stone-drunk. “Yeah. I’m not here to swap stories. Jake, I got a little problem.”
There was nothing the older officer liked better than to have his boys come to him with their problems. Jake straightened until his sprawl was moderately upright.
“Whazzup?”
“You remember that girl I was seeing? I introduced you one night.”
“Steffie,” grunted the man who, when cold sober, was brilliant and dead-on. He aimed a finger that missed the mark when his elbow slipped off the table edge. “You gotta break that cycle, man. She’s just another round from the same chamber as your last gal.”
The advice did not deserve a response and Brett didn’t give it one. “I’m not here to discuss my love life. I came here because someone on the force has targeted Stephanie. She’s gotten a slew of tickets in the last few weeks. She thought I was behind them and called to tell me to knock it off.”
Deny everything was the standard reaction to any accusation against a fellow officer. Expecting his friend to reject Stephanie’s claims, Brett’s stomach lurched when Jake’s mouth twisted into a wicked grin.
“She did, did she?” He drained the last of his beer and thunked the empty mug onto the table. “Hey, Mac. I need another one.”
“Last call,” growled the retired cop from Jersey. “How about you, Brett?”
“I’ll pass, thanks,” he told the bar owner before facing his one-time mentor again. “Tell me you’re not behind this.”
“Don’t get bent out of shape. Her record’s spotless.”
True enough. Doris had pulled the info for him that afternoon. The only way Jake would know it, though, was if he…
Brett waited until Mac settled two beers, one ordered and one not, between them on the scarred table.
“Jake, buddy,” he said after the owner moved out of range, “you gotta cut this out. The department’ll come down all over you.”
“Hey, man!” Jake raised his hands in mock innocence. “I never signed a single one o’them warnings. It’s her word against mine. Who’s gonna tell?”
Brett let his features stiffen into his game face. Anyone who made him choose between himself and the woman he loved was going to face severe disappointment. He felt Jake’s eyes on him, saw them widen in disbelief.
“So. It’s like that, izzit?”
Outlasting Jake’s weak stare was no problem. “It’s like that.”
“She’s just another self-cent—”
Brett growled his final warning. “That’s my girl you’re talking about. I don’t want to hear another word against her. And if she gets so much as one—”
“I gotcha.” One of the things that made Jake a good officer was his ability to know when to surrender the field. He sprawled in his chair, one arm spread across the torn leather of the empty seat beside him. He raised his mug. “Here’s to the brotherhood. Let nothing divide us.”
Brett stared down at the beer he had not ordered.
“You’re not drinking,” Jake prodded.
“Nah,” Brett answered. “I’ve had enough.” Jake and the others like him were as much a part of his past as Stephanie was his future.
“Time to lock up,” Mac interrupted.
Jake lurched to his feet. “Guess we’ll finish that beer next time.” Plunging his hand into his pocket, he missed and his fingers slid down his pants leg. As quickly as a drunk could, he made another stab, this time coming up with the desired keys.
Brett looked around the bar. There was no one else to drive the training officer home, and Jake was too drunk to walk, much less slide behind the wheel.
“Hey, man.” He sidled up beside his superior. “Gimme your keys. I’ll drive.”
“Nah, I can manage. Izz only a cuppa’ miles.”
Brett required less than a split second to weigh the penalty for confronting his senior officer versus having one of CB’s own pulled over for DUI. Or worse. He snagged the keys.
“You can call a cab or I’m driving. Your choice.”
“Cab,” Jake spit. “I ain’t ridin’ with you.”
Mac had the local taxi company on speed dial and used it. Minutes later, Brett poured the man he’d once referred to as the finest cop he had ever known into the backseat. He gave directions to the driver and leaned against the bar’s brick facade.
“There but for the grace of a good woman, go I,” he murmured.
He had the right woman. Now, he just needed to win her over. And he had a pretty good idea how he was going to do it.
ACCORDING TO A GUARD who was not named Mason, Stephanie’s door was at the end of the hall. Brett strode down the wide corridor on the third floor of the administration building, the freshly polished black shoes beneath his uniform squeaking against gleaming marble. He had always imagined his girl sharing a cramped space similar to his in the squad room, but his perception shifted upward as he passed the handsome selection of oils and watercolors on the walls.
Knowing he could have nearly the same thing if he wanted it helped him squelch a ripple of envy. Once he completed that master’s thesis, one “Yes” to any number of recruiters would put him behind an executive desk in his own corner office of a private security firm. With his background in the Marines and on the CBPD, he had all the right credentials for the top job. Not that he was in a hurry to turn in his badge. He liked police work and took pride in what he did. He looked down the long corridor a second time, his chest swelling with admiration for his girl.
At the end of the hall, he paused to let his expectations climb another notch. Stephanie had never mentioned a suite of offices. The pound of chocolate-covered potato chips he meant as a peace offering suddenly seemed too paltry. Next time, he would splurge on the largest box of their favorite treat.
His glance took in a brass plaque mounted on the wall.
