Inside every good girl is a bad girl waiting to get out.
Unfortunately for Olivia Jacobsen, she'd been waiting
thirty years.
She studied herself in the mirror of the twenty-fifth-
floor executive washroom. There was nothing "bad" about
her appearance, in as far as she could tell. She had blue
eyes. She had straight dark hair, a gift from her deceased
Greek mother. Today Olivia had pushed her shoulder-length
hair back with a pink plaid headband that matched her
pleated plaid skirt.
The saleslady at the upscale boutique had insisted that
head-to-toe plaid was the latest fashion, but now Olivia
wasn't so sure.
She scowled at her reflection. Fashion be darned. She came
across like a pupil at one of St. Louis's all-girl
Catholic high schools. Olivia Jacobsen — thirty-year-old
Miss Goody Two-shoes.
Worse, she was a thirty-year-old virgin Goody Two-shoes,
the perfectly behaved daughter of Blake and Sara Jacobsen,
world-famous evangelicals with an international ministry
rivaling that of Billy Graham.
And she'd grown up hearing exactly what being bad got you.
Olivia puckered her lips, making another disgusted face at
herself in the mirror. Being good was boring. Being good
meant broken engagements because she'd gotten cold feet —
well, that and the fact that kissing her two respective
fiancés had been like kissing puppies. Cute and sloppy,
but hardly satisfying. Being good also meant having a
stepmother who watched your every move and a meddling
family that constantly tried to marry you off to someone
they deemed appropriate — someone bland and boring.
Being good meant never having a man touch your breasts,
never once feeling the leg-clenching desire that Olivia
read about in those romance novels her minister parents
disapproved of but she devoured.
Just once, Olivia Jacobsen wanted to be bad. She wanted to
sin. She shook her body to try to loosen it up. It was a
pathetic attempt, and at that moment Olivia decided she
couldn't continue like this. Something drastic would have
to be done.
No longer would she be lackluster Olivia Jacobsen, staid
and sedate long before her time. That ended now. She
reached for her plaid purse and strolled purposefully out
of the washroom.
"Marilyn?"
Upon hearing Olivia's voice, her secretary glanced
up. "I'm going to take the rest of the day off," Olivia
said. "Please reschedule all my appointments."
If Marilyn seemed surprised that Olivia Jacobsen, vice
president of corporate communications for Jacobsen
Enterprises and the one with the flawless attendance
record for the past five years, was ditching work early,
she didn't let on. "Yes, Ms. Jacobsen," she replied with a
neutral expression.
"I'll see you tomorrow." Not even bothering to return to
her office, Olivia punched the elevator button and headed
down.
Once-bitten, twice-shy DWM, blond-blue 6'3" HWP, 36
seeking a 26-34 HWP S/DWF for Ms. Right. Must understand
erratic work shifts, must love kids, quiet family life and
cats.
"I THINK YOU SHOULD mention that you're Mr. August. Or at
least a cop. What about 'hot stuff'? Doesn't that increase
your odds?"
Garrett Krause glared up from the almost illegible
handwriting he'd scrawled on a torn-out sheet of white
notebook paper. Not only was his partner, Cliff, reading
over his shoulder, but he was also laughing at him.
"And I think you should butt out before I snuff you out,"
Garrett snapped, not at all surprised to hear himself
growling like an angry bear. "It's your fault I'm in this
mess in the first place. As if I want to do this."
Cliff simply laughed harder — a liberty only a good friend
could take, especially when the laughter was clearly at
his friend's expense.
"You won't snuff me out," Cliff said. "We've been together
too long. Besides, I know all the homicide detectives."
That was true, Garrett thought wryly. He and Cliff were
both detectives in the Division of Criminal Investigation,
specifically the Bureau of Crimes Against Persons.
Although Cliff was older, he and Garrett had been best
friends since they'd met in Police Academy. After that,
they'd been stationed together and they'd even both made
detective within months of each other. Later, both had
landed positions as investigators on St. Louis's Major
Case Squad.
Garrett often wondered if some of his career advancement
had been due to Cliff — after all, Cliff's family was
rich, and powerful in St. Louis politics. But Garrett
didn't really care. He loved his job. He'd been a cop
since graduating college, and cops shouldn't be writing
personal ads.
"Lucky for you and your occupation that you get to live
another day," Garrett snorted, not quite ready to let
Cliff off so easily.
"Oh, I'm so worried," Cliff taunted. Cliff knew he could
push Garrett's buttons — they had an eleven-year
friendship, one that had included Cliff being best man for
Garrett's now-failed marriage.
