The Witness

by Nora Roberts

  out of a man’s mind surer than a couple of wild kids fighting over the Wii or PlayStation.

  He shut down, once again grabbed his jacket. He called a good night to Ash on the way out. On impulse, he jogged over to the florist, nipped in with five minutes to spare till closing.

  A bunch of tulips was a good trade for a meal and distraction, he figured.

  He drove out of the town proper, started to make the turn toward his sister’s big, noisy house near the river. He didn’t know until he’d turned the other way that he’d changed his mind.

  ABIGAIL HAD A NICE FIRE CRACKLING. On the stove, a pot of pasta e fagioli soup simmered. She’d baked a pretty little round of olive bread, put together a mixed salad she intended to toss with raspberry vinaigrette.

  All the work she’d earmarked for the day was complete. She’d spent ninety minutes on weights and cardio, exercised Bert.

  She was going to treat herself to dinner and a movie—maybe even a double feature, with popcorn for the follow-up.

  Considering all the interruptions, she’d had a very good, very productive week. Her fee for the job she’d just completed would fatten her bank account and add to her peace of mind.

  And Sunday? She’d give the computer a rest. She’d clean her weapons, work in her garden and greenhouse, maybe get a little hiking in. Then settle down with her leftover soup and read the evening away.

  For her, it encompassed a perfect weekend.

  “I think action/adventure with a comedy to follow,” she said to Bert as she gave the soup another stir. “And wine. The chief of police was right. It’s a very nice one. It won’t be cool enough for a fire in the evenings much longer, so we should take advantage. I think we should—”

  They both came to alert when her system beeped. “Someone’s coming,” she murmured, and rested her hand on the weapon at her hip.

  Her brows drew together when she saw the cruiser coming up her drive. “Why is he here again?”

  She moved to her computer, zoomed in to make certain Brooks was behind the wheel, and alone. After a moment’s thought, she unstrapped the holster. He’d ask more questions if he saw her wearing it inside on a Saturday evening.

  She stowed it in a drawer, waited until he parked. At least he’d parked beside her car, not behind it, this time.

  She walked to the door, unlocked it, lifted the bar. She rested her hand on the pistol under the table as she opened the door a few inches.

  And her frown deepened when she saw the tulips.

  “Why are you sorry this time?”

  “I’m not sorry. Oh, the flowers. Funny thing. I was going to use them to bribe my sister into feeding me, then I ended up driving here.”

  His eyes seemed more amber in the quieting light, and the casual smile he offered didn’t quite ring true.

  “To use them to bribe me?”

  “I hadn’t thought that far. Will they get me in the door?”

  She opened the door a few more inches. “They’re very pretty. You should go give them to your sister.”

  “Probably, but I’m giving them to you. I had a crappy day. It didn’t start out that way, but it ended up in the crapper. I was going over to Mya’s to use her family to get me out of the mood. Then I figured it wouldn’t work.”

  “It’s not likely that being here will change your mood.”

  “It already has.” He gave her an easy smile that almost—almost—reached his eyes. “Something smells really good, besides you.”

  “I don’t know why you’d come here.”

  “I’m not sure, either. You can close the door on me. You still get the flowers.”

  No one had given her flowers before, and she nearly said so before she caught herself. “I was going to have a glass of the wine you brought, and now you’ve brought flowers. You make me feel obligated.”

  “I’ll take it, which shows how crappy my day ended up.”

  She stepped back, closed and locked the door behind him. And when she turned, he held the flowers out to her.

  “Thank you, even though you bought them for your sister.”

  “You’re welcome, even though.”

  “They’ll need water.”

  He followed her, and the cooking smells, back to the kitchen.

  “It’s a good night for soup and a fire,” he commented, hoping he’d get a share of both. “We may get a little frost tonight. Then tomorrow, it’s shooting up toward seventy. Have you ever been through a tornado?”

  “I’m prepared.” She took a pottery pitcher in hues of green and brown from a cabinet.

  “Is that from one of our shops?”

  “Yes. The local artists are very good.”

  She got a container of flower food from beneath the sink, added a small scoop before filling the pitcher with water. He sat, said nothing while she arranged the tulips.

  She set them on the counter, then studied him the way he might study a suspect. “You can have a glass of wine.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  She retrieved the bottle, glasses, poured some out. “You seem to want to tell me about this problem with your day. I don’t know why you would, as I’m not part of your circle.”

