She wasn’t prepared. Why did he always interrupt and insert himself when she wasn’t prepared? Now she’d have to close up the work.
And she’d planned to have chicken stir-fry for dinner.
He’d expect conversation, and she wasn’t sure she had any more. Between him and his mother, she was out of what struck her as appropriate small talk.
Still, she wondered what he’d meant by news.
Resigned, she shut down the work, then reluctantly put her gun and holster in the drawer.
She assumed he’d also expect a drink, so she considered her nicely balanced selection of wines and chose a good Chianti.
Then she stopped, stared at the bottle.
She was having dinner with him again. That made twice in one week, and that didn’t count the huckleberry pie.
She was dating the chief of police.
“For God’s sake. How did he
She set the wine down and did something else she didn’t do. She paced. She needed to find a solution, a resolution to this … situation. Clearly refusing to see him would only make him more determined and suspicious. In any case, her attempts in that area had failed.
She understood the concept of pursuit and conquer. The male felt challenged, driven to persuade, capture, conquer. Perhaps she should reconsider having sex with him. With sex the pursuit would end, the challenge would be removed. His interest would begin to wane.
Those were logical reasons.
It would also include the benefit of eliminating this yearning. Once her own physical needs were met, his challenge met, his interest faded, she would have no reason to think of him at inopportune times. Everything would go back to normal and routine.
She considered the theory valid.
They’d have sex, then each would get on with their own separate lives and agendas.
Relieved, pleased with her qualified decision, she went upstairs, Bert trailing, to make certain there was nothing in her bedroom, bathroom, or indeed anywhere on the second floor, that would catch his eye.
He’d have no reason to ask about the second bedroom, and the door was secured. She took another moment, asking herself if breaking her own precedents—good precedents—and having an intimate encounter with a local, in her own home, made the best sense.
She believed it did. She believed she was capable of handling the one-time abnormality.
She glanced toward her bedroom station when her security signaled. Murmured to Bert to stand down.
Brooks was prompt, she thought, as she watched him drive toward the house.
She liked pizza, she decided, as she started downstairs. She liked sex. As she unlocked the door, she assured herself the plan was sound, and both parties would complete it amiably.
12
There she was, he thought, her canine companion at her side and those eyes of hers so carefully guarded he just knew they held secrets.
She didn’t project annoyance this time, and still she watched every move he made when he climbed out of the truck with the pizza and a six-pack of Rolling Rock.
They kept watching him when he stepped onto the porch, leaned in and kissed her.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” She stepped back, then went through the locking-up routine. “You brought beer. I have wine breathing, but—”
“That’ll work, too. We’ll just put this in the fridge.” He passed her the six-pack, then pulled a rawhide bone out of his pocket. “Something for Bert, if it’s okay.”
The gift touched her. Ploy or not, she thought it showed kindness. “He won’t take it from you.”
“You give it to him, then.”
He handed her the bone, saw Bert’s eyes click between the two of them, the rawhide. But the dog didn’t move a muscle.
“It was very nice of you. He likes them.” She turned to the dog, murmured a command. Bert’s butt hit the floor.
“That wasn’t French.”
“Italian.” She gave Bert the bone, followed it with another command.
“He speaks Italian, too. That’s some sophisticated dog. He’s smiling.”
“Dogs don’t smile.”
“Give me a break, look at those eyes. He’s smiling. Where do you want the pizza?”
“The kitchen’s best. You’re in a good mood.”
“I’m about to have pizza with a pretty woman, one who goes for hot peppers, a personal favorite. And she opened wine. I’m off duty until eight hundred hours. I’d be stupid not to be in a good mood.”
“You’re not stupid.” She got down wineglasses. “And though your job includes a high-stress factor, you rarely appear stressed. That I’ve observed.”
“I like the job.”
“But if your father hadn’t become ill, you’d still be in Little Rock.”
“Yeah, probably. I was meant to come home, take this job and settle back here.”
She shook her head as she got out plates. It occurred to her she did have more conversation. “There’s no such thing as predestination or fate or destiny. Life is a series of choices and circumstance, action and the reaction, and results of other people’s choices. Your father’s illness influenced you to choose this position at this time. I think it was a loving and loyal choice, but it wasn’t meant.”
He poured the wine himself. “I believe in choice, and in fate.”
“How? We can’t have choice and free will and still be fated.”
“It’s a puzzle, isn’t it?”
He looked so natural in her kitchen, in her space, with his jeans and T-shirt, his high-top sneakers and battered leather jacket. Should she be concerned about that?
“Why don’t we eat out on the back porch? It’s a pretty night.”
That threw her. She never ate outside, and never went outside without a weapon.
“Look at the wheels turn.” He flicked a finger down her temple. “You’ve been cooped up working most of the day, I imagine. I can’t believe you bought this place if you don’t appreciate a soft spring night.”
Just another choice, she thought. “All right.” She opened the drawer, took out her holster. “I don’t go outside without my gun.”
“Okay.” The Glock 19 again, apparently a favorite. “I wish you’d tell me what you’re afraid of.”
“I’m not afraid.” If it was a lie, it was a small one. She considered herself too well prepared and secured for real fear. “I prefer to have a gun when I’m outside.”
“All right.” He waited while she put it on, unlocked the kitchen door. “But when you decide to tell me, I’ll find a way to help you.”
“How do you know I’m not a criminal? A fugitive from justice?”
“Do you believe in instinct?”
“Yes, of course. It’s—”
“You don’t have to explain. Just put it down to instinct.”
She had a little table on the porch, a single chair. Brooks set the pizza down, went inside for her desk chair.
“It’s nice out here, the view, the air. You’ve started your garden.” He took the desk chair, sipped his wine. “What do you have in the greenhouse?”
“Plants. Flowers, some vegetables. I have some small fruit trees. They do very well in the greenhouse
