Fully Committed

“Give it back to me.” She reached for the pad, but he took a step backward so she couldn’t reach it, still studying it.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this yesterday?” He briefly shook the pad in his hand.

That she’d lost her ability to draw?

“Look, it’s difficult to explain...”

“Really? What’s so difficult about saying, ‘I’m a forensic artist. Maybe I can help with the situation’?”

He turned the sketch pad around so what she had drawn was facing her. Sherry was already cringing, preparing to explain, until she got a glimpse of the drawing.

She had drawn Detective Hatton in almost perfect likeness.

Chapter Five (#ulink_1d96b476-96e7-5d6d-9a9f-425212962ac0)

“I guess I’m flattered,” Jon continued, holding the sketch pad.

Sherry just stood there, looking at the drawing. It wasn’t her greatest work, by any means. Really it was just in the preliminary stages—rough lines and edges—but it was definitely him. It was the first work she’d done that wasn’t just absolute crap in weeks.

She’d drawn it subconsciously. Not only was it not bad, but she hadn’t gotten any chills when she did it. As a matter of fact, now that she was out from under the protection of the umbrella, she was downright hot. She took off her shirt and tied it around her waist. The sun on her back and shoulders felt wonderful.

But she wasn’t quite sure exactly what conversation she was having with Jon Hatton.

“Why are you here?” she asked him.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were a forensic artist yesterday at the hospital?”

“Believe it or not, I don’t generally make those the first words out of my mouth when I’m talking to a complete stranger.” She grabbed the sketch pad out of his hand.

“You saw what was going on with that woman yesterday, how poorly Frank Spangler was handling the interview for the composite drawing, and you did nothing. You ran away.”

Sherry’s mouth fell open before she closed it again. What was she supposed to say? It had been all she could do yesterday to just keep it together. The last thing on her mind had been to offer to help.

Yes, she had run away. She wouldn’t have been any use to anyone anyway. She’d been shaking so hard she’d hardly been able to get her keys in the car door to unlock it.

But, damn, if she had to explain any of that to him. Jerk.

“Believe it or not, I don’t walk around hospitals offering my services to everyone. I was there to pick up my friend. I just happened upon your situation accidentally.”

She could tell right away that wasn’t going to appease him.

“You were so busy with dinner plans that you couldn’t help a woman who had just been through the most traumatic event of her life?”

“You know what, Detective Hatton? There was nothing I could’ve done yesterday. By the time you got in there and got your man out, the damage had already been done. That poor woman wasn’t going to talk to anyone, no matter who the artist was.”

“He’s not my man,” Hatton replied.

“Whatever. He’s on your police force. Your team.”

“No, I’m—”

Sherry held up a hand to cut him off. She wasn’t really interested in discussing the idiot who’d further traumatized that woman. As far as she could tell, everyone employed in law enforcement in Corpus Christi was a jerk.

“Who told you I was a forensic artist? Caroline?” Sherry didn’t think her friend would say anything, but maybe she had done so.

“No.” He shook his head. “I knew we needed a different forensic artist since Spangler has been taken off the case, so I made a call.”

“I’m glad to hear that Detective Spangler won’t be doing any more damage.”

“Me, too. He has no business being around any victims, as far as I’m concerned.”

That made Sherry feel a little better. At least Hatton didn’t defend Spangler. Sherry turned away and began loading up her beach stuff to take back to the house. She knew she wouldn’t be sitting out here anymore today.

“I’m sorry you came all the way to the beach, Detective, if it wasn’t to enjoy the sunshine. Because I can’t help you. For the next two weeks I’m just a tourist not a forensic artist.”

It sounded uncaring and cold even to her own ears. But what could she do about it? Except for the rough outline of Hatton’s features—which really didn’t count because, first, she hadn’t been actually trying to draw him, her fingers had just taken over, and, second, there wasn’t enough detail in it to be of any use for any police work anyway—she hadn’t been able to draw a face in weeks.

She wasn’t trying to be unfeeling; she just couldn’t help Detective Hatton. She couldn’t even help herself.

* * *

JON SWALLOWED HIS ANGER. Just a tourist for the next two weeks? That might possibly be the most selfish thing he’d ever heard. Sherry Mitchell might be drop-dead gorgeous in that red bikini top she was wearing, but it was obvious her beauty was only skin-deep.

If it even reached that far. Such a damn shame.

Jon had read in her file that both her parents owned separate successful businesses. Ms. Mitchell had obviously grown up spoiled, and those tendencies had remained when she became an adult.

Normally, Jon didn’t mind spoiling the woman he was with. Enjoyed all the slightly crazy nuances that made women the mind-bogglingly lovely creatures that they were. He loved the mental acuity it required to discover what it was they really wanted.

But not in this case. Jon was pissed off at how the woman in front of him categorically refused to assist in a situation where she could really help. Now she was just folding up her chair and umbrella as if it were just another day at the beach. Which evidently it was to her.

No, what really made Jon mad was that he was still attracted to her despite her actions. He might think she was completely spoiled, but he knew that, given the chance, he would be kissing every inch of those shoulders and back she’d exposed when she tied that long-sleeved shirt around her waist.

Jon took a deep, cleansing breath. Neither focusing on Sherry’s selfishness nor her beauty was getting him anywhere.

He needed to focus on how he could talk her into coming to the hospital and doing her magic as a forensic artist.

Jon had considerable people skills. That was one of the things that made him so good at his job at Omega. He kept a level head. He saw things others missed. He could read people, manipulate them when necessary.

It was time to put his distaste away and focus on getting Ms. Mitchell to do her job.

“It’s ‘agent.’”

She looked over her shoulder from where she was packing up her beach items. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m Agent Hatton, not Detective Hatton.”

“Agent as in FBI? You don’t work for the Corpus Christi Police Department?”