The Hotshot
Jule McBride
A MATCHMAKING MOM WILL SECRETLY TURN HER THREE BIG APPLE BACHELORS INTO MILLIONAIRES–BUT ONLY IF THEY MARRY!Bachelor #1, Officer Truman Steele, has seen it all. By night he's hot on the trail of a foot fetishist who's stealing expensive designer shoes. By day he's stuck on a media drive-along with a sexy, ambitious reporter. Tru has a case to solve–he doesn't really want to be some kind of poster boy for the NYPD. And he's got to find himself a wife– pronto–or kiss his fortune goodbye!Trudy Busey has a nose for news–and it's clear Truman's got something up his sleeve. But she's also a sucker for a man in uniform…and out of uniform, he's quite an arresting sight. But Trudy has places to go, headlining stories to write. She can't let herself be driven to distraction by some Manhattan maverick…can she?
“You’ve never slept with anybody till me, Trudy?”
Tru thought the self-satisfied grin tugging her lips was heart stopping, and when she lowered her head to his chest once more, he felt the curve of her smile on his bare skin. “Does heavy petting count?”
He shook his head. “No. Are you really telling me that before tonight, you’d never…”
“Now I have.” With that Trudy traced a heart on his chest and drew an arrow through it.
He loved that she did that. She was amazing. She meshed with him on an intellectual level, and in bed she was insatiable. Now she was as cuddlesome as a kitten. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Are you grilling me, Truman Steele?” she teased, squinting playfully as she fished around her ankles, pulling up a sheet to cover their naked bodies. “If so, I warn you I’m a force to be reckoned with.”
“So I’ve discovered.”
“Maybe you should call for backup,” she quipped.
He kissed her lightly, affection that surprised him swelling his heart and spreading warmth through his limbs. “No backup,” he warned. “I want you all to myself. I’m not sharing.”
Dear Reader,
Ever since my miniseries BIG APPLE BABIES was released a few years ago by Harlequin American Romance, I’ve received letters from you, asking for another New York-set trilogy. And where better to introduce these sexy BIG APPLE BACHELORS than in Harlequin Temptation, where brothers Truman, Rex and Sullivan Steele can take a stand with Harlequin’s hottest heroes?
The men you’re about to meet are New York’s finest. They hail from a great city with legendary heart that I love, and which I called home for many years. Because books are written long before publication, this fun-filled trilogy was completed before September 11, 2001, but I hope it pays tribute to those who serve and protect. Every other month this summer you’ll meet a man from the NYPD, who I hope will deliver the Temptation promise: loving fantasies, pleasurable escape, sizzling sex and a happy ending!
With best wishes,
Jule McBride
Meet all of New York’s finest in the BIG APPLE BACHELORS miniseries!
Truman is The Hotshot
Rex is The Seducer
Sullivan is The Protector
The Hotshot
Jule McBride
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To all those who serve and protect, especially those in Manhattan on September 11
Contents
Chapter 1 (#uedd86d63-9a6e-5938-8f6a-55625349e09f)
Chapter 2 (#u95f501c0-5a2e-5e46-9abb-56f8508fba10)
Chapter 3 (#uf9a9fc49-8319-5700-a309-5ca71bf3cc06)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
1
“MA WON THE LOTTERY?” Truman Steele was still unable to believe it. The jackpot had been growing for weeks, and because it was June first and another hot, steamy New York summer was right around the corner, people had been amusing themselves by speculating about the lucky winner on subways, street corners, and around office watercoolers. Every day, the TV news depicted long lines outside delis and street kiosks where people waited to buy tickets, and the New York News had been running man-in-the-street interviews, asking people what they’d do if they won the huge windfall.
Truman had told himself he’d buy a fishing boat, maybe vacation in Vegas and invest in blue-chip stocks, but now that he might actually get a third of the money, he wasn’t so sure. He needed to rethink his game plan. Wearing the NYPD’s standard-issue navy uniform, he stretched his long legs, then put one hand on his holster and paced to and fro in his oldest sibling’s childhood bedroom. Sullivan’s room was where the three brothers had retreated to mull over family crises since time immemorial.
Not that winning fifteen million dollars was a crisis, exactly. At least not yet, thought Truman, releasing a throaty whistle. “I must have bought thirty tickets.”
“Me, too,” confessed Rex, who’d kicked off dirty sneakers so he could lie on a neatly made twin bed so small it was hard to imagine Sullivan Steele ever occupying it. The only brother to work undercover, Rex was a master of disguises. He’d come from a stakeout looking homeless, sporting a scraggly black beard, baggy, oil-stained jeans and a questionably perfumed trench coat, which he’d thankfully left outside.
“You buy any tickets, Sully?” asked Rex.
Sullivan shook his head. “Waste of money,” said the oldest, thrusting his hands into the pockets of gray suit trousers. “At least I thought so.”
“What were you going to do if you won, Rex?” asked Truman.
