Serving up Trouble

He managed to stop himself a few feet away, very aware of their audience. “You already thanked me.”

If his gruff ness startled her, as it tended to do to most everyone else, she didn’t show it. Her smile brightened even more, if that was possible, and she lifted a shoulder. “Truth is, Detective O’Brien, I could never thank you enough. You’ve given me more than you could ever know.”

He didn’t want her gratitude. What he did want couldn’t be said in polite company.

She peered into his small, none-too-tidy office. “Besides, it looks as though you might be able to use some color in that room. How do you work in there? It’s dark as a tomb.”

Sam found himself staring at her petite form as she walked past him and into his office as if she owned the place. Her nicely rounded bottom sashayed beneath her sundress, as she marched right to his over crowded desk.

“Wait—” No use, she was already making room, stacking piles of care fully sorted paperwork together—negating hours of work—and setting the basket down.

Then she moved to the window and reached for the shades.

“No—” He hated having all that bright sunshine pouring in over his shoulder when he was concentrating. “Don’t open—”

Too late.

She yanked the string, throwing light into the room. “There. That’s so much better, isn’t it?” She tossed her hair out of her eyes—hair that he couldn’t help but notice was a million different colors, like a doe’s coat, and smelled even better than the flowers she’d just settled.

She smiled at him. “This is really a bad color for your office walls. Drab gray. It’s not at all conducive to happy work patterns.”

He’d never even noticed what color the walls were, and didn’t care to now. Nor was he thrilled about noticing her hair color.

He had work to do.

“You know, I always had the secret fantasy of going through the police academy,” she said wistfully, looking around. “I had this dream of rounding up all the bad guys and putting them behind bars.”

The thought of this far too cheerful, happy, bouncy, flowers-carrying woman going through the academy brought a fine sweat to Sam’s brow. “You wouldn’t like it,” he said quickly.

“Oh, I think I would. Well, except for the shooting part.” She shivered. “I’m not crazy about weapons.” Her smile faded and a shadow flickered across her face. “Give me a paint brush any day.”

Sam knew she was remembering yesterday, having a flash back to when she’d had the blade of a knife pressed against her slim neck. Damn it, he didn’t want to know this. Didn’t want to know how traumatized she was, or see how badly she was bruised. He searched her with his gaze, but couldn’t see a thing with her halter-top sundress that covered her to the throat. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, yes. Thanks to you.”

She was as small as he remembered, barely coming up to his shoulder. But where had all her defenseless vulnerability of yesterday gone? She looked totally, utterly capable of anything, especially ruining his day.

“You found a spare pair of glasses,” he heard himself say inanely, gesturing to the frames she wore.

“They’re ancient—oops.” She bit her lower lip to hold back a smile. “Probably shouldn’t tell that to a police officer. I could get a ticket for driving with an old prescription, right?”

He was relieved to discover she hadn’t just purchased the thick, blue-rimmed, almost horn-shaped glasses. He felt an odd pang at the knowledge she probably couldn’t afford a brand-new pair. He wondered if the bank wouldn’t cover the cost for her, and opened his mouth to suggest some thing to that effect when the curious whispers behind him registered.

He whirled to the doorway, and found Luke and two rookies leaning in his door, unabashedly eavesdrop ping.

“Need some thing to do?” he inquired. At his cold voice, the rookies instantly scattered.

Luke just grinned before slowly straightening and walking away.

Angie was staring at him with those huge brown eyes. “Wow,” she said, impressed. “That was a pretty scary cop voice. Really fierce. Do you use that on criminals to make them confess?”

Yeah, or on unwelcome guests to get them to leave. But he found he didn’t have quite the heart to say it. A surprise, and it only worsened his mood.

He really had a ton of work to do. He wanted—needed—to crack his priority case, and soon, as the suspects were probably right this minute stealing mail or trash, racking up more uncollectible debt by the minute.

“You know,” Angie said, sizing up his office, the wheels visibly turning in her head. “You could really use a paint job on these walls.”

“A paint job,” he repeated slowly.

“Maybe pink? It would most definitely help ease your tension.”

Oh yeah, that’s what he needed. Pink walls. “I’m not tense.”

She raised her brow so high it disappeared into her bangs. “Really? Then why is your jaw all tight and bunchy?”

“It’s not.”

“I can see the muscle jumping.”

It jumped some more. “I’m fine.”

“If this is normal for you, you must go home with a heck of a neck ache. Come here and sit down. I’ll rub it for you.”

He actually backed up. “I said I’m fine.”

But she reached for him, pushed him into a chair with surprising strength.

Even worse, he went. Big, bad, tough Sam O’Brien fell into a chair simply because she’d urged him to.

Then her fingers touched the bare skin on his neck, and as if he’d been poked by a hot stick, he surged to his feet.

At his quick movement, a sweet laugh escaped her and she clasped her hands in front of her. “I’m sorry, I’m just so nervous about being here. I have to answer some more questions, and it’s…” She looked away. Swallowed hard. “It’s, um, giving me a bit of a bad time.”

Ah, hell. “No one is going to push you,” he heard himself say. “They’ll go slow and easy.”

“I know.” She backed to the door. “Anyway, I’m sorry. Again.” She was sorry because she’d touched him and he nearly bolted right out of the chair as if he’d been goosed.

She’d turned him on, this woman of the bright yellow sundress, silly blue glasses, sweet smile and expressive eyes. And the shocking jolt of arousal—arousal, for God’s sake—had nearly caused his heart to leap out of his chest.

He was at work, damn it, and if there was one thing he disliked, it was when some thing distracted him from his work. “I have to get back to my job,” he said, his voice more than a bit strained.

“Oh! Of course.” But her gaze caught at something on his desk and she went wide-eyed.

“What is it?”

Hands over her mouth, she stared at a composite drawing he’d gotten just that morning, of someone he suspected to be deep in the thick of the identity-theft ring he was trying to crack.

She looked pale. Why had he let her in his office? Why hadn’t he showed her the door two minutes ago? “What’s the matter?” he asked again, hoping she wasn’t really going to tell him, hoping she’d simply take her perky little self and go away. Far away. And take the flowers with her.