by Leann Harris
Luke squirmed. He wished the man would get on with it. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the calculating look that J.D. was giving him.
Like a bolt of lightning, the knowledge of what she was going to do hit him. He turned on her. “Don’t you do it.”
Her expression was angelic, which meant he was in trouble.
“Ah, hell.”
She stood. “I bid five hundred dollars.”
All eyes turned on them. A murmur ran through the crowd.
“The bid is five hundred dollars. Are there any other bids?”
The silence was painful.
“Five hundred going once. Twice. Sold to Ms. Anderson.”
“Why did you do that?” Luke demanded.
“This community center needs the money. I can’t think of a better way to spend mine.” She stood, a beatific smile on her face, a wicked twinkle in her eye. “Saturday, McGill. My house. Ten o’clock. Be there.”
He was dead meat.
CHAPTER 4
Luke pulled up in front of J.D.’s house, cut the engine, then glanced at his watch. Ten after ten. He’d driven around her neighborhood for the last few minutes to kill time, determined to show J.D. that he wasn’t at her beck and call like some damn servant. He’d give her a good day’s work but that’s all she was going to get. Being on time wasn’t included.
He wasn’t in the best of moods this morning. Yesterday, a judge dismissed one of his collars and reprimanded him for the illegal search and seizure. Then a good friend on the force had been wounded in the line of duty. He’d spent half the night at the hospital with Charlie’s wife, listening to her sob and complain about police work.
Now, after a short night’s sleep, he was supposed to be bossed around by Counselor Anderson. He couldn’t think of anything he wanted less. He was even tempted to reimburse J.D. the money she’d spent just to avoid this torture. The only problem with that scenario was that he was sure J.D. wouldn’t agree to it.
With a sigh, he got out of his car and slowly walked to the house. He rang the doorbell. After a minute, he impatiently rang it again. Where was she? He was expected, so why wasn’t she here? He banged on the door. “Hey, lady, you in there?”
“Do you always make such a racket?”
Luke whirled at the sound of her voice. She stood at the end of the porch, stripping off her gardening gloves and tucking them into her rear pocket. He felt himself gaping but couldn’t stop. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined J. D. Anderson dressed as she was now in a pair of tight cutoffs and a large yellow T-shirt that she’d knotted at her waist. His eyes followed her shapely legs down to the worst-looking tennis shoes he had ever seen. It amazed him that the shoes were the plain-Jane variety, the kind girls wore in the fifties and sixties. Her hair was tied back with a clip at her neck.
It was obvious she’d been working in the yard, which made him feel like a fool. “I only make a racket when I know the person’s expecting me and doesn’t answer.”
“You sound a little cranky this morning, McGill.”
He shrugged.
“Do you need coffee before you begin?” She fished a piece of paper out of the pocket of her T-shirt. Luke peeked at the paper and swallowed hard when he saw the long list.
When he didn’t answer, she looked up. “You didn’t answer my question. You want some coffee?”
“No, I’d rather get to what you’ve so carefully planned for me today.”
She flashed him a self-satisfied grin. She was out for her pound of flesh and she let him know it.
“This morning I thought you could clean out the gutters for me. Then, when you finish that, you can check the roof for any loose shingles.” She turned and disappeared around the side of the house.
“Is that all?” He threw the sarcastic words at her back.
She glanced over her shoulder. “No. I’ve got more.”
“Great,” he grumbled, throwing up his hands.
She walked to the detached garage that sat at the back of the property and stopped before the open door. “There’s the ladder,” she said, pointing out the obvious. “And the toolbox is right here,” she added, pulling the red metal box from a shelf. Luke took it from her and set it on the ground.
He opened the lid and surveyed the contents. “I’m surprised that you have such a well-stocked toolbox.”
“It was my father’s Christmas present to me last year. He said those tools were a must for all single women.”
“He’s a smart man.”
“Only in some areas.”
Now, what was that crack supposed to mean? Before he could respond, she walked back to her garden. Luke shook his head. He wasn’t here to psychoanalyze her. He was only here to work, and the sooner he started the sooner he could leave. He grabbed the ladder and headed toward the back of the house.
* * *
The day was hot, the work tedious and time-consuming. Within an hour, he’d discarded his shirt, tying it around his waist. Once he got to the driveway side of the house, he had a perfect view of J.D. on her hands and knees weeding the flower bed. He tried to ignore her, but he couldn’t keep his mind on his work. What was the matter with the woman? Why couldn’t she find something to do inside instead of crawling around and showing off her rear?
“You almost finished?” J.D. called to him, smashing his fantasies.
Looking down at her, he was tempted to say that things would go much faster if she took her cute little butt and went inside, but he didn’t want to let her know the effect she had on him.
J.D. was having trouble of her own. She’d tried to block McGill’s presence from her mind but had failed miserably. She knew he’d removed his shirt, but staring up at the broad expanse of his chest, slick from exertion, she felt her mouth go dry. What was the matter with her, acting like a thirteen-year-old girl instead of a thirty-six-year-old woman?
“Yeah, this is the last gutter I need to clean.”
