She tilted her head, enjoying the lightening of tension, like the drop in air pressure before the rain. “You don’t like sweet things?”
He surveyed her coolly from behind his mirrored glasses. “I like them fine. I’m watching my weight.”
Was he joking? Her gaze dropped to his lean waist. He had the flat stomach and disciplined body that came from serious gym time.
After the robbery, Lauren’s faculty advisor had suggested she try exercise as a way to manage her anxiety. But every time she left her hotel room to go for a run, she started to gasp. Her shortness of breath, her rapid heartbeat, felt uncomfortably like a panic attack. She had visions of collapsing by the side of a road miles from home, followed by headlines: HOSTAGE GIRL SURRENDERS. BANK HEROINE PARALYZED BY PANIC DISORDER.
She didn’t run anymore.
“Yeah, I can see how that would be a problem,” she said dryly.
“Occupational hazard,” he agreed, straight-faced.
She was almost sure he was kidding. She smiled back uncertainly.
“Jack is our chief of police,” Jane put in from behind the counter.
Not just a cop. The top cop.
“I’m impressed,” Lauren said.
“Don’t be. We’re a small department.” He removed the glasses. His eyes were sharp and dark in a hard-featured face. Square jaw, strong cheekbones, bold, prominent nose. She sucked in her breath.
“Jack Rossi.” He introduced himself.
Italian. It figured with that face.
“Lauren.” No last name. To make up for her omission, she offered her hand.
His hand enveloped hers, sending a shock of warmth up her arm. Lauren swallowed, resisting the urge to tug back her hand. He did not recognize her. She’d made sure of that. Her new look bore little resemblance to the fresh-faced inset that had appeared at the bottom of the news footage or the polished, smiling image on her book jacket. Her hair was darker and longer, past her shoulders, and she flaunted her new piercings like self-inflicted battle scars.
His gaze skated over the tiny jeweled nose stud before focusing politely on her eyes. “What brings you to Dare Island, Lauren?”
“Oh, you know,” she said vaguely, waving her hand. “Work.”
“What is it that you do?”
Even after all the media interviews, she hated that question. At thirty-one, she should be able to answer with certainty, I’m a cop, I’m a baker, I’m a doctoral candidate in psychology. Anything other than, I’m famous for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
She couldn’t be sorry that her presence in the bank that day had saved lives. But the whole hostage thing had changed her in ways her family couldn’t see, her friends refused to accept. After her appearance on Dr. Phil, her book Hostage Girl: My Story had spent forty-eight consecutive weeks on the New York Times bestseller list. She was as isolated by her fame as she had been by her captors.
“I’m a writer.”
Who couldn’t write. Her stomach cramped. Her follow-up book, Hostage Girl: My Life After Crisis, was scheduled to release in less than four months. Before—her agent had explained with brutal honesty—no one was interested in her anymore.
That sexy little indent at the corner of his mouth deepened. Even his smiles were cool and controlled, she thought wistfully. She was jealous. Everything in her life felt so out of control these days.
“Guess you don’t worry about stereotypes, either,” he said.
What? She followed his gaze toward her table before understanding clicked. The latte. The laptop. Her lips eased into an answering smile. “The whole coffee shop scene is kind of cliché,” she admitted.
Jane looked up. “We’re a bakery. We’re not a coffee shop.”
Jack Rossi angled his body, shifting his attention to the woman behind the counter. His smile softened, making his strong features even more attractive. “I don’t only come for the coffee, Jane.”
Oh. Oh. Lauren glanced from his hard, dark face to Jane. The baker dropped her gaze, setting two large to-go cups in a cardboard tray on the counter. Right. If he didn’t want donuts . . . and he didn’t come for the coffee . . . Lauren snuck a quick look at his left hand. No wedding band. He must be after whatever else the pretty blond baker had to offer.
Her lungs deflated. So did her ego.