Vanish and start a whole new life, thought Rex, picturing himself wearing white, rolled-up trousers while combing a beach for shells. His throat constricted as he glanced away. Unlike his brothers, Rex had never wanted to be a cop, although he rarely admitted it, even to himself. Rex was still haunted by how scared he’d been as a kid every morning when their father holstered his gun and left for work. He’d always waited for the evening Augustus Steele wouldn’t make it home for dinner, and because Rex wouldn’t put another kid through that worry, he’d long ago decided that having a family and working for the NYPD didn’t mix. He finally shrugged. “I don’t know. Fifteen million’s a lot of dough, little brother.”
“Sure is,” agreed Truman, staring through a window into the courtyard, admiring a leafy jungle of trees, bushes and ferns. Before Sheila Steele had been blessed with one of the biggest lottery wins in New York history, she’d also been the more modest recipient of a green thumb and a brownstone. Situated on Bank Street in the West Village, the Steeles’ home had been handed down through Sheila’s family, and because of the expense of maintaining it in Manhattan, the upper two floors were rented to tenants. From the front, despite cheerful green shutters, the place remained somewhat gloomy, a massive stone edifice on a gray street, banked by gray sidewalks and equally gray parking meters. Tourists would never guess at the bright, cozy interior, or the sprawling riot of plants and flowers Sheila kept thriving in the courtyard in back.
“Fifteen million,” Truman said again. “Five each.”
Sully shook his head, the same wary suspicion in his eyes that had made him, at thirty-six, the youngest cop in New York to become captain of a precinct. “If Ma hadn’t shown us the letter from the lottery board, I wouldn’t have believed her.”
Rex chuckled. “Don’t be so suspicious, Sully. This is Ma we’re talking about. Not a criminal.”
“Beg to differ,” countered Truman. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t Ma just say she expects us to find wives? And if we don’t, she’s going to give all that money away to a foundation that saves sea turtles?”
“They also save marine iguanas,” reminded Rex.
“And don’t forget the flightless cormorants,” added Sullivan dryly.
“Oh, right,” whispered Truman. “Flightless cormorants.”
At that, the three brothers simply stared at each other in shock. Rex’s shoulders started shaking with suppressed laughter, then Sullivan gave in, cracking a grin, and then Truman said, “What the hell is a flightless cormorant, anyway?”
“A bird, I think,” said Sully.
But that wasn’t confirmed, since suddenly, none of the men had the breath to talk. Sully gasped, clapping Rex’s shoulder affectionately, and Truman doubled, slapping his knee and laughing until he was wiping tears from his eyes. Each was contemplating the life-altering, past half hour of their lives.
When their mother invited them home for lunch, they’d thought nothing of it, of course. Sullivan and Truman rented apartments nearby and ate here regularly, and although Rex lived in Brooklyn, he often dropped by. No, the invitation was nothing special, but after lunch, Sheila had shown them a receipt from the lottery board whom, she said, would be contacting them. She’d put the money she’d won into a special account already, but since Sullivan, Rex and Truman would be the probable beneficiaries, the board needed them to sign some papers. “The money’s yours, boys,” Sheila had finished brightly.
Truman was still watching her in stunned silence, when she’d added, “But only if you marry within the next three months.”
She’d kept flashing that brilliant smile as if she’d said the most reasonable thing in the world, and Truman had shaken his head. He loved his mother, they all did, but she was the world’s most unlikely woman to birth three cops, or to have married one. Every inch the Earth Mother, she stayed too busy to do more than twist her long gray hair into a haphazard bun, and she favored ankle-length skirts, vests and sandals that she wore with socks. Unconventional to say the least, she had a ready smile and heart of gold that allowed her to not only mother her own sons, but often the men in the precincts for which they worked. Her special home-made doughnuts, complete with blue-and-gold icing, were legendary.
“Ma can be a little nuts sometimes,” admitted Rex when his chuckles subsided. “But it’s a good kind of nuts.”
Truman had his doubts. During lunch, the first thing he’d said was, “Where did you get an idea like this, Ma?”
“Oh, I read about such things all the time,” she’d assured, nodding toward a novel she’d left open on a chaise longue.
“In books,” Truman had stressed. “Novels.” Half-afraid his mother hadn’t understood, he’d added, “Books are make-believe.”
“Not anymore, son.” Laughing, Sheila had wagged a finger in warning. “No fake marriages, either, boys. And you have to be in love. You can’t cheat and get married, planning to divorce later. Nor can you tell your prospective brides that marrying them will make you rich.”
“That takes away a bargaining chip,” muttered Truman, who had absolutely no intention of getting married. At least not for love. For money, sure. But he’d nearly married for love once—and never again.
Frowning, Sheila had added, “And unless all three of you find brides and marry within the three months, nobody gets any money at all.”
“We all three have to get married,” clarified Truman.
She’d nodded. “Yes. And in order to make sure your future wives don’t know about the money, we’ll have to keep this hush-hush. If anyone, including the newspapers, finds out I won, I’m going to donate the money to the Research Foundation of the Galapagos Islands.”
“The Galapagos Islands?” Sully had repeated in disbelief.
