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She was almost glad for the distraction when the door against which she leaned was wrenched open. Reflexively, she grabbed the dashboard as her foot quickly gained purchase on the pavement. Scrambling from the car, she was preparing to defend herself when hands that should have been rough, but instead felt warm, strong and intriguing curled over her shoulders.
Suddenly, she could barely breathe. “Officer Steele?” Dammit, she’d been trying to keep an eye on the fire exit, so she could shove the stolen files under the seat when he came outside.
He yanked her toward him. “Expecting someone else?”
She swallowed hard as he slammed the car door. “I thought we were leaving?”
“Not yet.”
Right now, he looked less the pretty-boy, more the cautious cop. Body heat seeped from his uniform shirt, and registering that their chests were just inches from touching, she felt her knees weaken. Oh, yes. It was definitely the wrong time to recall how his chest had looked in that photo—bare and smooth, just the way Trudy liked a man’s chest to look, with pecs chiseled out of marble, the nipples hard. He was staring down at her with slanted eyes the color of undiluted bourbon when he lifted a finger, traced it lightly under her chin and used a thumb to turn her face more fully to his. “Look at me.”
“Quit touching me and I will.”
Male awareness filled his gaze. “Does that bother you?” he murmured. “Me touching you?”
“Of course it does.” He dropped his hand, but not before the tips of her breasts tightened beneath her clothes. He couldn’t see, of course. He didn’t know. But as heat stained her cheeks, she wished they were upstairs again, with all those cops milling around instead of in this deserted garage.
“You stole my files.”
Now that she’d successfully gotten rid of his hand, she vied for more. “Could you give me some breathing room?” Her back was flat against the car door, and the way he’d sandwiched her between his hard body and the metal was stealing her breath.
“What possessed you?”
She arched a brow. “Possessed? Must have been a demon.”
“I’m beginning to believe it’s just your personality.”
“Don’t worry,” she returned dryly, pleased her voice was level. “I didn’t read anything that would offend my finer sensibilities.” Upstairs, the crime scene photos had sickened her more than she’d let on, and despite her usual fury over male protectiveness, she was strangely touched that Truman hadn’t wanted her to see them.
“Are you really as hard as nails?”
“Of course not.” Not usually. But she hadn’t been prepared for what Truman Steele’s photo couldn’t divulge—his energy, core, essence, whatever you wanted to call it. “But I’m here to do a job.”
“However dishonestly?”
“I’m a reporter.” And she didn’t intend to return to the Milton Herald where her lead stories had been even worse than this, involving runaway cows, backed-up town sewers and the occasional birth of twins. “What’s dishonest is leaving a reporter in a parking lot while you pretend to be busy with work. Admit it, but weren’t you eating another doughnut? Chocolate-or vanilla-filled?”
“Chocolate,” he returned without hesitation.
“You kept me waiting intentionally.”
“You stole those files.”
She pointed to a napkin on the dashboard. “Someone was nice enough to give me a doughnut, too.” She smiled. “And the files made for good reading.” Seeing the furious glint in his eyes, she suspected she’d gone too far and tried to soften the blow with flattery. “My compliments. You do a very thorough interview.”
“It’s illegal to steal police files. I could run you back upstairs and book you.”
“True. But Captain Coombs might be disappointed in my public relations article in the News.”
“Blackmailer,” he whispered. “You wouldn’t.”
She shrugged. “I’m interested in the Glass Slipper story. I’m hoping you’ll talk to me. Off the record, if need be.”
Grudging respect crept into eyes that were lingering too long at the open throat of her blouse, and when he leaned, as if to get a better look at her, his bemused lips seemed too close to her own. “Talk about my case?” he said. “I’d be solving it if I didn’t have to chauffeur you around town.”
She frowned. “Somebody else was given that case? Who?”
“Capote and Dern.”
She’d heard of them. “They couldn’t book loose paper with a stapler.”
He looked pleased. “True.”
“Did they get all your cases?”
He shook his head. “Only a few. The Glass Slipper victims don’t like to feel there’s no contact person available to them. Now,” he continued, his voice turning grave, “have you read all my files?”