Which was stupid. Her lack of a love life had never bothered her before. She didn’t date blue-collar cops with Italian-sounding last names. She didn’t date, period. None of the grad students did. They hung out. They hooked up. They devoted themselves to their research, their course work, their clinical training. Occasionally she brought someone home to crash on her couch or in her bed until he found his feet again.
It was just that since the whole hostage thing, she’d lost even that casual companionship. Her romantic prospects had dwindled to marriage proposals from online weirdos and tired come-ons from seedy sales guys in hotel bars.
Which still wouldn’t be a problem. She wasn’t her mother, for God’s sake, always needing the reassurance of another human being.
It was just that her defenses were low, her confidence shaken, her energy depleted. Was it any wonder she wanted to borrow someone else’s for a while?
Don’t overthink it, her publicist, Meg, had urged. Everything will be fine. You’ll be fine. Just move on.
It was good advice. Lauren sighed. If only she could figure out how.
* * *
IT WAS A beautiful day. Too bad his job was to ruin it for somebody.
Jack sat in his SUV blazoned with the shield of the Dare Island Police Department, running the AC and the driver’s license and registration of the seventeen-year-old who’d just blown through a stop sign on her way to the beach.
The ID checked out. The BMW belonged to her daddy. Jack could have let her off with a warning. He might have, too—he’d been young and dumb once—if so many other kids without cars didn’t walk this road.
And if she hadn’t tried so hard to flirt her way out of a ticket.
The law existed to protect everybody. The sooner Miss Teenage BMW learned the consequences of her actions, the better. He wasn’t compromising his principles or public safety for some spoiled rich kid from out of town.
A face slid into his memory, that writer, Lauren No Last Name, her sharp, dark eyes with heavy black eyeliner, the winking nose stud, the silver wire that curled like a—snake? vine?—around her ear. I think compromise is always a good idea. Especially if it gets you what you want.
She reminded him of the college girls he used to watch walking down the street, always on their way somewhere, class or the library or some fucking foreign film festival. Smart girls, quirky girls who went to Bryn Mawr, who read poetry and smoked pot, who knew things a guy like him would never know.
After eleven months, Jack recognized most of the island’s residents. Lauren No Last Name wasn’t from around here any more than he was. Still, she looked familiar. Something about the shape of those eyes or the tilt of her jaw. His body tightened. She interested him, and not just as a member of law enforcement keeping tabs on his beat.
He shook his head, disgusted with the direction of his thoughts. Obviously, his dick hadn’t learned the lessons of the past year.
He didn’t do interesting women anymore.
Two
DARE ISLAND’S ENTIRE police force—three officers, if Jack counted himself, which he damn well did, since he worked more hours than anybody—were rarely all together in the same place at the same time. Only in the case of fires, natural disasters, and Thursday morning staff meetings.
On this particular Thursday morning, Jack walked into the police station to find Luke Fletcher, his new hire, on the phone. Hank, the part-time reserve officer, occupied the other desk.
Henry Lee Clark was gray-haired, rangy, and raw-boned, his face as deeply grooved as a tractor tire. H
is feet were propped on the desk, his collar unbuttoned against the heat. A thirty-year veteran of the county sheriff’s department, he’d been the town’s first choice to become the new police chief. Lucky for Jack, he’d turned the job down.
He was also Jane’s father.
Lowering his newspaper, he regarded Jack over the top of his reading glasses. “You’ve been to Jane’s.”
Luke covered the mouthpiece of the phone and grinned. “Great detective work, Hank. How’d you guess?”
Jack set the cardboard tray on the corner of Hank’s desk, the logo cups a dead giveaway. “I bought coffee.”
“You should have brought donuts,” Hank said.
Jack thought of that girl, Lauren Somebody, with her dark, aware eyes and three-cornered smile. I guess you don’t worry about stereotypes, huh?
He shook the memory away. “Next time.”
Hank grunted. “How is she?”
She was a pain in the ass. Somehow she’d gotten under his skin, into his head. Jack frowned. He was sure he’d seen that face before.
Hank was still watching, waiting for an answer.