"I'm sure I could commit the perfect crime if I wanted
to," Garrett threatened as he waved the paper.
"Don't tempt me."
"Yeah, whatever. Besides, I'm always lucky," Cliff said,
cuffing his white shirtsleeves. He ignored Garrett's scowl
and reached for his mug. "I'd probably end up killing you
in self-defense."
"Don't you have somewhere to be? An appointment?" Garrett
asked, eyeing Cliff's Cops Do It shootin'expression mug.
At least Cliff's sip of java had ended his annoying
laughter.
"Aw, come on, Garrett, lighten up," Cliff said before
taking another sip. "None of us means you any harm. We
just agree that you should get back into dating. It's been
three years since that ugly mess with your ex."
"Don't even mention her." Garrett's scowl deepened.
Although three years had passed since his divorce, he
still hated dealing with his ex-wife, especially where
their four-year-old son was concerned.
Cliff tilted his head to the side and studied his
friend. "Garrett, really. What's wrong with you? Every-
one's more than a little concerned about your hermit
status."
"I am not a hermit. I'm busy," Garrett insisted. Cliff
shook his head. "No, you aren't. You work hard, granted,
but that's not what's bugging you."
Cliff contemplated that assertion for a moment and then
his expression changed. "I got it. You're still smarting
over that charity calendar. Come on, let it go. It's been
almost a year since it debuted, and all the hubbub has
died down. In a few months people will throw the thing
away and replace it with next year's version."
"Whatever," Garrett said. As with his ex, he tried to
avoid dwelling on that mistake, as well.
"Though I still think you're crazy," Cliff continued.
"If I'd gotten one of those prime spots, can you imagine
what I would have done?"
That was the last straw. "What — you'd have dated the
woman from Potosi who sent me her underwear?" Garrett
arched his eyebrow skeptically and studied his friend. It
was now almost two p.m., and already Cliff needed to
shave. Because Garrett was blond, his face wouldn't show a
beard until well after five.
Cliff shrugged, conceding slightly. "Well, maybe not
that," he said, retreating before going back for round
two. "But some of those babes who dropped by the police
station were hot. I would have taken the normal ones up on
their offers. Wasn't one a Rams cheerleader? Get real,
Garrett. Just hop back in the saddle again. Being celibate
this long just doesn't suit a man. Makes him crack. God
knows we see the results of that enough in our line of
work."
Garrett glared. His self-chosen celibacy had so far suited
him just fine. Being celibate meant he'd make no more
mistakes such as thinking he was in love and the time was
perfect for him to settle down. That was how he'd come to
marry Brenda. The only good thing to emerge from that
tempestuous relationship had been their son. And that
adorable four-year-old deserved his daddy's full
attention.
"Don't knock celibacy. It's the best alternative to
marriage, that's for sure," Garrett said. "Who said
anything about marriage? Saddles are for riding in, buddy
boy." Cliff grinned, but his smile vanished when he saw
the sour expression on Garrett's face. "Oh, loosen up. At
least none of us is trying to drag you out to strip clubs
anymore under the guise of doing a stakeout."
Thank God for small favors, Garrett thought. Exploring
East Saint Louis's "nightlife" was not anywhere on his to-
do list, nor would it ever be. The Illinois city directly
over the Mississippi River from the Gateway Arch was known
for strip clubs and seedy bars — something he'd outgrown
long ago. And since Garrett wasn't a gambler, even Casino
Queen river-boat, decent as that was, held little appeal.
He shook his head, sending blond hair into his face.
Loosen up indeed. As if he could.
He shuddered, revulsion shivering down his spine as he
remembered some of the women's letters and photos he'd
received in the months following the appearance of the
Hometown Heroes charity calendar.
Reading the letters and seeing the lengths women would go
to to entice him, including those naked full-body shots,
had not been pleasant. He'd felt like a pervert, so much
so that he'd finally stopped opening the letters at all,
or letting his cop buddies and Cliff raid his mail. Crime
scenes were easier to deal with.
He winced. Hindsight was twenty/twenty. When the
department asked for his cooperation last summer, Garrett
had followed orders, not caring about the "honor" attached
to being selected.
His mistake was that he hadn't thought through the
calendar's aftereffects. Oh, he'd considered that he might
get some recognition and second glances, but this was St.
Louis and not Hollywood. St. Louisans were, for the most
part, discreet — not rude autograph-seekers. Even
professional sports stars were usually granted their
privacy in public places like restaurants or movie
theaters. The crazy attention paid to him and his fellow
police, fire and rescue workers from across the
metropolitan region had surprised Garrett, not to mention
vexed him.