  “Could be that’s why. Another why is I realized you were a part of it, indirectly.”

  “How could I be?”

  “I’ll tell you.” He sampled the wine, but she neither sipped nor sat. So he shrugged. “Okay. I had an unusual and uncomfortable incident with a woman today. Back in high school, she was the love of my life. Know what I mean?”

  Abigail had an image, clear as glass, of Ilya Volkov’s face. He was as close as she came, she supposed, and that wasn’t close at all. “Not really.”

  “No heartbreaking crushes for you?”

  “I took accelerated courses, so I was ahead of my age group in school.”

  “Still. Anyway, about me.” He lifted his glass, toasted her, drank. “She was my first. The first always has a little hold on you, right?”

  “You mean first sexual consummation. I don’t have any emotional attachment to my first sexual partner.”

  “You’re a tough audience, Abigail. When she dumped me—for a college freshman, football captain—she dumped me hard. I’m talking kick-in-the-balls, fist-in-the-teeth hard.”

  “I don’t understand why someone chooses to hurt a previous partner before moving on to another. I’m sorry she chose to.”

  “I got over it, or figured I had. Then I moved to Little Rock, did ten years. When I came back, the woman in question was in the process of shedding husband number two.”

  “I see.”

  He realized how it all sounded, how he made Sylbie sound—all from his perspective. “She’s not as hard-hearted as I’m making her, but I’m still a little pissed off, and that colors it. So when I came back, took the job here, I was busy for the first couple months. Settling in, and my father wasn’t well.”

  “I’m sorry. I hope he’s better.”

  “He is, thanks. He’s good. A little while back, Sylbie and I revisited the past, we’ll say.”

  “You had sex with her.”

  “I did, a time or two. A couple weeks ago, we had an encore. But it just wasn’t there for me.” He studied his wine with a frown. “Maybe you can’t go back.”

  “Why would you, if what was back was a mistake?”

  “Good point. But, you know, sex. I decided I had to resist yet another repeat performance, and I’d have to tell her—which I should have done straight out instead of evading, avoiding. This afternoon, she … well, what she did was have the guy who runs the shop where she has some of her art displayed, and where she works part-time, call me down there. Officially.”

  His conversational style, Abigail thought, was like his mother’s. Personal, rambling. Fascinating. “He reported a crime?”

  “A dispute, which required my intervention. Instead, she’s there alone, with the idea we’ll make some use of the back room.”

  “To have sex?” />
  “Yeah. I’m reasonably sure that was the plan, particularly since when I didn’t jump on that idea, she dropped her dress. She just”—he flicked out a hand—“dropped it, and she’s standing there in her skin and red shoes.”

  “She’s confident, and was probably certain of your agreement.”

  “Confident on some levels, and I didn’t agree. I was …”

  “You said it was awkward and uncomfortable.”

  “It was all that. Not that I didn’t …”

  “You were aroused. It’s natural.”

  “Like a reflex. But mostly? It just pissed me off. I was on duty, for God’s sake, and she sweet-talked an easy mark to call me down.”

  Abigail considered it a fascinating example of human dynamics and miscommunication. “It appears she might not fully understand how seriously you take your duties.”

  “I’m not a horny teenager. I’m the chief of the goddamn police.”

  The spike of his temper, and the guilt so clearly wrapped around it, added another level of interest. “You’re still angry with her, and with yourself for the natural reflex.”

  “I guess I am. I had to tell her I didn’t want her—partly because of ground I already covered here, partly because, for Christ’s sake, she didn’t show an ounce of respect for either of us. Another part was knowing I was going to have to slap poor Grover back for making the call, scare the shit out of him so he didn’t pull a stunt like that again.”

  “That’s several parts.”

  “And I’ve got one more. I realized when I was looking at this beautiful, naked woman I’d once loved the way you love when you’re sixteen, I didn’t want her for all the reasons I just said. And because I want you.”

  She turned away, stirred the soup again. It was fitting, she supposed, as he stirred something in her.

  “I said I wouldn’t have sex with you. Do you think I said that to pique your interest?”

  “No. I think you say just what’s on your mind, except what you’ve got behind locked doors in there. But I figure you wouldn’t have brought it up if you hadn’t had some level of want in there yourself.”