Human Resources, it read, with Stephanie Bryant, Director, in only slightly smaller script below.
He took in the airy waiting room and the four adjacent office doors, all closed. The computer screen atop the mahogany reception desk had gone dark. The phone’s Call Forward button blinked continuously. He stood wondering where everyone was until a slim blonde eased out of the office at the far end of the quad. She lingered at the closed door, her troubled expression straightening Brett’s posture and compelling him to make another sweep of the office space. Though nothing looked out of the ordinary and only the soft buzz and hum of office equipment reached his ears, he had learned a valuable lesson at Pat’s Place and no longer let his guard down.
Across the room, the frowning girl glanced up. “Oh!” she said, starting visibly. Her expression quickly changed from upset to curious. With a soft rustle of linen and silk, she glided toward him on a fresh wave of flowery perfume. “Is there a problem, Officer?”
Brett reached into his bag of tricks and dusted off a smile—the one Doris claimed could melt polar ice caps. It never hurt to have the secretary on your side.
“Hey. No problem. I’m not here on official duty.” Extending a hand, he said, “I’m Brett Lincoln.”
Apparentl
y his name didn’t register with the girl because her long, thin fingers slipped into and out of his grasp while the expression on her face never wavered. Which was okay, he told himself. He was almost thankful that Stephanie didn’t talk about her personal life at work.
“I just dropped by to see St—Ms. Bryant. If she’s available?”
Puzzlement flashed across the girl’s face like a lightning strike. “I’m sorry, Officer Lincoln. She’s in a meeting with—” She caught herself and threw a troubled look at the door she had just exited. “She’s in a meeting,” she repeated before she slid into the desk chair and swiveled to face him. “Would you like an appointment?”
“No thanks, Ralinda,” he said with a quick look at the flustered blonde’s badge. It took a little more effort than he expected to turn up the wattage on his smile. “Do you think she’ll be free soon?”
“This might take a while,” came a quick warning. “But you could wait if you’d like.” The secretary waved a free hand toward one of two comfortable-looking chairs. “Excuse me,” she apologized as she brushed a piece of hair behind one ear to expose a wireless mike. With her voice pitched so low Brett almost couldn’t hear it, she said, “Shelly, I’m back.” She paused briefly, then, “No calls? Okay, thanks. I’ll get back to you.”
Ralinda pushed a button on the telephone, waited a second and said, “Human Resources. This is Ralinda. How may I help you?”
Being summarily dismissed wasn’t something Brett was used to, but he made for one of the indicated chairs and settled in to wait. Ralinda’s nails tapped her keyboard and she answered the occasional call in a monotone that quickly faded into the background while Brett fought boredom by flipping absently through one of several brochures touting Space Tech this and Space Tech that. He’d never really grasped how big the company was.
He fought the urge to look up when he heard Ralinda’s voice drop to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Shelly, I’m telling you, it’s true—she’s leaving. I heard it myself when I delivered their coffee.”
Brett flipped a page in the glossy advertisement and pretended an article about Space Tech’s net worth and stock options was so engrossing he couldn’t put it down.
“No, she’s not like that. It’s John. He’s old school. Wants his coffee. You don’t say ‘No’ to the company founder.”
Brett thumbed to the inside cover where a caption identified a hawkeyed man as Space Tech’s founder, John Sanders.
“Of course she’ll take it. Who would turn down a huge promotion like that? What? Oh. Director of operations in Washington, D.C. She’ll be in charge of the whole site—Security, HR, Admin. It’s huge, especially for a woman. She’ll break that glass ceiling into a million pieces.”
Ralinda must have realized that her voice had risen because, at the outer edge of his peripheral vision, Brett saw her aim a glance his way. Casually, he recrossed his legs, throwing the secretary an apologetic smile for the creak and groan of his leather holster. Exchanging one glossy print ad for another, he hoped Ralinda bought his act. She must have. Though she lowered her voice slightly, Brett had no trouble hearing half the conversation.
“Do you think? Oh, I wish. I’ve always wanted to live in Washington.”
Ralinda nodded and listened while Shelly said something. After a short break she said, “Yes, she’s a good boss. She’s only been here a couple of months, but I’ll miss her. She’s really great.”
Brett thought Stephanie was really great, too. Evidently, she was going to be really great somewhere else.
If a perp had gut-kicked him, the pain couldn’t have been worse. Brett wasn’t certain how he made it to his feet or out the door. He vaguely remembered a stop at Ralinda’s desk where he’d said he’d catch up with Ms. Bryant some other time. He couldn’t recall much of the twenty-four hours that followed.
Two weeks later, his pay stub showed a draw on his sick leave so he knew he must have called in. He could never swear to it in court, though. He didn’t even know how he’d made it home. In fact, there were only two things he knew for sure about that day.
First, that he had been wrong about the time. He had convinced himself that he and Stephanie still had plenty of time to work things out. But their hourglass had run out of sand the moment she accepted a transfer to Washington without even considering him.
And that second thing? Oh, yeah.