“Lunch at the Plaza,” she returned, wishing everything about this man wasn’t driving wind from her lungs with the force of a storm. “Wasn’t that what you said I was dressed for? Maybe my interest in the shoes was merely fashion-oriented, did you think of that?”
Truman cursed. “You read every damn word.”
“Steele,” she said, liking the sound of his last name in her mouth. “To be perfectly honest, your timing was brilliant. Just as you got to the garage, I finished the last sentence.”
“Get in, Trudy,” he growled. “Mind if I call you Trudy?”
“Not so long as we don’t have to shake hands.” Body contact with Truman Steele might send her over the edge. She definitely liked how his hands looked. Large and long-fingered, with neat nails. Trying not to imagine how they might feel on her bare skin, she startled when he slammed the door, then scrambled inside and shut her own.
It was the perfect time to deliver the note she’d found under the windshield wiper. Leaning, she neatly tucked it into his uniform pocket, wishing she hadn’t when she felt the hard muscular chest, his heart thumping under her fingertips.
“‘Officer Steele,”’ she quoted, “‘I know you arrested me for drunk and disorderly conduct, but I need to talk to you. Let’s have dinner soon. Best wishes, Candy.”’
His mouth was grim. “Stay out of my personal life.”
“Personal life,” she repeated, letting the irony speak for itself. “Do you often date women you arrest?”
Looking as if he’d like to arrest her, he said, “Never.”
Biting back a laugh, she tucked her tongue into her cheek. She didn’t know if she liked Truman Steele, per se. But she was enjoying their exchanges. Not that she’d deliver the dull story her boss expected. Like everyone, Truman had something to hide. Whatever it was, Trudy intended to find it.
3
DAYS AGO, WHEN TRUDY began delving into Truman’s private life to enhance her article about the NYPD, she’d expected to discover secrets, but nothing like this. Crouching behind a bush in Bryant Park, she watched him leave the seventh sex toy shop this evening and head toward a triple-X marquee where a heavyset man with bulging biceps sat inside a smudgy glass booth, selling tickets. Most stores on the strip offered relatively tame sexy underwear and books, but one devoted itself to sinister zippered masks. Trudy shuddered, bringing up the camera slung around her neck and keeping Truman in the viewfinder as he changed his mind about the theatre and ducked into a dirty bookstore.
Times Square was hardly the red-light district it once was, but a few blocks away, here in Bryant Park, behind the New York Public Library’s main branch, the streets remained dark and seedy. The night had turned too cool for the navy cardigan Trudy wore over a T-shirt and jeans, and the drizzle-dampened paper shopping bags that were brimming with purchases.
Ignoring catcalls from park dwellers, she snapped another photo, glad the headlights on Forty-first Street obscured the camera flash, her heart hurting as she considered how these pictures could ruin Truman’s career. Maybe she should try talking to him. He had vices, yes. He was oversexed, yes. But didn’t that mean he needed help?
So many here did. Over the past few nights, while tailing Truman, Trudy had interviewed people who called the park home, and she’d begun a heartbreaking, and she hoped, groundbreaking, story about their plight. As she listened, she could barely blink back tears, and most nights, she went home and wept. Sure, some people were hardened dopers, but others told stories of physical illness or emotional abuse, lost spouses, jobs and homes. The teens were the most gut-wrenching. Unwanted and without opportunities, they felt their lives were over before they’d begun. Given a chance, Trudy knew they’d get on their feet.
Someone had to tell the public. As much as Trudy wanted to storm City Hall and demand intervention, it was her job to listen, care and write stories that mattered. Sure, she wanted the high profile leads—the lottery win, the Galapagos oil spill and the Glass Slipper—but it was people such as those she’d met in the park who truly motivated her.
“There you are,” she murmured, her heart aching as Truman exited the book shop and darted toward the theater again. Despite her discovery of his double life, she couldn’t help but notice he looked even better in street clothes than in his uniform. Her eyes skimmed down the chest-molding white T-shirt he wore beneath a windbreaker, loose black jeans faded to gray and stylish black workboots.
She tried not to think of all the hours he spent on corners talking to hookers. He didn’t solely frequent shops in this part of town, either, but also those around Grand Central Station. How had he wound up so lonely? Reduced to cruising?