Realization hit Jack like a slap. Hank was asking about Jane. His daughter. Hardworking, softhearted Jane, with her abundant blond hair and generous rack that set off a low-level hum of masculine appreciation every time Jack saw her.
He hadn’t felt a hum around Lauren Whatever-her-name-was. More like a shock.
“She’s fine,” he said.
Jane was more than fine. She was perfect for Jack, for his new life. She’d grown up on the island. A young single mother, a natural-born homemaker, she was warm and nurturing and succulent as a muffin fresh out of the oven, the exact opposite of Jack’s ex-wife in every way.
So why was he dragging his heels?
Hank set down his cup. “Coffee’s cold.”
Jack wasn’t going to excuse himself by explaining the traffic stop. “It’s still better than that sludge Luke makes.”
Luke hung up the phone and leaned back in his swivel chair. He was a Marine vet, like Jack. An islander, like Hank. A real hometown hero, a genuinely good guy who’d come through hell with all his shiny principles intact. Not like Jack. He wore his brand-new police uniform with military precision, his pants sharply creased, his shoes polished. “You can take over the coffee-making duties anytime, Chief.”
Jack smiled without answering.
“You need a woman,” Hank said.
Jack met his gaze impassively, hoping Hank couldn’t spot the heat crawling in his cheeks. That was part of his long-range plan. Find somebody supportive and sane to pick out a couch and curtains with, to raise kids and plan vacations with. Maybe Jane. But she lived with her father and her six-and-a-half-year-old son. Two good reasons for taking things slow.
Jack wasn’t dumb enough to blame every woman for the wreck of his marriage. Hell, he didn’t even entirely blame his ex-wife. But he’d been a cop long enough to know you don’t shit where you eat. If they got serious and things didn’t work out, Jane would have to cope with the reactions at home. And Jack would have to deal with the fallout at work.
Luke grinned. “I’ve got one, thanks. You’re both invited to the wedding, by the way. Monday after next.”
“Looking forward to it,” Jack said.
“It’s the middle of tourist season,” Hank said.
Luke shrugged. “At least we’ll miss the weekend turnover. The restaurant was free. And the priest is willing.”
Renee had insisted on a big white wedding, six bridesmaids and Jack’s nephew in a ring bearer’s suit. Half the cops in Philly had packed the church, like an officer’s funeral. The only thing missing was the bagpipes.
Jack cleared his throat. “I’ll call the sheriff’s department.”
“It’s a small wedding. Mostly family,” Luke said. “Not much need for traffic control.”
“We still need somebody to cover our calls.”
“Which is why you ought to hire a girl to answer the phones,” Hank said. “Make coffee.”
Luke raised his eyebrows.
Right. Making coffee wasn’t only a woman’s job. But Jack understood where Hank was coming from. There wasn’t much difference between rural North Carolina and the blue-collar suburbs of Philadelphia when it came to gender equality. Law enforcement was still largely a good ol’ boys club, despite the fact that Jack had known competent women who could and did kick ass.
Women like his ex-wife.
Renee used to complain about sexism on the force, back in the days when she still talked to him about anything besides whose turn it was to empty the dishwasher or take out the trash. Jack had sympathized.
Renee never let her sex or anything else stand in her way. But the truth was Jack had never really gotten over worrying about her. Sometimes an officer had to depend on sheer size to control a situation. Making a traffic stop on a dark road. Walking into a bar full of drunken rowdies. Jack still occasionally tangled with some asshole who figured he could take him.
“I requested a dispatcher in the new budget. We’ll see what the town council says.” Jack looked at Luke. “Speaking of calls . . .”
“Dora Abrams,” Luke said, referring to the call that had just come in. “She heard a noise under her house.”
“What kind of noise?” Jack asked.
“Like a banging. Water pipes maybe.”
“Or a possum,” Hank said.
“Or she just wants somebody out there to change her air filter again,” Jack said.
“I’ll go take a look,” Luke said.