“Good. Then why don’t we break for lunch.”
His dark brow arched. “You plan on feeding me?”
She rolled her eyes. “Please, McGill, the martyr role doesn’t suit you.”
He shrugged, and a trickle of sweat ran down his neck. J.D.’s eyes followed the path the drop took. Her gaze jerked up, colliding with his. Her cheeks flushed.
“I figure I’ll get more work out of you if I feed you and keep up your strength.”
“That sounds like the lady lawyer I know.”
“When you’re finished, come inside.”
It took him less than five minutes to finish up. He scrambled down the ladder, leaving it in place for the next task.
As he stepped into the kitchen, the air-conditioning surrounded him. “Ah, that feels good,” he murmured with sensual abandon.
Thundering silence followed his declaration. Say something, fool, Luke told himself. “Where’s your bathroom so I can wash up?”
“Straight ahead,” J.D. said.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the room. The last thing he wanted to do was walk into the wall or stumble over a chair and further humiliate himself.
“While you’re in there,” she said over her shoulder, “take a look at the sink faucet. It needs to be replaced and it’s on your list.”
“You missed your calling in life, lady,” he responded. “You should’ve been a slave driver.”
Her low chuckle followed him into the bathroom. After scrubbing his hands and arms up to the elbows, he dunked his head under the cool flow of water. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, he finger-combed his hair. He looked like he’d come off a two-day drunk. Too bad. He slipped on his shirt. If the lady didn’t like how he looked, she could eat by herself.
When he came back into the kitchen, he glanced at the table and frowned when he saw only two glasses of ice tea.
“Don’t worry, McGill, you’ve been saved from my tuna-salad sandwiches.”
“You call a pizza place or something?”
“J.D., are you in there?” The call came from the driveway.
“In here, Sarah.” J.D. moved to the door and held it open. “Do you need any help?”
“No, everything’s under control.”
Luke immediately recognized the plump brunette as the same woman who’d been hovering around J.D. the night of the break-in. In one hand she held a covered basket, in the other some sort of pot with a wire handle.
“Sarah, you remember meeting Detective McGill.”
The woman set her things on the table and offered Luke her hand. “It’s nice to see you, Detective, under more pleasant circumstances.”
Luke nodded.
“Sarah, you really didn’t have to do this,” J.D. said. She lifted the lid on the pot and took a deep breath of the fragrant homemade soup.
“Yes, I did. Larry just raved and raved about the dinner you cooked for us last night. And that cake, o-o-oh, it was so-o-o good.” She turned to Luke. “It was called Death by Chocolate.” With a dramatic sigh, she said, “It was heavenly.”
“Still, you didn’t have to do this, but I’m glad you did.” J.D.’s hand swept the table.
“It’s nothing. It was already made. Larry couldn’t come home for lunch, and when I saw you two working so hard—” She shrugged. “I’m glad my efforts won’t be wasted.” She bounced out of the kitchen. “Enjoy,” she called, descending the outside steps.
Luke flopped down in a kitchen chair. So J.D. could cook. It figured. Ms. Perfection didn’t seem to have any faults, which irritated him no end. Why couldn’t she be like most career-minded women, not worth spit in the kitchen? His ex-wife had been a good cook at one time, but once she’d been bitten by the success bug, she didn’t give a tinker’s damn about fixing meals for him. She usually slapped a cold sandwich before him or told him to go out and get something to eat.
“I assure you Sarah’s a wonderful cook.”
Disgruntled, Luke glanced up. “I didn’t say she wasn’t.”
“From the look on your face, you could’ve fooled me.” J.D. pulled bowls and spoons from the hutch by the table.
“I’m sorry if my expression offends you.”
She ladled out the soup and handed him a bowl. “It’s not that, McGill. I was just curious about the sour expression on your face.”
“Do you really want to know?” He pulled the napkin off the basket and, seeing steaming pieces of corn bread, helped himself to a large chunk.
“Yes.”
“I was thinking about how you’re a typical career woman, and they usually don’t have time to cook.”
“Where does this wonderful insight of yours spring from, Detective?” she asked as she sat down.
When she called him “Detective” it was a sure sign she was irritated with him. “I was married to one. Although she knew how to cook, she couldn’t be bothered. Cooking for her husband wasn’t a high priority on her list. It didn’t help her get ahead in the corporate world.”
He didn’t look at her, but busied himself with his minestrone soup. Why on earth had he told her that? He braced himself for a comeback. He’d shown her a weakness and the killer instinct she possessed in court would come to her aid now. He might as well give a criminal his gun and tell him to shoot. The results would probably be the same.
But she said nothing. Instead she quietly sipped her soup.
He leaned back in his chair. He wanted to know why she didn’t jump on the opening, but he was grateful she hadn’t.
“So you baked a cake called Death by Chocolate? Sounds like something you’d make.”
She lifted one shoulder. “Well, you know how I am about chocolate.”
“Too bad you don’t have any left. I’d like to taste it.”
