by Nora Roberts
There was a clatter. “Jingle Bells” gave way to “Rudolf.” “Hey, Captain. Merry, merry.”
“Sorry to bust in on your cooking, but we had a little problem over here.”
“Jody, let go of that cat! What sort of problem?”
“Break-in. The shop below the apartment.”
“They get anything?”
“I have to have her check.” He brushed wind-tossed hair from his face and watched Dora shiver. “Took a couple of pops at me. Used a silencer.”
“Shit. You hit?”
“No.” He checked his cheek again. The bleeding was nearly stopped. “He had a car close. From the sound of the engine, it wasn’t an economy.”
“Sit tight, Kimo Sabe. I’ll call it in and be on my way.”
“Thanks.” He hung up and looked at Dora, who was dancing from foot to foot in a fruitless effort to keep warm. “Maybe you’d better break out that brandy again. Come on.” Because her hands were frozen, he took them, warming them automatically as they walked back to the shop. “You can take a look around, see if anything is missing.”
“I’m not supposed to touch anything, right?”
“You keep up with the cop shows.”
“Can we close the door?”
“Sure.” He took a brief glance at the jimmied lock, then closed out the cold. After he’d switched on the lights, he simply stood and absorbed.
The storeroom was crammed. On one wall, boxes were stacked from floor to ceiling. Shelves held uncrated merchandise in no sort of order he could discern. There were two four-drawer file cabinets shoved into a corner. The top of each was piled with more boxes.
There was a desk, which seemed to be an island of sanity. It held a phone, a lamp, a porcelain pitcher stuffed with pencils and pens, and a bust of Beethoven, which served as a paperweight.
“Nothing’s gone,” she said.
“How can you tell?”
“I know my inventory. You must have scared him off.” She walked over to the shelves and tapped what looked to Jed to be an old perfume or lotion bottle. “This Daum Nancy is worth well over a thousand. This Castelli plate nearly that much. And this.” She took down a box with a picture of a child’s toy on it.
“Nando? A kid’s robot?”
“Boxed, it’s worth easily two thousand to a collector.” She sniffed and replaced it.
“And you just leave this stuff out?”
“I have a security system. Had one,” she muttered. “I can hardly drag all my stock into a vault every night.”
“What about cash?”
“We deposit everything but about a hundred in small bills and change every night.” She walked over to the desk, opened the top drawer. She took out an envelope, flipped through the bills inside. “Here it is. Like I said, you must have scared him off.” She stepped away and heard a paper rustle under her foot. Bending down, she scooped it up. “Charge ticket,” she told Jed. “Funny, this would have been filed.”
“Let’s see.” He snatched it out of her hand. “Timothy O’Malley. Five-fifty and tax on December twenty-first. For saltcellars?”
“His wife collects.”
“Five hundred for salt shakers?”
“Cellars,” Dora corrected, and snatched the receipt back. “Peasant.”
“Bloodsucker.”
Unamused, she turned to replace the receipt in its file. “Look at this!” she demanded. “These drawers are a mess.”
He came to peer over her shoulder. “They’re not supposed to be?”
“Of course not. I keep very careful records. The IRS terrifies me the same as they terrify all good Americans. And Lea spent a week purging and updating these files last month.”
“So he was after something in your files. What do you keep in here?”
“Nothing of value. Receipts, invoices, mailing lists, inventory printout, delivery sheets. Business stuff.” Baffled, she ran a hand through her hair. The stars dangling from her ears sparkled in the light. “There’s no reason for anyone to break in here for paperwork. A crazed IRS agent? A psychopathic accountant?”
As soon as she’d said it, Dora bit her tongue.
“What was that jerk’s name the other night?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Andrew would never do anything like this.”
“Didn’t you say he was an accountant?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“And you fired him?”
“That’s hardly any reason to—”
“Andrew what?”
She blew out a long breath, fluttering her bangs. “I’ll give you his name, his address, his phone number, then you can go do cop things like harass him for his alibi on the night in question.”
“I’m not a cop.”
“If it looks like a cop, sounds like a cop”—she sniffed at him—“smells like a cop . . .”
“How would you know what a cop smells like?”
She angled her chin. “Gun oil and sweat. Come to think of it, you even taste like a cop.”
“How’s that?”