In Jack’s old job, he would have suggested eighty-three-year-old Dora call a plumber. Or animal control. But small-town policing didn’t work like that.
The islanders were an independent lot. When they had a problem, they were more inclined to take matters into their own hands than to call the police. As the new police chief, Jack had to earn their trust.
Even if it meant crawling under Dora’s house again.
“I’ve got it,” Jack said.
“Let me know if you need backup,” Luke said. “Or a trap.”
“You have a possum trap,” Jack said.
“Sure,” Hank said, his drawl thickening. “Possum’s good eating. Mostly we just scoop ’em off the road with a shovel, but—”
Jack’s expression must have betrayed some reaction, because Hank wheezed with laughter.
“It’s a humane animal trap,” Luke said, grinning. “Kate bought it to catch Taylor’s cat.”
Taylor was Luke’s daughter, the unexpected legacy of a high school girlfriend. Nice kid. She’d had a rough time before coming to live with the Fletchers a year ago.
“How’s she doing?” Jack asked. “Taylor.”
“She’s good. Well, she’s pissed at me right now because I won’t let her play Grand Theft Auto, but I told her that didn’t have anything to do with my being a cop.”
“At least you’re home now,” Jack said.
“Until you start working overtime,” Hank said. “And holidays.”
Luke shrugged. “Beats being deployed. Plus, she’s pretty happy about Kate coming to live with us.”
“Wait until she gets older,” Hank said. “That’s when the real trouble starts.”
“I’ve already told her she’s not allowed to drink, date, or drive until she’s twenty-one.”
Hank grunted. “Better make it thirty-five.”
Jane was twenty-nine. Jack didn’t know much about their relationship except that Hank had raised his daughter alone and took her back in when her husband took off.
Luke grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He’d missed this, Jack realized. The camaraderie of a station house, the dumb-ass jokes, the bullshit. He missed Frank.
His ex-partner.
His right hand curle
d reflexively into a fist. His knuckles tingled with remembered pain.
Shit.
Slowly, he loosened his fingers. Shook his head.
And went off to deal with somebody else’s problems.
* * *
AT THE END of another unproductive day, Lauren let herself in the front door of the Pirates’ Rest, a gorgeous two-and-a-half-story Craftsman built above the bay around the turn of the century. The Fletcher family had renovated the old house into a gracious bed-and-breakfast. The leaded glass transom threw bars of colored light on the faded William Morris carpet.
Each of the eight guest rooms was decorated in the Arts and Crafts style and named after a pirate of the North Carolina coast. Lauren was staying in the William Kidd Room on the second floor, with a view of the water and easy access to the coffee-and-tea service set up in a converted wardrobe on the sunlit landing. Maybe she’d curl up in the window seat with her laptop after dinner and try to get something done.
E-mail. Free Cell. Candy Crush.
The kitchen door swung open. Lauren stopped with one foot on the stairs as Meg Fletcher emerged carrying a plate of cookies.
Lauren’s publicist was casually dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that cost more than Lauren’s entire graduate student wardrobe. Her dark hair was cropped in a short, chic cut that revealed her strong jaw and big diamond earrings. She sported another massive rock on her left hand that hadn’t been there when Lauren had hired her nine months ago.
Patricia Brown, Lauren’s agent, had not approved of her choice. So she went to Harvard. Big deal, Patricia had said. She doesn’t have any experience.
She was a vice president of marketing, Lauren had pointed out.
Patricia sniffed. At an insurance company. For God’s sake, darling, when I said you needed help, I meant a psychiatrist or life coach or someone who understands the business. Meg Fletcher doesn’t know the first thing about publishing.
But Meg had learned.
And Lauren had felt comfortable with her from the start. Meg was as cool, brisk, and bracing as a breeze from the sea. When Lauren hit the wall last month, unable to leave her hotel room, Meg had flown to her rescue. Within hours, she’d reorganized Lauren’s schedule, cutting back on her speaking engagements and offering her parents’ inn as a refuge.
Carolina Blues Page 2