With a conspiratorial smile, she rose and moved across the kitchen. From the back of a cupboard, she pulled a foil-wrapped plate. Bringing it to the table, she whipped off the aluminum. Two pieces of the most sinful, mouth-watering cake he’d ever seen lay on the plate.
“I was saving this—”
Luke laughed. “You mean you were hoarding it.”
J.D. tried to suppress a chuckle but failed. “You’re right. If Sarah’s husband ever saw this, it’d be gone in a second.”
She retrieved two forks from the drawer and held them up. “Want to join me?”
“That’s the best offer I’ve had all week,” he answered, taking the fork.
They made quick work of the two pieces of cake. Luke couldn’t decide if it was the pure sensual pleasure of the rich chocolate cake or the intimacy of eating from the same plate, but something shifted deep inside him. A loosening.
And it scared him.
He glanced at J.D. to see if she noticed anything strange about him, but she was lost in her own world of delight.
* * *
J.D. sat quietly in the kitchen chair and listened to Luke climb up onto her roof. She was still feeling shaky from the unexpected closeness that had developed between Luke and her during lunch. When the information about his wife slipped out, she hadn’t had the heart to take advantage of his vulnerability. Instead, she had wanted to reach out and cover his hand with hers and tell him that she could identify with his hurt. It matched her own. Wisely, she had refrained.
But what had truly shaken her was the sensual abandon they’d shared as they ate the cake. It went beyond taste and smell. It moved into the realm of mutual pleasure, a single intense moment of sheer ecstasy experienced by two people, almost like two lovers who—
She jumped to her feet and gathered the dishes. It wasn’t a smart idea to pursue that line of thought. It would only bring trouble.
Besides, what did she know? Her marriage didn’t make her an expert on mutual pleasure.
* * *
The afternoon passed quickly for Luke. He hammered down the loose shingles, replaced the downstairs bathroom faucet, then installed a new shower head in her upstairs bathroom. He felt uncomfortable surrounded by her things, the flowers on the vanity, the basket of sweet-smelling soaps on the tank of the commode, the lacy, ribboned hand towel hanging from the rack.
“Can I help?” J.D. strolled into the room.
Luke glanced over his shoulder. “Nope. Got everything under control.”
J.D. leaned against the doorjamb and crossed her arms. “McGill, answer a question for me.”
“Sure, what is it?”
“Did that boot heel with the outline of Texas on it have anything to do with Gwen’s murder?”
The wrench he was using to tighten the last nut on the shower arm slipped, and he cracked the knuckles of his other hand.
“Damn,” he growled, shaking his bruised hand.
“Is that comment in response to the pain or to my question?”
He threw her a dark look.
“I bet you thought I forgot about it.”
“I couldn’t be that lucky,” he grumbled.
“Does it have anything to do with her murder?”
“Why would you think that? You yourself commented that most of the detectives on the force wear Western boots. I was just inquiring about an unusual pair.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He finished tightening the nut, picked up his tools and the old shower head, and nudged past her as he left the bathroom. “What do you want to do with this old thing?” he asked, holding up the dented shower head.
She grabbed it from his hand and tossed it onto the floor. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“What do you want me to do next?” he asked, walking out of her bedroom. Not for all the tea in China was he going to stop and argue in her bedroom.
J.D. planted her hands on her hips. “McGill.”
Once in the hall, he stopped and turned. “Counselor, you paid for my manual labor and that’s all. I’m not obligated to answer any questions. Now, if you don’t have anything else for me to do, I’ll leave.”
“No, you
don’t,” she said, darting out of the room after him. “There’s still one more thing I need you to help me do.”
He didn’t like the sound of that. “Oh?” He raised his brow.
She pointed to the ceiling. “I’ve got an attic that needs work.”
Luke groaned. “You’re going to get your money’s worth, aren’t you?”
“You bet. If my daddy taught me anything, it was how to get the most out of my investment.”
“Remind me to have a long talk with your old man.”
With a smug smile she showed him the way to the attic.
* * *
“C’mon, McGill, this is the last thing we have to take downstairs.”
Luke eyed the old steamer trunk. For an hour and a half they’d been wading through the debris left behind by the previous owners. After countless trips to the backyard with a fifty-gallon garbage can full of trash, this battered trunk was the only thing that stood between him and freedom.
He studied the trunk, then J.D. “I’ll need help in hauling this thing downstairs. You think you’re up to it?”
She looked around the attic. “I’m the only one here, and I want to get rid of this thing.” She rubbed her hands together. “Let’s do it.”
There was a nagging doubt in the back of Luke’s mind, but he pushed it aside. He grabbed the leather handle on one end and J.D. got the other.
“Let me go first,” he said. “That way, I’ll take most of the weight of the trunk.”
J.D. was on the first step. “Don’t worry about it, McGill. I can handle it.”
She did—for all of seven steps. J.D. missed the last tread, lost her hold and tumbled to the second-floor hall. Cursing, Luke braced the trunk on his knees and wrestled it to the floor.
“Sorry about that.” J.D. jumped up and brushed off the back of her cutoffs.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He carefully studied her. “You sure? You look a little strange.”