Their father, like Sully, was rational to a fault. He’d put an end to the ridiculous plan. “Where’s Dad?” Truman had demanded.
For a moment, their mother had looked distant. “Work,” she’d murmured. “He’s been putting in a lot of overtime. I think a big case is breaking, and I’ve been meaning to talk to you three about it. I’m not sure, but I think your father might be in some sort of trouble—”
“Have you talked to him about this?” Rex had interrupted, since this was hardly the first time Augustus Steele had been in trouble or working too hard. The man was always putting out fires downtown in the commissioner’s office at Police Plaza.
“No,” Sheila had returned. “I haven’t talked to him, and now that you mention it, I’d better make another stipulation. If you tell your father about this, the deal’s off, and every dime goes to the Galapagos Islands.”
Sully’s expression was usually unreadable, but his lips had parted in frank astonishment. “You’re not telling Pop you won the lottery?”
“Nope,” Sheila had returned, twisting a leather wristband to get a better look at a watch that had more gadgets on it than the dashboard of a Ferrari. “And neither are you. Now, boys, I’ve got a few more minutes before my meeting with C.L.A.S.P.”
Truman had gaped at her. How could she run off at a time such as this? “C.L.A.S.P.?”
“City and Local Activists for Street People,” she’d clarified, her lips pursing in displeasure. “The mayor cut funding again. Three more mental health facilities closed this morning, and hundreds of people have been released with nowhere to go. We’re opening a new women’s shelter in the meat-packing district. This week, I’ll post flyers in your precincts, asking for clothing donations. I’ve been putting them all over town for months. Everybody needs to contribute.”
She’d paused, shaking her head in disgust. “Even Ed Koch and David Dinkins were better than this,” she’d said, her tone maligning the previous New York mayors. “Anyway, before I leave, why don’t you go to Sullivan’s room and think over my proposition? Let me know if you want to—” Pushing aside her pique over New York City politics, she’d grinned, enjoying the catbird seat. “Accept my challenge.”
She hadn’t looked the least bit fazed by her remarkable win, and Truman guessed it was largely because she was the mother of three cops. Nothing ruffled her. “I’ll be anxious to see who makes it to the finish line first. You boys with your brides, or my poor tortoises in the Galapagos.”
“Tortoises,” Truman whispered now.
“What else?” murmured Sullivan.
Preserving natural animal habitats in the Galapagos Islands had long been their mother’s obsession, so the brothers had been weaned on stories about the mysterious volcanic islands in the Pacific. Just off the coast of Ecuador, the islands were close to a mainland that was magical in its own right, with a history of Inca warriors, Amazon explorers and Spanish conquistadors. Nature had been left to thrive on its own in that lost part of the world, and the islands that had inspired Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution in the 1830s were now home to wildlife that existed nowhere else on earth.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Truman said to his brothers now, feeling a twinge of guilt. “I’ve got nothing against sea turtles.”
Sully chuckled. “Me, neither.” He let a beat pass, then added with irony, “It’s the marine iguanas that get on my nerves.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” joked Rex. “Penguins can be such a pain.” He sighed, adding, “What’s happening in the islands is pretty nasty. Ma’s right. They’re still trying to clean up the last oil spill. A couple days ago, some ship, I think it was called the—”
“Eliza,” supplied Sullivan.
“The Eliza,” repeated Rex. “Right. It ran aground near a nesting area for sea lion pups.”
“Ma’s serious,” Truman reminded. “Are we doing this or not?”
Rex stared. “We can’t find soul mates in three months.”
“She said wives, not soul mates,” argued Truman.
“To me, a wife would be a soul mate,” returned Rex.
“Oh, please,” muttered Truman. As the only Steele who’d ever given true love a whirl, he knew better.
“Ma said we have to be in love,” Sully put in.
“For five million dollars,” Truman said, calculating a third of the pie, “I think I could lie.”
Sully tried to look shocked. “To your own mother?”
“As if I don’t have enough on my plate…” Truman raked a hand through light brown hair, the longest strands of which traced a strong jaw.
Rex raised an eyebrow. “Why? What happened?”
“Coombs is trying to put me on a two-week drive-along with a reporter from the New York News.” Coombs was Truman’s boss at Manhattan South precinct.
“Smart move. You’re the best-looking cop in the NYPD,” said Sully without rancor. “You’ve got a strong arrest record, and you’re chasing the limelight, little brother.”
Truman tamped down his anger. It was tourist season, which meant the mayor, the News, and the NYPD were seeking ways to curb the mob hysteria that inevitably came with summer heat waves, and to assure people that New York City was the perfect place to bring kids on vacation.
Truman wasn’t interested in the public relations article. He was determined to solve the city’s latest, high-profile case, which had been dubbed the Glass Slipper case by the New York News. The case had been assigned to him, but if he wound up doing a drive-along with a reporter, he wouldn’t have time to work it. He had too many other more important cases on his desk. The Glass Slipper was special, though, since it involved film celebrities and rock stars. Cracking it would garner Truman enough attention to get him his full detective’s shield. He loved his work, hated bogus cases, and was tired of moving up the rung so much more slowly than his brothers.