  She turned back, remained standing across the counter from him. “It was probably unwise for you to come here when you’re still a little angry and most likely experiencing some residual arousal from this incident.”

  “God, I like the way you talk. And you’re right, it wasn’t the smartest move.”

  “If I reconsidered because—”

  She broke off when he lifted a hand. “Do me a favor? Don’t reconsider right yet. If you changed your mind on it, I’d be hard-pressed to pass it up. If you didn’t, well, I’d just be depressed. I didn’t come by for sex, though, like I said, hard-pressed. Let’s just take it off the table for tonight. I’d be willing to settle for some of that soup, some conversation.”

  She didn’t want to like him, didn’t want to find herself engaged by a man—a police officer—who talked his way past her guard and sat in her kitchen, drawing out her interest with a personal story.

  Logically, she should tell him to go. But she didn’t want to, and wondered what would happen if she did something just a little foolish.

  “I planned to watch a movie with dinner.”

  “I like movies.”

  “I was going to watch Steel Magnolias.”

  He let out a long, long sigh. “I probably deserve that.”

  When she smiled, it seemed to him the whole room lit up.

  “Actually, I was going to watch Live Free or Die Hard.”

  “I should’ve brought you more flowers.”

  HE DISCOVERED SHE WAS a damn good cook, and that he liked raspberry vinaigrette just fine. He also learned she watched a movie with quiet intensity—no chatter.

  That was fine with him, especially since the dog appeared accustomed enough to his presence to curl up and sleep at Abigail’s feet. Though Brooks had no doubt if he made the wrong move, Bert would be up, alert, and have him pinned with those unblinking eyes, if not the teeth.

  He relaxed himself. Good food, a good movie, a simmering fire and a quiet woman. When the credits rolled, she rose to gather the dishes.

  As expected, the dog came to attention, shot Brooks a look that said: I’m watching you, buddy.

  “I’ll take care of that.”

  “No. I have my own way.”

  “I’ll help you take them back, then.” He stacked bowls before she could decline. “You turned my mood around, Abigail,” he said as they walked back to the kitchen.

  “I’m glad I could help.” She set dishes on the counter, turned to him. “You should go now.”

  He had to laugh. “Okay. Listen, why don’t I pay you back for the mood changer. Take you out to dinner.”

  “We just had dinner.”

  “Some other time.”

  “I don’t go out to dinner.”

  “Ever?”

  “As a rule, I’m more comfortable here.”

  “I’ll bring dinner, then. I’m very skilled at picking up pizza.”

  She liked pizza. “It’s not necessary.”

  “Neither was letting me have soup and Bruce Willis. Consider it balancing the scales. I bet you like things nice and balanced.”

  “I’m not good company.”

  “You’re wrong about that. I’ll call you.”

  “I haven’t given you any contact numbers.”

  “Abigail.” He brushed a finger down her cheek, a gesture so casually intimate her pulse scrambled. “I’m a cop.”

  She couldn’t forget that, she reminded herself. Couldn’t afford to forget that. “I’ll walk you out.”

  “Do you have to remind the dog I’m a friend every time I kiss you?” he asked when she’d unlocked the door.

  “Not unless I give him a different command.”

  “Okay.”

  This time he put his hands on her hips, stepped in to her. He took her mouth as those hands skimmed up her body, awakening nerves, kindling needs.

  She did forget, for a moment. With the night air cool, his mouth warm, she forgot everything in the pleasure of the contact. Let herself take that pleasure, let her body press against his. Parted lips, a tease of tongue and teeth, that lovely liquid weight in the belly.

  She wished—she wished for his flesh under her hands, his flesh sliding hot and damp against hers. Wished, wished for his hands, his mouth on her breasts, on her body. And for the good, strong thrust of him inside her.

  Yearned for that primal human contact as she hadn’t allowed herself to yearn for nearly a year.

  When he broke the kiss, her mind and body waged war. If she let her body win …

  Then he said, “Good night, Abigail.”

  “Good night.”

  “Take it easy, Bert.” He stepped out, and she welcomed the cool rush of air. Then he paused, looked back at her with those changeable eyes, that easy, effortless smile. “Wine, conversation, dinner, a movie and a good-night kiss. Definitely a second date.”

  “It—”

  “You could look up the definition. I’d say we hit it. I’m looking forward to date number three.”

  When she shut the door without a word, he grinned.