Serving up Trouble. Jill Shalvis

jaw went tight. A headache kicked in. She’d gotten hurt after all.

      “You seem pretty…involved,” Luke noted.

      Sam’s eyes honed in on his face in the picture. Sure enough, he wasn’t just holding her, he was holding her, cradling her against his chest, one hand spread over her exposed throat. His expression was intense to say the least, and zeroed in one-hundred percent on Angie’s upturned face.

      It looked startlingly intimate, and if he didn’t know that he’d been concerned only with making sure she hadn’t been cut by the punk’s knife, that she was looking at him like that only because she could hardly see…damn. Take away the bank setting, take away the fact that there was a bleeding criminal on the floor behind them, and they could have been…lovers.

      “Interesting,” Luke said.

      Sam eyed his friend. The two of them had been through a lot together. High school. The academy. Being rookies. They’d been through family and wives unable, or unwilling, to handle the demands of their jobs.

      Death and mayhem. They’d seen or done it all.

      Were still seeing and doing it all.

      “Oh, I almost forgot.” Luke actually kept grinning, which really made Sam pause. “There’s a delivery for you.”

      “Yeah? So bring it in.”

      “Delivery woman insists on giving it to you herself.”

      Delivery woman?

      With a long, warning look to Luke, Sam rose to his feet and came to the door of his office. He wasn’t pleased to see a small crowd of cops who plainly had nothing better to do than stand around and smile stupidly.

      In the center of the group was a huge bouquet of wildflowers sprouting three feet wide out of a basket. He couldn’t see the face of the person behind it, only that she was wearing sandals, with bright pink polished toenails and a dainty little gold toe-ring.

      Then from behind the basket peeked a smiling face.

      Angie.

      Around him there were hushed whispers and more than a few teeters and muffled laughter.

      Sam ignored them to stare at her in disbelief. Flowers. Lord, she’d brought flowers to the toughest, meanest cop in the precinct.

      He’d never live it down.

      “I’ve brought a thank-you for yesterday,” she said in a sweet, musical voice that somehow had him stepping from his office doorway toward her.

      He managed to stop himself a few feet away, very aware of their audience. “You already thanked me.”

      If his gruff ness startled her, as it tended to do to most everyone else, she didn’t show it. Her smile brightened even more, if that was possible, and she lifted a shoulder. “Truth is, Detective O’Brien, I could never thank you enough. You’ve given me more than you could ever know.”

      He didn’t want her gratitude. What he did want couldn’t be said in polite company.

      She peered into his small, none-too-tidy office. “Besides, it looks as though you might be able to use some color in that room. How do you work in there? It’s dark as a tomb.”

      Sam found himself staring at her petite form as she walked past him and into his office as if she owned the place. Her nicely rounded bottom sashayed beneath her sundress, as she marched right to his over crowded desk.

      “Wait—” No use, she was already making room, stacking piles of care fully sorted paperwork together—negating hours of work—and setting the basket down.

      Then she moved to the window and reached for the shades.

      “No—” He hated having all that bright sunshine pouring in over his shoulder when he was concentrating. “Don’t open—”

      Too late.

      She yanked the string, throwing light into the room. “There. That’s so much better, isn’t it?” She tossed her hair out of her eyes—hair that he couldn’t help but notice was a million different colors, like a doe’s coat, and smelled even better than the flowers she’d just settled.

      She smiled at him. “This is really a bad color for your office walls. Drab gray. It’s not at all conducive to happy work patterns.”

      He’d never even noticed what color the walls were, and didn’t care to now. Nor was he thrilled about noticing her hair color.

      He had work to do.

      “You know, I always had the secret fantasy of going through the police academy,” she said wistfully, looking around. “I had this dream of rounding up all the bad guys and putting them behind bars.”

      The thought of this far too cheerful, happy, bouncy, flowers-carrying woman going through the academy brought a fine sweat to Sam’s brow. “You wouldn’t like it,” he said quickly.

      “Oh, I think I would. Well, except for the shooting part.” She shivered. “I’m not crazy about weapons.” Her smile faded and a shadow flickered across her face. “Give me a paint brush any day.”

      Sam knew she was remembering yesterday, having a flash back to when she’d had the blade of a knife pressed against her slim neck. Damn it, he didn’t want to know this. Didn’t want to know how traumatized she was, or see how badly she was bruised. He searched her with his gaze, but couldn’t see a thing with her halter-top sundress that covered her to the throat. “Are you okay?”

      “Oh, yes. Thanks to you.”

      She was as small as he remembered, barely coming up to his shoulder. But where had all her defenseless vulnerability of yesterday gone? She looked totally, utterly capable of anything, especially ruining his day.

      “You found a spare pair of glasses,” he heard himself say inanely, gesturing to the frames she wore.

      “They’re ancient—oops.” She bit her lower lip to hold back a smile. “Probably shouldn’t tell that to a police officer. I could get a ticket for driving with an old prescription, right?”

      He was relieved to discover she hadn’t just purchased the thick, blue-rimmed, almost horn-shaped glasses. He felt an odd pang at the knowledge she probably couldn’t afford a brand-new pair. He wondered if the bank wouldn’t cover the cost for her, and opened his mouth to suggest some thing to that effect when the curious whispers behind him registered.

      He whirled to the doorway, and found Luke and two rookies leaning in his door, unabashedly eavesdrop ping.

      “Need some thing to do?” he inquired. At his cold voice, the rookies instantly scattered.

      Luke just grinned before slowly straightening and walking away.

      Angie was staring at him with those huge brown eyes. “Wow,” she said, impressed. “That was a pretty scary cop voice. Really fierce. Do you use that on criminals to make them confess?”

      Yeah, or on unwelcome guests to get them to leave. But he found he didn’t have quite the heart to say it. A surprise, and it only worsened his mood.

      He really had a ton of work to do. He wanted—needed—to crack his priority case, and soon, as the suspects were probably right this minute stealing mail or trash, racking up more uncollectible debt by the minute.

      “You know,” Angie said, sizing up his office, the wheels visibly turning in her head. “You could really use a paint job on these walls.”

      “A paint job,” he repeated slowly.

      “Maybe pink? It would most definitely help ease your tension.”

      Oh yeah, that’s what he needed. Pink walls. “I’m not tense.”

      She raised her brow so high it disappeared into her bangs. “Really? Then why is your jaw all tight and bunchy?”

      “It’s