“And now I’m supposed to find a wife?” he muttered.
“Speaking of women and your patrol car,” said Rex, fishing in his pocket for a piece of paper. “Some girl left this under your windshield wiper. I brought it in. Maybe you can marry her.”
Truman glanced down at a note written in lipstick. Officer Steele, I saw your car. Nice meeting you yesterday. I’d really like to get together for dinner. Call me. Candy.
Truman had enjoyed meeting her, too. Unfortunately, he’d been arresting her for being drunk and disorderly. Carefully pocketing the note in case his search for a bride came to that, he leaned in the doorway, glancing away from Sully’s room and the model planes and boats Sully had spent hours building as a kid, into Rex’s room, which was full of books, and then to his own, which was decorated with sports trophies and school pennants.
“Candy’s cute, huh?” asked Rex, referring to the note.
“Drunk and disorderly,” corrected Truman.
“But there will be others,” Sully said dryly, making Truman smile. Truman never beat his older brothers at anything, but Sully was right. Truman attracted the most women. He enjoyed their company, too. He just didn’t want to set up housekeeping. Until now. How would his mother know whether or not he really loved his bride? She wouldn’t, he decided, a new goal forming in his mind. In addition to cracking the Glass Slipper case, he’d be the first Steele to marry—though not for love, of course.
“As soon as my latest case broke,” Rex was saying, “I was going to take vacation. I’ve racked up four weeks leave time.”
Sully raised his eyebrows. “Where?”
Rex offered a typical Rex response. “Wherever the wind takes me.”
“It better be some place with women,” Truman warned. “Seeing as we’ve only got three months to get married.”
Three months. Or they’d lose fifteen million dollars. “Can you guys believe this?” Sully said rhetorically. The way he saw it, they might as well hand the money over to the turtles right now. His last serious, long-term relationship had lacked passion he couldn’t live without, and when he’d found passion, the relationship hadn’t included a meeting of the minds.
Absently, Sully reached for a shelf, lifting one of the models he’d made as a kid—a ship inside a bottle. Rarely given to whimsical behavior—that was Rex’s domain—Sully imagined himself writing a letter detailing what he wanted in a bride, putting it in the bottle and tossing it into the Hudson River. All his life, he’d done the tried and true…the dinner dates, boxes of candy, bouquets of flowers, and he was still single. For years, he’d wanted the kind of relationship his parents shared. Why not send a message in a bottle…?
“It’s us or the turtles,” Truman prompted.
“Well, Truman,” returned Sully, thoughtfully turning the bottle in his hands and surveying the ship inside, a classic Spanish galleon of a sort that had comprised treasure fleets and been manned by sixteenth century pirates. “Maybe the reporter from the News will be female, and you can marry her.”
“Right.” Truman smirked. “The News always sends a guy on the drive-alongs.”
“YOU’RE SENDING ME ON A drive-along? With the NYPD? For two full weeks?” Trudy Busey didn’t try to hide her disappointment. She told herself she was a trained professional and needed to prove she could be cool under fire, but as she glanced around the table and took in her co-workers, among them Scott Smith-Sanker who, as usual, was getting all the juicy assignments, she decided there was only one way to claim turf in a newsroom—fight.
The city editor, Dimitri Slovinsky, otherwise known as Dimi, raised a bushy eyebrow. Overweight, over fifty and slovenly in appearance, only the sharp bite in his dark eyes gave away his superior intelligence. “Are you having a problem, Busey?”
She braced herself, wishing Dimi would trust her with bigger stories. Scott wanted her to quit the News. And her own father, who owned the Milton Herald in West Virginia never took her dreams seriously. Yesterday, Terrence Busey had the nerve to call the News a “mere tabloid.”
This, she thought now, from the man who, before semiretirement, had handed the Milton Herald over to her brothers, Bob and Ed. The weekly’s circulation had dropped by 50 subscribers, and now only went to 300 households. None of which would be happening if her father had named her his successor. His lack of belief in her hurt, cutting to the core. Why couldn’t he see she was a good reporter? Why couldn’t Dimi?
Despite her loyalty to the Milton Herald, Trudy loved everything about this paper that had started in 1803 as the New York Evening News and faithfully served New York ever since, becoming the longest continuously running daily newspaper in America. She loved how the smell of ink filled her nostrils as she pushed through the smudged glass doors every morning carrying coffee from Starbucks. She loved being greeted by the sight of harried reporters who’d been awake all night at desks strewn with overflowing ashtrays, foam cups and files.
Without even looking, Trudy could name the blowups of past News covers hanging on the walls: the Kennedy Assassination, the Lindbergh baby, the Wall Street Crash of 1929, the murder of mob kingpin, Paul Castellano…
The News was a hub. Its reporters had earned nearly forty Pulitzer prizes, and every time she walked through its doors, Trudy realized her finger was on the pulse of America. She had no interest in the conservative New York Times. She’d been raised on a hometown paper, and the News had hometown roots—in the country’s biggest hometown.