Trudy wanted to look away, but it was her job to stare the truth boldly in the face. She shoved the two shopping bags between her legs and hoped none of the drug dealers drifting through the unlit expanse of the park would steal them. Since most had come to know her name when she’d interviewed them, she doubted they would.
“The NYPD’s poster boy,” she whispered, wishing Truman’s wasn’t the tragic story of a cop who’d crossed the line. She’d sensed he was more sexual than most men, but who could have guessed he spent every night here? It had cost a month’s salary, but Trudy had spent heavily in the shops he frequented, and although she’d never been inside such stores before, she’d hit pay dirt. When she spent money, clerks talked. After scrutinizing the plainclothes NYPD photo she’d used to identify Truman, they’d assured her he was a regular customer. Shivering against the damp air, she watched him stop under the lurid marquee to talk to two shady characters.
By day he seemed so normal. After discovering his double life, Trudy had increased her interpersonal efforts during their drive-alongs, acting friendly and getting him to talk. He presented himself as all-American. As a sports fan who’d been a good student and active in school. He volunteered for the D.A.R.E. program, talking to youngsters about not using drugs, and he loved his parents and brothers, spending much of his recreational time with them. Before she discovered his secret life, Trudy had begun to consider…
Sleeping with him? Trudy pushed away the thought. She had to concentrate on her job. By day, she prayed Truman would never suspect she was following him by night. Unfortunately, as she toured the city with him, she kept wanting to forget the lurid places she watched him visit when he was off the clock.
The Truman she was coming to know by day had become as amiable as she. Unlike her father and brothers, he made her feel worthy of undivided attention. Her carefully erected guard had started to crumble. She’d found herself rediscovering a city both she and Truman loved, and she enjoyed seeing it through the sharp eyes of a native, one who gladly answered all her questions about police life.
Snapping another picture, she wondered when the long hours had finally gotten to Truman, when he’d given up on girlfriends who couldn’t understand the stresses of his profession. Only aching loneliness could have forced him to this forbidden part of the city where he spent hours exhausting his physical needs. How desperate he must feel, Trudy thought, how hungry for sexual release.
Strangely, she could identify. Oh, not with what Truman Steele had been reduced to, but with the edgy, pent-up need and loneliness that felt so empty it hurt. Some nights, alone in bed, the want of a partner gnawed at her soul. Cravings made her burn. Frustrated and unsatisfied, she tossed and turned. She’d never really felt a man’s greedy hands on her body, nor surrendered to the ultimate pleasure only a man could bring.
Instead she’d ignored men for years, assuring herself there’d be time for that part of her life once she was established in the news world. Only then would she allow herself a lover. But she was almost established now, wasn’t she? And for the male body, she had the same curiosity that drove her at work….
Heat flushed her face. Truman Steele was so potent, virile and male that, unbidden, her breath quickened. He needed a woman, and suddenly, it didn’t seem fair that he take his comfort from strangers. She’d begun thinking about him all the time. At home, she’d stare curiously at the photos she’d taken of him, or at the bare-chested photo of him in his patrol car. Shopping in these stores hadn’t helped. Amidst the tacky items, Trudy had discovered some that intrigued her, and the purchases had begun to fuel wild, hot fantasies….
This morning, she’d given in to temptation. In the deli where she bought milk, she’d picked up batteries, blushing furiously as she paid, as if the clerk might read her mind and realize she planned to try one of the devices she’d bought. It was wicked. Probably perverse. But she just couldn’t help herself. Anytime she imagined wild, uncontrolled vibrations against her flesh, sensual pleasure burst through her…
Tonight, while digging for information about Truman, she’d bought a flesh-colored vibrator fashioned in the shape of a penis. She simply couldn’t believe she’d done so. If she wasn’t here on official business for the News, she’d be mortified. As the clerk handed her the package, she realized her earlier trip to the deli wasn’t even necessary. Batteries were included. Now Trudy licked dry lips, thinking that maybe tonight, maybe after she got home…
She shouldn’t have let her mind wander! She’d lost sight of Truman! Frustrated, she whirled just as she heard his voice call from the darkness. “Trudy? Is that you? What are you doing out here?”