Never—ever—leave a box of chocolates in a closed car in Florida.
Chapter Twelve
“Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine…”
Stephanie wrote the tally on her clipboard as laughing, excited picnic-goers disembarked onto the sandy beach from the white PAL bus. Faced with a small mob of impatient children and their enthusiastic chaperones, the lengthy welcome she had rehearsed degenerated into, “Glad you’re here. Check in at the registration tables.” She threw a wave in their general direction, and watched her guests hurry off, eager to enjoy the rides and games.
Left to wait for a couple of stragglers, she took a deep breath of salty air and eyed the shoreline where white birds soared high on thermals off the warm Atlantic. A fall weather system provided cloudless skies, but forecasts called for a late-season storm by the time afternoon rolled into evening. She made a note to keep one eye on the weather…and another on everything else.
It was, after all, her party. Even if she had little more to do than make a speech and measure the fish in the fishing tourney. She wasn’t sure which of the staff had nominated her for that pleasant chore—probably someone who thought a city girl from Ohio would know nothing about fish—but the surprise was on them. Thanks to the man she had loved and lost, she knew a thing or two about fishing.
She waited for the expected tears and when they did not appear, ran a hand over hair she had slicked and tamed into a ponytail. The old adage about time and wounds really did work. She no longer ran to the ladies’ room for a good cry every time thoughts of a certain cop crossed her mind. Sure, she still had the occasional bad day when she felt Brett’s loss like a missing limb and mourned his decision to choose his pals over their relationship. But as time went on, she had more days like this one, where she could even picture them bumping into each other on the street and casually exchanging chitchat the way old lovers did in countless country songs.
It could happen. Maybe not for a million years, but it gave her something to look forward to. A girl needed that, didn’t she?
A scramble of young feet made her shove her dreams back into the deep freeze where they belonged. She propped up a drooping smile and swung to face the yawning mouth of the bus where the tip of a long, thin rod appeared. It was followed closely by a grade-schooler who took extreme care not to bend or break the slender graphite. Each participant in the fishing derby would receive a pole and tackle box, courtesy of a generous donation from Tom’s Marina, but these lingerers carried their own. And they were exceptional, she noted as the last two boys tromped off the bus.
“So, you’re fly fishermen, are you?” The older boy stood with a cocked hip and a smirk that made him look a whole lot cuter than he probably intended while the little one beamed a wide, toothy grin her way. “Which one of you is going to win today’s contest?”
The youngest gave an oddly endearing shrug before he thrust his fly rod forward. “Like it?” he asked. “It’s cool, ain’t it?”
“Very cool,” Stephanie managed, staring down at a smaller version of the rod she had used fishing with Brett. She hefted the cork grip, tilting the pole instinctively so the finish caught the glinting sun and turned brilliant. Why, of all the colors in the world, did these have to be that same incandescent green? With trembling fingers, she handed the rod back to its owner.
“He made ’em. For my brother an’ me.”
The smirker nodded over his shoulder just as two long legs swung into the dark stairwell of the bus. Sounds from the beach faded and Stephanie’s world telescoped onto the doorway. Her eyes slid up a pair of rapidly appearing muscular t
highs, sped past a trim waist and landed on shoulders broad enough to carry the world.
“I’m over him,” she breathed.
Good ole Sol disagreed. The sun dropped a fraction lower, sending a shaft of light into the dark hollow, illuminating the strong jaw and bright blue eyes she saw in her dreams almost every night. The sight stole her breath.
“Brett.” She nodded. She didn’t know where the cool, polite voice came from. It certainly wasn’t hers. Hers would squeak and ride up and down on her thudding heartbeat.
“Stephanie.”
That Brett would show up chaperoning two young boys was so far off her radar it wasn’t even a blip. She mustered as much nonchalance as an aching heart would allow and tightened her grip on the clipboard so she wouldn’t fly into his arms. Such a move would only lead to more heartbreak, and she did not want to get burned again. She took a breath, hoping to calm her racing pulse.
“Didn’t expect to see you here.” The understatement of the year quivered so much that she sharpened her tone in self-defense. “Get roped into volunteering?”
“Back off, sister,” piped the older kid.
Brett settled one hand on his shoulder. “Remember your manners, Jimmy,” he said softly. “We talked about that.”
The boy scuffed a foot through the sand in a motion too like Brett’s to be coincidental. “Sorry,” the child mumbled.
“I’ve been working with PAL for a while now,” Brett said.
Long enough to build each of the boys his own fly rod, Stephanie realized, the earlier comment making more sense. She turned aside, aiming a quick look at the bus where someone had used teal spray paint to write Police Athletic League against the white background. PAL, the mystery group. Knowing she should have guessed, she felt her face redden.
“I’m sorry, too,” she said. She had a number of regrets—none bigger than her breakup with Brett.
“Hey, we’re okay. Aren’t we, boys?” Brett’s jaw worked. “Jimmy, Joey, this is Ms. Bryant. And this—” he waved a hand “—is her shindig. Looks like a great one, doesn’t it?”