“Dimi,” she began, fighting frustration, but determined to defend her position. “There are so many great stories begging to be written. The drive-along isn’t the best use of my time.”
It was an understatement. The drive-along was pure fluff. Human interest. Good publicity the News generated every year as a favor to the mayor at the beginning of tourist season.
Dimi eyed her. “What did you have in mind?”
“The Glass Slipper story.”
“Scott’s on that.”
Of course he is. She tried not to react, but the mere mention of Scott Smith-Sanker’s name sent her through the roof. If he scooped her once more on a story that was rightfully hers, she was going to implode. “Well, what about the lottery?” she suggested. “Whoever claimed the fifteen-million-dollar jackpot wants to remain anonymous. We need to find out who it was. After all our hype, the public wants to know.” The story was every bit as important as the Glass Slipper.
“Ben’s following up on the lottery.”
It wasn’t easy to tamp down her anger. “There was a murder just twenty minutes ago on the East Side. What about that?”
“Keith’s headed there already.”
“Okay,” she said patiently. “It’s not a city story, but we need to follow up on the Eliza.” She glanced toward a News cover showing the oil tanker that had run aground near the Galapagos Islands.
“A stringer’s on it.”
Not about to worsen the situation by making a scene, Trudy waited until the meeting was over and the others filed out before turning to her boss and saying exactly what was on her mind. “If this is the kind of work you want me to do, why did you even bother to hire me?”
“Your assignment’s a good one, Trudy.”
“It’s busy work,” she pushed back.
“High profile. You’ll liaise with the mayor.”
Maybe. But that wasn’t the kind of reporter she was meant to be. She’d had this same conversation with her father and brother for years, whenever they handed her grunt work, hoping to discourage her from working for the Herald. The ploy had worked. She’d left the Herald in a huff. But she was not leaving the New York News, and she intended to get real stories. The hard stuff.
“The Glass Slipper,” she reminded, not usually one to toot her own horn, but understanding she no longer had a choice. “I thought of calling it that. The name sold papers, Dimi. The allusion to Cinderella and Prince Charming captured the imagination of our readership.”
The case had begun two months ago when wealthy, famous female New Yorkers began reporting the bizarre theft of expensive, custom-made shoes. At this point, over a hundred pairs were missing from over a hundred apartments, and the police, unable to discern a motive and confused by how the thief gained access to so many well-guarded homes, were hot to solve the crimes.
Trudy had written the News’s first headline, “Can These Cinderellas Find Their Glass Slippers?” Her next was, “Who is Prince Charming?” Ever since, along with the growing lottery jackpot, the story had captured the imagination of news-hungry New Yorkers. Newspaper sales had skyrocketed.
“Circulation’s up,” she continued. “And we’re getting more hits online, too.”
“Your contribution’s been noticed,” Dimi conceded. “And soon, Trudy, we’ll have a hot tip that’s—”
“Right for me?” She wasn’t in the habit of cutting off her boss, but she’d reached the end of her rope. “I’ve been here two years. I’ve been patient. I’ve gophered. I’ve gotten coffee, picked up lunch and worked double time. Just how many dues do you expect me to pay before you’ll let me wedge a toe in your old buddy club?”
Dimi considered. “You think this is a chauvinist atmosphere?”
“How could I not feel discriminated against?” she returned, not backing down. She’d have left before now, but she wanted the experience of working on the nation’s longest running daily, even if she cursed the ambition that made her want to conquer it. She could almost hear her father’s voice. “You’re cute, Trudy. If you want to go into news, why don’t you try television?” Occasionally, he’d generously point to weather girls as models.
Trudy Busey was no weather girl.
Dimi stared at her as he peeled silver foil from a roll of antacids and began chewing one—all the while thinking he ought to give in and do what doctors kept telling him: lose weight. But then, doctors didn’t understand the pressures of being an editor in a big-city newsroom, no more than the stress of managing people like Trudy. She wanted the Glass Slipper and lottery stories? Well, the distressing fact was, she deserved them.
“Why did you bother to hire me?” she asked again.
Because she’d possessed two main prerequisites for the job, Dimi thought now. She was eager and pushy. During their interview, she’d been fiercely determined. Along with college newspaper clippings, she’d submitted human interest stories she’d written for her father’s newspaper, and Dimi easily read between the lines. Her father didn’t want her in the news business, but she was hell-bent on succeeding, not to mention jealous of two, less talented brothers who’d been handed the Milton Herald on a platter.
Dimi had wanted to give her a chance. Trouble was, one look at Trudy, and Dimi wished he was thirty years younger, fifty pounds lighter, and a much nicer guy. She was the one person in years who’d actually located his soft spot. Once he’d given her the job, he simply couldn’t stand to set her loose in a town he feared would eat her alive.
