detective’s bullpen. Casey appeared to be engrossed in reading a file, but Craig angled his chair away from his colleague.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “You had the good judgment to call me, after all.”
“Good judgment?” She laughed again. “That remains to be seen.”
He waited. Pointedly. He could have waded in there, helped her out, but dammit, why should he? He’d done the asking last time. Two times, actually. The first time, he got a polite turn-down. He would never have asked again, except all the signals were still there, in flashing neon. When she turned him down the second time, she’d made it clear she didn’t date cops. Period.
“I was wondering if you’d like to go to dinner with me tonight. My treat. I thought maybe Soloman’s.”
Soloman’s. Pricey, but they had the best steak and seafood in town. They also had a relaxed enough atmosphere and dress code to attract regular Joes like him once in a while. And more significantly, Soloman’s was a two, maybe three block walk from Nita Reynolds’ downtown condo apartment. The thought sent another jolt below the belt. Settle down, boy .
“To be completely clear, are we talking about a date here?”
“Yes.” One word, but it managed to sound strangled.
He leaned back his chair, feeling in control. A strange sensation indeed when it came to this woman. And probably short-lived, so he should enjoy it.
Apparently, he must have enjoyed it a little too long, because her voice was a little testier when she spoke again. “What? Have I stunned you into silence? Shocked you with my forwardness, maybe?”
“Nah, I was just searching for the weather report from hell. I’m guessing it must have frozen over down there.”
“Very funny.”
“What about your no cops rule?”
“Some rules are meant to be broken, Detective. I know you of all people would subscribe to that notion.”
“Given how often I land myself in hot water with the brass, you mean?”
She made no reply.
“No comment?” he prodded.
“Sorry,” she said politely, “I was letting the record speak.”
He laughed. “Okay, it’s a date. I’ll meet you there.” After a few beats of silence, he added, “What time?”
“Seven?”
“Perfect.”
“One last thing, Detective….”
“What’s that?”
“Come prepared.”
He heard her disconnect, but still he sat there with the receiver in hand, her words echoing in his mind. Come prepared . The dial tone kicked in, and he hung up.
Jesus. He was sitting in the middle of the bullpen with a hard on. Suddenly, he didn’t feel so in control.
* * *
Nita resisted the urge to pull her compact out of her purse and check her lipstick. It was perfect when she’d applied it, and it was still perfect. For what she’d paid for it, it wouldn’t dare smudge. And dammit, she looked good in her new DKNY tank dress, cute denim jacket and with calf-hugging leather boots. Hot without being too over the top, man-hunting slutty.
Or was it? Maybe the boots were too much.
Argh! Stupid to be nervous. It would be better when he actually got here.
Not that he was late. She’d come early to get away from her silent apartment, hoping that the buzz of conversation and the discreet bustle of the wait staff would distract her. Plus she’d wanted to be in place first to establish some kind of … what? — ownership? — control? … of this piece of recklessness she was about to embark on.
Drink. Now.
She picked up her wine, but instead of gulping it nervously, she forced herself to slow down and appreciate it. She swirled it in its glass, admiring its legginess a moment before inhaling its bouquet. Lovely. She’d bypassed the subtle sophistication of her usual French favorite and picked a lively Australian Shiraz. Lush and peppery, it was perfect for her mood. She took a sip, savoring the dominant blackberry flavor and the feel of the tannins in her mouth.
“Am I late?”
Dammit. She’d wanted to see his entrance,
“I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “You had the good judgment to call me, after all.”
“Good judgment?” She laughed again. “That remains to be seen.”
He waited. Pointedly. He could have waded in there, helped her out, but dammit, why should he? He’d done the asking last time. Two times, actually. The first time, he got a polite turn-down. He would never have asked again, except all the signals were still there, in flashing neon. When she turned him down the second time, she’d made it clear she didn’t date cops. Period.
“I was wondering if you’d like to go to dinner with me tonight. My treat. I thought maybe Soloman’s.”
Soloman’s. Pricey, but they had the best steak and seafood in town. They also had a relaxed enough atmosphere and dress code to attract regular Joes like him once in a while. And more significantly, Soloman’s was a two, maybe three block walk from Nita Reynolds’ downtown condo apartment. The thought sent another jolt below the belt. Settle down, boy .
“To be completely clear, are we talking about a date here?”
“Yes.” One word, but it managed to sound strangled.
He leaned back his chair, feeling in control. A strange sensation indeed when it came to this woman. And probably short-lived, so he should enjoy it.
Apparently, he must have enjoyed it a little too long, because her voice was a little testier when she spoke again. “What? Have I stunned you into silence? Shocked you with my forwardness, maybe?”
“Nah, I was just searching for the weather report from hell. I’m guessing it must have frozen over down there.”
“Very funny.”
“What about your no cops rule?”
“Some rules are meant to be broken, Detective. I know you of all people would subscribe to that notion.”
“Given how often I land myself in hot water with the brass, you mean?”
She made no reply.
“No comment?” he prodded.
“Sorry,” she said politely, “I was letting the record speak.”
He laughed. “Okay, it’s a date. I’ll meet you there.” After a few beats of silence, he added, “What time?”
“Seven?”
“Perfect.”
“One last thing, Detective….”
“What’s that?”
“Come prepared.”
He heard her disconnect, but still he sat there with the receiver in hand, her words echoing in his mind. Come prepared . The dial tone kicked in, and he hung up.
Jesus. He was sitting in the middle of the bullpen with a hard on. Suddenly, he didn’t feel so in control.
* * *
Nita resisted the urge to pull her compact out of her purse and check her lipstick. It was perfect when she’d applied it, and it was still perfect. For what she’d paid for it, it wouldn’t dare smudge. And dammit, she looked good in her new DKNY tank dress, cute denim jacket and with calf-hugging leather boots. Hot without being too over the top, man-hunting slutty.
Or was it? Maybe the boots were too much.
Argh! Stupid to be nervous. It would be better when he actually got here.
Not that he was late. She’d come early to get away from her silent apartment, hoping that the buzz of conversation and the discreet bustle of the wait staff would distract her. Plus she’d wanted to be in place first to establish some kind of … what? — ownership? — control? … of this piece of recklessness she was about to embark on.
Drink. Now.
She picked up her wine, but instead of gulping it nervously, she forced herself to slow down and appreciate it. She swirled it in its glass, admiring its legginess a moment before inhaling its bouquet. Lovely. She’d bypassed the subtle sophistication of her usual French favorite and picked a lively Australian Shiraz. Lush and peppery, it was perfect for her mood. She took a sip, savoring the dominant blackberry flavor and the feel of the tannins in her mouth.
“Am I late?”
Dammit. She’d wanted to see his entrance,
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