“I don’t know.” Very deliberately she dropped her gaze to his mouth, then lifted it slowly. “Tough, authoritative, just a little bit mean.”
“I can be meaner.” He edged closer so that she was trapped between him and the file cabinet.
“I figured that. Did I tell you that I’ve always had this problem with authority? Goes all the way back to my elementary-school days when I bucked Miss Teesworthy over quiet time.”
He pressed her back. “You didn’t mention it.” No gun oil and sweat here, he realized. It seemed the whole room smelled like Dora, that hot, spicy scent that made a man’s mouth water.
“I do,” she continued. “That’s one of the reasons I started my own business. I hate taking orders.”
“You’re lousy at taking them. I told you to stay put.”
“I had this driving need to stay close to the man with the gun.” She lifted her hand, rubbed her thumb over the cut on his cheek. “You scared me.”
“You didn’t get scared until it was over.”
“No, I was scared all along. Were you?”
“No. I love having people shoot at me.”
“Then this is probably just a reaction we’re having.” She slid her arms around his neck, found the fit to her liking. “You know, from the shock.”
“I told you to back off.”
“So push me away.” Her lips curved. “I dare you.”
They were still curved when his mouth came down. She expected him to be rough, and she was ready for it. His body slammed hers back into the file cabinet. The handles dug into her back, but she was too busy gasping with pleasure to notice the discomfort.
He knew it was a mistake. Even as he steeped himself with her, he knew. Somehow she’d already dug a hook into his mind he’d been unable to shake loose. Now she was trembling against him, making soft little sounds of shocked arousal deep in her throat. And she tasted—God she tasted every bit as hot and sweet as she smelled.
It had been so long, so very long since he’d allowed himself to tumble into that dark, soft oblivion of woman.
He drew back, wanting to clear his head, but she fisted both of her hands in his hair and pulled him against her. “More,” she murmured as her mouth ravaged his. “I always want more.”
With him she could have more. She knew it. With him there would be no vague sense of the incomplete. She could feast and be filled, and still have more.
For one wild moment he considered taking her there, on the floor of the cramped, dusty storeroom with gun smoke still fading from the air. Perhaps he would have, perhaps he would have had no choice, but he was still sane enough to hear the rattle at the door upstairs, and the spit of gravel under tires outside.
“The troops are here.” He took Dora by the shoulders and set her firmly aside. She saw in his eyes what he would continue to deny. He was a cop again. “Why don’t you go put on some coffee, Conroy? It doesn’t look like you’re going to make your p
arties after all.”
She stared up the stairs, keeping her back to him when she spoke. “And that’s it?”
“Yeah.” He wished violently for the cigarettes he’d left upstairs. “That’s it.”
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Dora had brandy. Jed drank coffee. Cop, she thought nastily. After all, they didn’t drink on duty—at least on TV. Wanting to ignore him as completely as he was ignoring her, she curled herself onto the couch and studied the cheerful lights of her Christmas tree.
She liked Jed’s pal, though. Lieutenant Brent Chapman, with his wrinkled slacks, stained tie and easy grin. He’d come in smelling of sausage and cinnamon, his heavy horn-rims magnifying mild brown eyes. His manner was so reassuring that Dora found herself making coffee and setting out cookies as though she were entertaining unexpected guests rather than being involved in a police investigation of shots fired.
Brent’s questions were slow and thoughtful and very nearly relaxing.
No, there was nothing missing as far as she could tell.
No, there was nothing in the files of any monetary value.
Yes, the shop had been crowded the past couple of weeks, but no, she couldn’t remember anyone acting suspicious or asking unusual questions.
Enemies? This brought on a quick laugh. No, not unless you counted Marjorie Bowers.
“Bowers?” Brent’s ears perked up. He kept his pencil hovering over his dog-eared notepad.
“We were both up for the lead in the school play. Junior year. It was a production of West Side Story. I creamed her in the auditions, so she started this rumor that I was pregnant.”
“I don’t really think—”
“With my reputation at stake, I had no choice,” Dora went on. “I ambushed her after school.” She flicked a glance over to Jed, who was busy frowning at the bull’s-head cheese dish on her breakfront.
“That’s very interesting. But I don’t think it applies here.”
“Well, she really hated me.” Dora picked up her snifter again, shrugged. “Then again, that was in Toledo. No, I’m wrong. Junior year must have been in Milwaukee. We moved around a lot in those days.”