She was petite. Five foot four, with smooth skin and fine, yellow-blond hair that just touched her shoulders. Every time he looked at her, Dimi understood her father’s sentiments. There was something pure and untouched about her, evidenced by how Scott Smith-Sanker slid stories out from under her with the ease of a well-lubricated machine. Dimi feared, once she was on the street, her soft West Virginia twang would peg her as an easy mark, too. How could he train her wide, adventuresome eyes on a crime scene? Or put her in a position to get chewed up by angry cops and hustlers? Leave that to the Scott Smith-Sankers of the world, Dimi thought now. Guys like Scott were born and bred for life’s ugliness.
Trudy had been watching him, trying to guess what was going on inside his mind, and now she told herself not to say it, but then did. “Please,” she said, hating begging. “At least give me the lottery story. Or the Galapagos oil spill.”
Looking guilty, he shook his head. “You’re on the drive-along with a cop from Manhattan South named Truman Steele. And you better get moving.”
She was stuck with a poster boy for the NYPD, Trudy thought angrily as Dimi gave her the rundown. Truman Steele was from a family of cops, with a father in the Commissioner’s office in Police Plaza and two brothers in downtown precincts. Her mind still on the Galapagos Islands, the lottery and the Glass Slipper story, she glazed, regaining her attention when Dimi said, “Manhattan South is—”
“I know where the precinct is,” she snapped, her voice steely as Dimi thrust a file into her hand.
Right before tucking it under her arm, she glimpsed a photo of the most interesting-looking man she’d ever seen. Her heart clutched. Truman Steele was bare-chested and seated in the open door of a patrol car. Sucking in a breath, she realized this was one of the candied photos the NYPD’s public relations department had posted around the city last year, depicting cops out of uniform, so they’d seem more accessible to the public.
Her eyes skated over a smooth, muscled chest, unable to ignore that the nipples were erect, as if the picture had been taken on a cold day. The face was unusual in a way she’d rather not notice. Very arresting. Flyaway wisps of straight, light brown hair fell longer than the police force usually allowed, with the longest strands tracing a hard, implacable jaw. His skin was taut, molded over noticeably rigid bones, and he had a wide mouth and nose, which, along with dark, cautious eyes that tilted upward, made him appear to have Asian blood, though he was clearly caucasian.
That strange mix of features came together in a one-of-a-kind face that would have been eye-catching enough without the quality of the expression. Instead of looking as if he was posing for a photo, Truman looked as if he were staring across a candlelit table, his lips parting to ask a woman if she wanted to make love. Even worse, given the composition of the picture, it was only natural that Trudy’s gaze follow the downward arc of an arm, to where a wrist rested on a jeans clad hip. Loosely curled fingers unintentionally covered the V at his open legs. Belatedly realizing her eyes were fixed on that spot, she quickly glanced away, not about to acknowledge the disappointment she’d felt when she hadn’t…seen more.
“I remember when the NYPD took these press kits photos of the cops,” she managed, telling herself she wasn’t affected.
“Do you?” Dimi said, looking mildly amused.
“Yes,” she said succinctly. “I do.”
Still smiling, Dimi added, “Don’t forget you’re on the job, Busey.”
“I won’t,” she assured simply. As a rule, Trudy kept men at arm’s length. Between fighting her father and brothers, not to mention Dimi and Scott Smith-Sanker, she found it hard enough to realize her ambitions.
The last thing she needed was another man dragging her down.
2
“I’M WORKING WITH HER?” Truman glanced from Coombs’s glassed-in office, across an open squad room, to his own office where Trudy Busey was seated on a gray metal foldout chair. Her back was turned away from the glass and the squad room’s chaos—a jumble of ringing telephones, noisy computer printers, outraged victims giving statements and perpetrators protesting arrest.
Coombs, a hardened fifty-year-old cop, was staring at Truman through ice-green eyes. Coombs had a few wisps of hair left, a gym-honed physique and was wearing an off-the-rack navy suit so like the NYPD’s standard-issue uniform that Truman wondered why he bothered wearing civvies at all. “Ms. Busey seems nice,” Coombs said. “What’s your problem?”
“What’s my problem?” Truman took in Trudy’s back. Fine strands of straight blond hair, more yellow than gold, hung to her shoulders. She wore a blue-gray blazer, and without looking, he could imagine a matching skirt and pumps. He was usually happy to meet the Trudy Busey type—but not today.
“Who is she?” he asked rhetorically. “Some ivy league intern who got a summer job at the News?” He raised a staying hand. “No, don’t tell me. She goes to Vassar. She’s not even getting paid for this, and her father got her the job?”
Coombs considered. “What makes you say that?”
As if greater-than-average detection skills were needed. “Given the way she’s dressed, she thinks she’s going to a tea party, not on a drive-along.”
“As I’ve explained, you’re off your usual patrol route, so for all practical purposes Ms. Busey is going to a tea party. While she’s with you, I want this city to look as clean as a bathtub. No,” he corrected, “for Ms. Busey, make it a champagne fountain.”
“What about the Glass Slipper case?”
“Reassigned. Capote and Dern are on it.”
Truman stared in mute protest. The two cops couldn’t burn their way out of candle wax. “They won’t solve it.”
