Kylie Brant
An Irresistible Man
© 1995
Chapter 1
The sound of men at play reached Madeline’s ears as she got out of the car. Slamming the door, she paused, surveying the scene they made. The cracked asphalt of the basketball court was a jumble of males, most stripped to the waist. A half-dozen others stood on the sidelines shouting words that could not pass for encouragement. None of them glanced her way and she felt a moment of uncustomary hesitation. There was something about the sight of all those masculine bodies gleaming with sweat in the late spring sunlight, the noise of their exertions and the jeers of their audience that almost made her reluctant to intrude on their domain. Ruthlessly squashing that sentiment, she raised her chin and walked toward the court.
She winced at the sound of human flesh colliding and a moment later a body hurtled into the chain links separating her from the court. She jumped back reflexively, but the young man just grasped the fence and jumped to his feet nimbly, sending her an appraising look. Seeing her chance, she called, “Is Cruz Martinez around?”
The man trotted back to the court. “Martinez,” he called in a plaintive croon, “babe’s looking for you.” The word quickly spread across the court.
“Hottie with a body.”
“Smokin’!”
“You playin’ on her court, bro?”
Madeline damned her fair complexion, which she could feel heating from the shouts of the men. She drew herself up even straighter and crossed her arms. The body language was unmistakable. It elicited further observations from the court.
“Uh-oh, BWA.”
“BWA, son, watch out!”
Cruz Martinez grinned and bounced the basketball to the man next to him. As he jogged slowly toward the fence, he couldn’t help agreeing with those final shouted assessments. BWA, Babe With an Attitude, was a chauvinistically accurate description of the woman waiting for him. For an attitude she did exude. From the top of her auburn head, flashing with streaks of gold in the sunlight, down her rigidly held body to her shapely feet clad in narrow-toed shoes this woman was uptight with a capital ‘
Madeline hadn’t missed his blatant perusal, and that, accompanied by his cocky grin and suggestive drawl made her voice sharp when she fairly snapped, “Cruz Martinez?”
“Yes, ma’am. At your service.”
Madeline reached into her purse and pulled out her shield, flipping it open and holding it out to him. “Detective Sergeant Madeline Casey.”
Cruz reached through the fence with one hand, more for the opportunity to touch her than to study the shield she was holding out. He brought it closer, taking his time examining it. He made sure their hands met when he handed it back. “Very nice. Shiny. You been polishing that?”
Madeline ignored his bantering, just as she ignored the flicker of awareness she’d felt when he’d pressed the shield back into her palm. From the looks of him, he knew too well the effect he had on women, and his technique was probably well rehearsed. She fixed him with her own studied gaze, noting the well-muscled legs encased in long baggy nylon shorts. He was shod in tennis shoes, but unlike most of the other men, he wasn’t bare-chested. Instead he wore a ragged sweatshirt with the sleeves ripped out. With the sweatband around his forehead keeping his straight dark hair out of his face, and with an earring in one ear, he looked like a modern-day pirate. One would never guess that he was a detective sergeant of the Philadelphia Police Department.
She pulled her gaze from his forearms roped with muscles, secure in the knowledge that he was unable to see the direction of her gaze behind the tinted glasses. “Captain Ritter requested that I ask you to come in to discuss a case you’re working on.”
His smile never faded, but she thought she noted a flicker of wariness in his dark eyes. “And what case might that be?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” Her voice sounded prim, even to her own ears.
“You’re not at liberty to say,” he echoed soberly.
Though there was no hint of it on his handsome, bronzed face, she was certain he was laughing at her. He cocked his head. “You must have been busy if you’ve been tracking me down. On my days off I don’t follow a planned schedule.”
Madeline shrugged carelessly, although it had taken her better than three hours to trace his whereabouts. It had been her own decision to find Martinez herself. She’d wanted to pick their first meeting, to arrange to see the man, instead of the detective. It gave her some small advantage, and she’d orchestrated it with her usual meticulous precision. “When shall I tell Captain Ritter to expect you?”
Cruz took his time answering, enjoying watching her. She looked completely composed, every inch the tough lady cop. He dropped his gaze to give her another thorough once-over. Although her face remained devoid of expression, her annoyance showed in the sudden clenching of her slender fingers around the strap of her purse. The corners of his mouth quirked. Detective Sergeant Madeline Casey wasn’t as emotionless as she would have him believe.
“I’ll go home and change first,” he finally replied, looking up at her again. “Tell him I’ll be there in about an hour and a half.”
Madeline nodded and turned away, walking swiftly back to her car. She was no longer certain that she had gained an advantage in that encounter.
It was closer to two hours before Cruz showed up at the Southwest District headquarters, where he was stationed. He was ushered immediately into Captain Ritter’s office. He hesitated in the doorway in surprise. Already seated across from the captain was Madeline Casey. Cruz crossed the threshold and shut the door behind him.
Striding to the desk, he exchanged a handshake with the other man. “Captain.” Don Ritter had a long, narrow face with sagging jowls and deep-set eyes. He’d always reminded Cruz of a gloomy basset hound, but there was nothing wrong with the man’s mind. He was fully apprised of the details of his detectives’ caseloads, and little got by him.
“Detective Martinez.” Ritter motioned for him to take a seat next to Madeline. “Sorry to summon you in like this on your day off.”
“No problem.”
“I believe you met Detective Casey earlier.”
Cruz’s attention was once again diverted to the woman in the room, and grinned. “Detective Sergeant Madeline Casey. How nice to see you. Again.”
“Detective.” She nodded shortly. His dark hair was combed back and he’d replaced his earlier clothes with a pair of battered jeans, white shirt and cowboy boots. The jeans were obviously a favorite, well-worn and supple. The shirt was by no means new, but the stark contrast between it and his dark good looks was hard to ignore. The boots were the only incongruous aspect in the picture he made. In contrast to the worn clothes, they gleamed with polish. He looked only slightly more formally dressed than he had this morning, and no less dangerous.