He was behind her! Apparently he’d passed the theater and crossed the street, doubling back when he noticed her. Had he seen her photographing porn shops? She hoped not! He was still a half block away. Trying not to look suspicious, she circled the bush she’d crouched behind, as well as a foot-high iron rail, then stepped onto the sidewalk, her mind racing with possible explanations for her presence.
Drizzle had done marvelous things for his hair, defining the long strands, pasting them against his cheeks and neck. His shirt was so tight, that beneath the pull of cotton, she could see hardened nipples. Instinctively, she edged away from her shopping bags. Please, she thought, doing a mental inventory. Don’t let him look inside. In addition to the vibrator, there were French ticklers, love oils and a special humidifier that dispensed something called “aphrodisiac steam.”
He waved. “What are you doing here?” he repeated amicably.
At least the bags wouldn’t give her away, since the stores didn’t have logos and were of plain brown paper. “Shopping!” she called, lifting the camera around her neck. “And I wanted to get some night shots of Times Square. It’s changed so much since the Disney Store moved there, don’t you think?”
“They’ve really cleaned up the area,” he agreed.
Shaking her head ruefully, she tried to look sheepish. “I guess I got carried away. I wound up straying from the beaten path.”
He jerked his chin upward in a New Yorker’s version of a nod. “Did you take the subway?”
He was so nonchalant that, moments before, he could have been standing outside The Lion King, not a movie called Suzie Licks my Boots. Trudy inhaled sharply, sensing a sudden movement behind her. Turning, her eyes landed in the park where streetlights didn’t penetrate. Just as her eyes focused closer, air swished on either side of her. She gasped, “My bags!”
As they were whisked from the pavement, she glimpsed the snatcher—a white kid on a graffiti-covered skateboard. He was about fourteen, with short pink hair and beaded necklaces that jangled against his chest as he turned away. He was in her face one second, gone the next. “Wait! You can’t take those!”
But he was gone, airborne as he hopped the railing, clutching a bag in each hand, his skateboard clinging to his sneakers as if glued to them, unaffected by gravity. The rollers slammed down hard as the board hit concrete, then he pumped with a foot. As he glided through the park, the receding sound of rollers seemed loud in the still night, despite the heavy traffic. Truman caught up to her, then passed at a run, easily hurdling the rail, yelling, “You okay?”
“I’m not hurt! Forget about the bags!”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be right back. I’ll get them!”
Truman was fast and graceful, running like a sleek animal with the wind in his damp hair until the darkness of the park swallowed him. Trudy realized she’d frozen on the sidewalk, and that Truman was still chasing the kid, who’d clearly intended to cut through the park and go east on Forty-second Street toward Fifth Avenue. Truman couldn’t retrieve the bags! She’d sooner die that have him see what was inside. The bags were wet from the rain, too! What if they ripped and all those love oils and French ticklers scattered onto the sidewalk?
Her face flaming, Trudy bolted down Forty-first Street, her sneakered feet pounding the cement. Instead of cutting through the park, she ran along the shadowy stone facade of the massive library. She had to reach Fifth Avenue before Truman. If the kid ran south, maybe she’d catch him first. By not cutting through the park, she was gaining leverage.
Please, she thought. Let me get those bags before Truman.
AS HE RAN, TRUMAN focused on the kid’s back and wished Trudy hadn’t gotten turned around in such a bad neighborhood. She could have gotten hurt. Fortunately, this guy was just a punk. He had pink hair and was wearing more necklaces than you’d find in a jewelry store. He was on a skateboard, though, so catching him was a pain. Panting as he weaved around people on the sidewalk, Truman wished he’d brought a weapon, just in case, but when he was off-duty, he rarely carried.
“Stop,” he shouted. “Put down the bags.”
“Those are Trudy’s bags!” someone yelled as he neared the entrance to the library.
Who out here knew Trudy? Most of the guys in the park were drug dealers, but there was no time to reason it out. “Lucky me,” Truman whispered as the kid circled the corner onto Fifth Avenue and hopped off the skateboard. Stilling the rollers with his hand, he vanished up the library steps on foot, hauling the bags. Away from the street, it was dark, and the kid was hoping Truman would continue running and assume he’d lost his quarry in the crowds.