“No, but I’d rather let them bungle a celebrity shoe theft than an Upper East Side murder, and that was my choice this morning.” Sighing, Coombs added, “Don’t quote me on that. I’m on your side, Steele, but these PR gigs are important.”
The information went down hard. “You know, Chief,” Truman finally said, his tone understated, “I’m not real happy about this.”
“Rome wasn’t built in a day, but you’ve got two weeks with this woman,” returned Coombs. “That means whatever work I don’t reassign to Capote and Dern, you’ll be handling in your spare time. Now, be nice to Ms. Busey. She looks like a sweetheart. And you need a haircut,” added Coombs. “Sorry, but it’s regulation.”
“Be nice,” Truman muttered, heading for his desk, eyes locked on Trudy. Since the story was pure public relations, Truman had hoped the News would send a cynical, seasoned Dan Rather type. They’d shoot some pool or sit in the cruiser, drinking espressos while jointly working up material for the article. Truman had figured this would take the better part of an afternoon, then he’d be back on his beat.
And now this. Breezing into his office, he circled the gray metal desk, seated himself, pushed aside a foot-high stack of manila files stained by brown coffee cup rings, then repositioned the computer monitor. When he was comfortable, he slowly lifted his gaze—only to find himself staring into eyes so astonishing he was glad he was sitting down.
His chest got too tight as those eyes captured his, and their quality—bright, alert and intelligent—so held his attention that, at first, Truman didn’t even realize they were blue. When he did, he was jolted back to his senses. He felt as if he’d left his body, only to have his sensations return with a trace of her in each of them. Sight came with a vision of blue eyes, scent with a breath of floral perfume, hearing with her soft catch of breath, and touch with the urge to reach across the desk for her.
Taste, unfortunately, was left to Truman’s active imagination. She was clean-cut, fresh-faced, and nearly everything about her made him think of white bras, barely there makeup and Dentyne ads. Except for those eyes. They were sharp and oddly, irresistibly invasive, full of such frank curiosity that he was immediately sure she’d be great in bed.
Her mouth wasn’t nearly as interesting as her eyes, but it was pleasant enough, the lips wider and fuller than her face called for and, unfortunately, thinning into a tight smile.
“You’re Mr. Steele then?”
“Then,” he assured. “As well as before and after.”
“And I thought I was the wordsmith.”
They were definitely getting off to a good start. He now saw that her yellow-blond hair was slightly layered in front, framing a gently curving jaw. What could a woman this pretty be so angry about? “You must be the reporter.”
She nodded curtly. “Good. I’m in the right place.”
He wished he didn’t feel so strangely electrified, as if she’d just shot something scalding into his bloodstream. “Looks like it.”
Tugging a file from under her arm, she opened it on his desk, displaying his picture. “Nice to meet you, too,” she said dryly, and then, as if reading his mind, “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what are you so mad about?” She tapped a finger to his picture. “Bad hair day, Mr. Steele?”
He should have known the NYPD PR department would courier that file over to the News. In the candid photo, he was bare-chested, wearing hip-hugging jeans and seated in an open-doored squad car, looking for all the world like a Playgirl model. Bad hair day, indeed. “The LAPD was getting a lot of bad publicity, and our PR department was afraid there’d be some spillover,” he found himself defending.
At the bottom of the photo were interview bullet-points that Trudy Busey now began reading in a voice that twanged like a softly played banjo. “Truman Steele,” she began. “Height, six feet. Weight—one-eighty. Residence—Greenwich Village. Hobbies—Scuba Diving, Raquetball, Skiing…”
When she was done, he said, “And you’re Trudy Busey. Given the twang in your voice, I take it you’re not from around here?”
“What did you do to reach that startling conclusion? Sift through mountains of forensic evidence?”
Oh, yes. They were definitely getting off to a stellar start. But she hadn’t known him long enough to hate him. “In case they didn’t teach you this at Vassar, we cops don’t always have a say in what goes on. And that includes whether or not we get our pictures taken.”
“Looks to me like you enjoyed posing.”
He’d tried to make the best out of it. “You say that as if you think ideas might be beyond my limited capacity.”
“Are they?”
“You’ve got two weeks to find out.” Vague disappointment coiled inside him, and he realized he was hoping to coax a genuine smile from her. But she wasn’t the type to crack. He leaned over the messy desk, his eyes finding hers. His smile hovered between mild bemusement and annoyance. Holding up a file, he said, “Do you know what this is, Ms. Busey?”
Her eyes slightly widened. “Is this a test?” Trudy squinted harder, then guessed, “A file folder?”
He smirked. “Cute.” But she was dangerously cute. “It looks like a file. But really, it’s one of the twenty unsolved murders on my desk. Murders that won’t get solved because of this bogus assignment. This is Manhattan. We get four a day.”
He barely noticed she’d flipped open a notebook and started jotting. “So, you say you usually cover about twenty cases?”
Sighing, he realized she was probably a dynamite reporter. “Yeah,” he said, none too happy that the assignment with her meant working those cases in his spare time.
“With or without a partner?”
“Usually with. Mine just quit.”
