Serving Up Trouble

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.

“Is he…wanted?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Well, because I’ve seen him downtown.”

This particular suspect had laid low all year, hiding out from the best of the best on the force, including himself. They didn’t even know his name, had only his description from his latest victim, whom he’d conned out of his ID with a door-to-door sales scam. Much as he’d like to have her solve his problem by locating the suspect, he’d followed too many dead ends to believe her.

Angie picked up the picture and studied it carefully, and he studied her just as care fully.

Her fingernails matched her toenails, he noted, but were chipped and nibbled at. Probably her line of work, he figured, then rolled his eyes at himself.

He was noticing her nails, for God’s sake.

Man, he needed a break. A vacation. Yeah, that was it. Maybe Hawaii, with a few bikini-clad babes.

Too bad he never took vacations.

“I do know him,” she said.

“From?”

“I can’t remember exactly.”

He took the picture from her hands. “If you think of it, call in.”

Those expressive eyes stared at him. “You don’t believe me.”

Maybe that was because she thought his walls should be pink. Or that she had dreamed of being a cop when she was afraid of weapons. But telling her so felt a little like kicking a puppy. “It’s nothing personal. We get hundreds of false leads.”

She crossed her arms and held her ground, reminding him that while she could look so vulnerable, she was actually tough as hell. “You think I’m a silly little flake.”

There was no mistaking her hurt now, and he swore at himself. “No-”

“But you don’t think I’ve seen this guy.”

“Okay, fine.” He leaned back against his desk, the desk now covered in flowers. He was going to smell like a garden. “Where do you know him from? What’s his name? What does he do?”

“I don’t know.” She took a step back, making him feel like the school-yard bully. “I just know that I’ve seen him coming and going in the used book store next to the cafe where I work.”

He studied her a long moment, considering. She seemed genuine enough. “You’re certain.”

“Absolutely.”

“Those glasses don’t look too reliable.”

“I can see perfectly.”

He sighed. “Fine. I’ll check it out.”

The look she shot him was purely female, purely annoyed. “But you don’t expect to find him, right?”

“Well…”

“Truth fully.”

How to tell her how many false leads he’d followed? How many times people thought they saw one thing but in reality saw another? “Look-”

“Oh, never mind.” She sent him a smile, completely devoid of the brilliance from before, which for some reason made Sam hurt inside.

“Angie-”

“No, really.” She lifted a hand to ward him off. “You’re busy. Don’t give it another thought.” She headed to the door. “I’m going to go answer those questions now.”

“Yeah. Angie-”

“Bye, Sam.”

Then she was gone and he was staring at the door, torn between relief and a self-disgust because he knew he’d been curt and rude.

Damn, he hated working with people.

Chapter 3

Angie got up at the crack of dawn, as always. She drove to work, as always. She figured she’d enter the cafe fifteen minutes before her shift, then help Elisa prepare for the break fast shift. As always.

But nothing was as always at all, because with one twist of fate-and a very sharp knife-she could have died, and unexpectedly she was still dealing with the horror of that.

And then there was Detective Sam O’Brien. He’d both saved her life and changed it forever, because she’d taken a look into those deep, fathomless, brooding eyes and had seen her future. It sounded silly now, in the sharp, glaring light of a new day, and at the memory of how he’d treated her in his office, she blushed. If that was her future, feeling like a ball of unimportant fluff, she didn’t want it, thank you very much. Been there, bought the T-shirt.

Yes, he’d been sweet and kind during her bank ordeal, and yes, darn it, maybe as a result she’d looked at him with stars in her eyes, but now those stars were so long gone.

She was better off by herself.

But she was going to find his suspect. Oh yes, that would be satisfying, if nothing else, just to prove she wasn’t the kind of person who made these things up to get attention.

She didn’t need attention, not from him. What she needed was to stick to her guns and live her life. She liked the feeling that coursed through her at that thought. This new-lease-on-life-thing felt good. Empowering.

Yeah. And next time she got held up, she wouldn’t need a hero, she’d save herself.

As if her karma was in perfect sync, on the walk to work she caught a glimpse of a man striding away from her, down the alley between the cafe and the used book store.

She knew that short, dark crew cut. She knew those tennis shoes, that compact, muscle-bound body, as she’d seen him several times now, either loitering in front of the book store where she spent far too many hours and too much of her tips, or as he was now, walking down the alley.

He was also the man she’d seen in the picture on Sam’s desk.

He was Sam’s suspect, and visions of proving him wrong and her right danced in her head. So did visions of getting herself killed, but she was too fond of her new life at the moment to let that happen.

Besides, contrary to popular belief by one stubborn detective, she had a brain. She knew better than to try to stop a wanted man by herself.