Brent smiled. He’d taken a liking to Jed’s landlord. A great many people who’d been through a break-in and gunfire didn’t retain any sense of humor. “We’re looking for something a bit more recent.”
“Tell him about the bean counter,” Jed ordered.
“For heaven’s sake. Andrew wouldn’t—”
“Dawd,” Jed interrupted. “Andrew Dawd. He was Dora’s accountant until a couple of days ago. He put some moves on her, so she gave him a black eye and his walking papers.” He smiled nastily in Dora’s direction. “And kicked his ass.”
“I see.” Brent tucked his tongue in his cheek as he scribbled the name in his book. He would have liked to have smiled, but the gleam in Dora’s eye warned him to keep a sober countenance. “Did he, ah, threaten any reprisals?”
“Certainly not. Give me a cigarette, Skimmerhorn.”
He lighted one for her. “Annoyed or stressed?” he asked when he offered it.
“You be the judge.” She snatched it from him, took a quick puff. “The most violent thing Andrew would have done was to go home and whine to his mother.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to talk with him,” Brent pointed out gently. “Where can we reach him?”
Dora shot Jed a look of intense dislike. “Dawd, Dawd and Goldstein, an accounting firm on Sixth and Market.”
Brent nodded and picked up one of the cookies she’d spread on a pretty fluted dish at his elbow. “Hell of a way to spend Christmas Eve, huh?”
“I did have other plans.” Dora drummed up a smile. “I’m sorry you had to leave your family.”
“Just part of the job. Great cookies.”
“Thanks. Why don’t I give you some to take home? You’ve got kids, don’t you?”
“Three.” In a knee-jerk reaction, Brent reached for his wallet to show off pictures. While Jed rolled his eyes and paced away, Dora rose to admire the children’s snapshots. There were two girls and a boy, all spit and polish for school pictures.
“The oldest girl looks like you,” Dora commented.
“Yeah, she does. That’s Carly. She’s ten.”
“I have a niece who just turned ten. Fifth grade.”
“Carly’s in the fifth, too. Over at Bester Elementary in Landsdowne.”
“Missy goes to Bester.” While Jed looked on, his partner and his landlord beamed at each other. “I bet they know each other.”
“That wouldn’t be Missy Bradshaw, would it? She has a younger brother named Richie, who’s a real . . .”
“Terror, yes, that’s right.”
“She’s been over to the house a dozen times. They only live a block over. Missy’s parents and my wife and I are in the same car pool.”
“Would you two like to be alone?” Jed asked.
They both spared Jed a pitying glance. “Tell me, Brent, is he always so crabby?”
“Pretty much.” He tucked his wallet away and rose. There were cookie crumbs dusting his shirt and finger smudges on his glasses. Dora found him charming. “But he was the best cop I ever worked with, so you can feel safe having him across the hall.”
“Thanks. I’m going to get you those cookies.” Pointedly ignoring Jed, she walked into the kitchen.
“Some landlord,” Brent commented, and wiggled his eyebrows.
“Get a grip. How soon will you have anything on the slugs you dug out of the plaster?”
“Jesus, Jed, it’s Christmas. Give the lab boys a few days. We’ll check out the prints, too, but that’s pretty much a waste of time.”
“If he’s pro enough to use a silencer, he’s pro enough to wear gloves.”
“You got it.”
“What do you figure—” Jed broke off when Dora walked back, carrying a paper plate covered with aluminum foil.
“Thanks, Miss Conroy.”
“Dora. You will let me know if you find out anything?”
“Count on it. You just relax. Jed’ll keep an eye on things.”
“Well.” She sent Jed a long, cool glance. “I can sleep easy now.”
“There you go. Merry Christmas.”
“I’ll walk you out.” Jed nodded to Dora. “I’ll be back.”
As they walked down the hall, Brent snuck another cookie from under the foil. “You’ve been here what, about a week?”
“Almost.”
“How’d you piss her off already?”
“It’s a gift. Look, why do you figure a pro would break into a junk shop and rifle a bunch of paperwork?”
“That’s the sixty-four-dollar question.” Brent walked through the rear door, sucking in his breath at the slap of wind. “There’s a lot of valuable stuff in there.”
“But he didn’t go for the valuable stuff, did he?”
