"Can I give you a hand with that?"
She seemed to just about come out of her skin at his
words, whirling to face him. Wide blue eyes locked onto
him, and for an instant, Quigg saw fear. Not surprise. Not
your garden variety momentary fright when someone startled
you. This was real, raw fear. Then it was gone, and she
wore her smooth Princess face again.
"Thank you, no. I can manage."
Her voice was cool, polite, completely assured. Had he
imagined the blaze of fear?
Bending, she righted the briefcase, deposited it on
the car's seat and closed the door. She must have expected
him to move on, or at least to step back, because when she
turned, she wound up standing considerably closer than
before. Closer than was comfortable for her. He could see
it in the quick lift of her brows, the slight widening of
her eyes. But she didn't step back.
Neither did he.
Damn, she was beautiful. And tall. In those three inch
heels that probably cost more than he made in a week, her
gaze was level with his. Throw in all that long blond hair
that would slide like silk through a man's hands, and a
body that would....
"You're that cop."
He blinked. "That cop?"
"Regina vs. Rosneau."
"Good memory." They'd secured a conviction on that
one, but her client had taken a walk on appeal. Though in
truth, Quigg hadn't minded over much. The dirtball had done
it, all right, but strictly speaking, the evidence had been
a bit thin. One of those fifty/fifty propositions.
"Regina vs. Haynes. That was you, too, right?"
Okay, dammit, that one still stung, although the
insult was almost two years old now. Two defendants,
separate trials, separate representation, each accused
managing to convince a jury the other guy'd done it. Of
course, Quigg could take consolation from knowing the noose
was closing yet again around Ricky Haynes'
good–for–nothing drug–dealing neck.
Haynes had since moved outside the city limits, beyond
municipal jurisdiction, but Quigg had it on good authority
that the Mounties were building a rock–solid case
against him.
Yes, he could take some consolation in that. Some
small consolation. Not enough, however, to blunt the slow
burn in his gut right now.
"Keep a scrapbook, do you, Ms. Phelps? Or maybe you
cut a notch in your little Gucci belt, one for every cop
you skewer?"
Something that looked astonishingly like hurt flashed
in her eyes, but like before, it was gone before he could
be certain he'd really seen it. Then she stepped even
closer and smiled, a slow, knowing smile that made him
think about skin sliding against skin and
sweat–slicked bodies fusing in the dark, and he knew
he'd been mistaken. When she extended a slender, ringless
finger to trace a circle around a button on his shirt, his
heart stumbled, then began to pound.
"Definitely not the belt thing," she said, her voice
as husky and honeyed as his most sex–drenched
fantasy. "At the rate you guys self–destruct under
cross, there'd be nothing left to hold my trousers up,
would there, now, John?"
Then she climbed in her gleaming little Beemer and
drove off before his hormone–addled brain divorced
her words from her manner and realized he'd been dissed.