The kid was hiding—either behind one of the columns near the library’s brass revolving doors, or behind one of two mammoth marble lions. Stately, the lions were perched on their haunches halfway up the wide stone steps, guarding the library like sentinels, their huge paws extended and long manes flowing.
Pausing to catch his breath, Truman glanced around, but didn’t see Trudy. He’d hated leaving her at the south entrance of Bryant Park. It was dark there, not that the library steps were any better lit. Squinting into inky blackness, he moved slowly upward, keeping his eyes peeled, a slight smile curling his lips.
The shopping bags had bogged the kid down. The bags looked heavy, too. It’s a wonder, Truman thought, shaking his head, the damage women can do when they shop. But what stores were in the neighborhood? He frowned. Bloomingdale’s was on the East Side, Barneys was downtown, and Agnès B. was in Soho. The Warner Brothers and Disney stores, he realized, his smile broadening. They were running sales. No doubt, Trudy was getting a head start on Christmas, buying stuff for the four nephews she’d mentioned during their ride-alongs.
Strangely, she’d turned out to be the type. After that first rocky encounter, she’d started changing for no reason Truman could fathom. She’d begun trying to get to know him, and he’d become more curious about her, too. Despite her ambition, and the fact that her brothers were the heirs apparent to her father’s newspaper, she loved them. Both were married, each with toddlers, all little boys…
“Stealing kids’ Christmas presents,” Truman muttered with disgust as he edged stealthily around the paw of a lion. Well, he’d retrieve the gifts. The punk was just on the other side of the statue. Truman tilted his head to listen, then heard a low, mechanical hum.
He almost laughed. The skateboarder’s jostling had caused one of the toys Trudy had bought the kids to switch on. Whatever it was, it was battery-operated. Now there was a rustle of paper. The guy was reaching into the bag, trying to turn off the toy.
“I hear you,” Truman singsonged. Dodging around the lion, he feinted left, then doubled back, changing directions once more. The confused teenager barreled into him, nearly knocking him down, and Truman grabbed the bags. “Here. Why don’t I take those?”
“Believe me,” muttered the teen over his shoulder, grabbing his skateboard and running down the steps, “You can have them. I don’t want that kind of stuff!”
Truman chuckled, imagining the kid opening the bags and examining his haul—only to realize he’d stolen two bags of T-shirts, Pokémon toys, Batmobiles and the like. Relieved, he saw Trudy rounding the corner and lifted the bags. “Got them!”
Something had definitely gotten jostled. It was too dark to see, but Truman dug a hand into one of the bags until his fingers locked around whatever was vibrating. Lifting it from the bag, he squinted at the object. It was about six inches long and about two inches thick at the base. “Some kind of fighter jet,” he supposed. “Or an alien rocket ship.” Yeah. It looked like one of those flesh-colored toys that came with a paint set, so you could decorate it yourself. Usually, the colors were green and black, for camouflage. When they were kids, his brother Sully used to love this stuff.
Still fiddling with the gizmo, he mistook the approaching footsteps for Trudy’s and glanced up. “Hey, what’s this thing anyway?” he asked, staring into the dark. “One of those remote-control rockets?”
“Them’s Trudy’s,” a deep male voice said. “Don’t you be messing with Trudy’s bags, boy. You give them back.”
“What?” Truman stepped toward the light, simultaneously realizing that the base of the toy twisted, and that a huge black man was in front of him. No wonder he hadn’t seen him. The man’s skin was the exact color of the darkness.
“Don’t you be messing with Trudy,” he said again.
The second before the man’s fist connected with his jaw, Truman gasped. It was impossible, but all at once, he realized he was gripping a penis! Staring in shock, his first thought was that he wasn’t gay, so this couldn’t be happening. His second was that this wasn’t an appropriate gift for Trudy’s nephews. His third was that Trudy Busey had been down here, buying herself a vibrator.
“Wait, Leon! Don’t hit him! He’s a friend!”
But Trudy’s voice came too late. Shock had left Truman defenseless, and when Leon’s next punch slammed his temple, everything went black.
“HOLD STILL,” TRUDY whispered.
Truman winced. He wasn’t sure, but thought she was smoothing his hair. Whatever she was doing, it felt like heaven. “Where am I?” he asked, his voice hoarse, his head pounding.
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