Her lips twitched. “Let me guess. You didn’t get along with him?”
“She was transferred to Police Plaza.”
Trudy was surprised. “Your partner was a woman?”
His ability to work with the opposite sex was probably why he’d gotten stuck with Trudy, not that he’d mention it. “She still is. And we got along. Usually my encounters with women aren’t nearly this antagonistic.”
She almost smiled. “Maybe I’ve got more important things to do today, too, Officer Steele. Did you ever think of that?”
So that was it. She’d guessed he’d been complaining to Coombs. And no, Truman had assumed she’d be thrilled to ride around with a cop. Most women liked it. “Important things?” he couldn’t help but say. “Lunch at the Plaza? Or maybe a hot story’s breaking at the museum? Ah—” he nodded sympathetically “—new baby pandas at the zoo?”
He hadn’t riled her. “The pandas are in San Diego. This week our mayor’s made budget cuts, and I thought I’d be at the closing of a psychiatric hospital this morning. That’s why I’m dressed this way. For the record, I didn’t ask to be here.”
Guess she’d told him. “Well, since you’re here, I’m glad you wore that suit because we’ll be zipping around the fancy-schmancy Upper East Side these next two weeks, fining well-heeled women with poodles who forget to scoop up the doggy-do.” He smiled. “If things get really hectic, maybe you’ll even see me haul in a jaywalker.”
Trudy shot him a steady look. “I’m hoping for that special someone who didn’t put the extra quarter in the meter.”
“Only if I’m not too busy ticketing unleashed dogs.”
“Look,” Trudy said, all pretense vanishing. “Don’t blame me. If your PR people quit coming up with these assignments—”
He stared incredulously. “The News is the problem. Your boss is racking up favors from the mayor again by making the city look like Kansas.”
“Kansas can get nasty. Look what happened to Dorothy.”
He sighed. “How long have you been working there, anyway?”
“Long enough.”
“Ah. You’re bright and ambitious, but the boys aren’t letting you get ahead?”
He’d struck a nerve. “Two years,” she muttered.
Suddenly, he felt sorry for her. Already, he could tell she was smarter than most reporters he’d met. Realizing he was staring at her like a besotted fool, he averted his gaze, and the file he’d been holding slipped between his fingers. Cursing, he quickly tried to grab the grisly color photos that fanned over his desk. They were from a shooting death in a crack house near Penn Station. “Sorry,” he murmured.
Her voice was cool, her pen poised. “Why don’t you guys get file cabinets? Budget problems? Any comment?”
There were budget problems, of course, and yes, he’d like to comment, but she was unnerving him. First, it was clear she meant to turn her public-relations story into something more in-depth, which would infuriate their bosses. And the grisly photos hadn’t even phased her. “How’d a girl like you wind up with such a poker face?”
“I’m not a child.”
Curiouser and curiouser, he thought. Trudy Busey apparently moved through the world expecting to be patronized. His cop’s instincts got the best of him. “Who treats you like a kid?”
“I’m not the interview subject. You are.”
Subject. He wasn’t used to hearing himself reduced to that. “Well, now you know how it feels.”
“Sorry, but like I said, I didn’t ask to be here.”
No, and it was starting to annoy him. “Most people like cops. We’re the good guys. The heroes.”
She chuckled. “Unless you’re on the take.”
“You don’t quit, do you?”
“Tenacity,” she returned. “A good trait in reporters.”
He went for her weak spot. “Maybe not so good in a woman.”
She rose swiftly. She was slender and economical, without a shiver of wasted movement. With a full-frontal view, he could see that her conservative outfit left hints of temptation: an extra button undone at the throat, a lace bra visible through the blouse, a skirt just tight enough to mold the sexy rounding of her tummy. He’d bet every penny of his coming five million that the legs he couldn’t see were shapely enough to model panty hose, and that she treated them to top-drawer silk stockings.
Just as her fisted hands landed knuckle-down on the desk, he caught a glimpse of a diamond. His heart plunged, then he registered the diamond was on the right hand, not the left. He was a cop, so usually he got details like that straight. Not that he’d noticed wedding rings before his mother’s recent challenge. “C’mon,” he murmured, realizing he’d risen with her and now reseated himself. “Why don’t you sit back down?”
“Because you’re attacking me. And because I’d rather be working on the mental hospitals, the lottery, or the Galapagos oil spill.”
Hardly wanting to contemplate the Galapagos Islands and the lottery, he gave Trudy another once-over. She was tougher than she looked, and he liked her dedication. Still, those eyes were made to soften. Already, he knew how the blue irises would temper to gray, how the sharp edges of the gaze would blur until her eyes turned as vaporous as smoke.
“Why are you staring at me?” she asked, point-blank.
Because he was crossing her off his list of potential brides. Trudy Busey was far too interesting, and he was looking for a woman who’d marry him, knowing she’d soon be divorced. Mulling over the five million dollars coming to him, he calculated the sum, minus what he’d pay in alimony. “Because I’m thinking about how to proceed,” he said. “You’re going to make me, this precinct and the streets of New York look great, right?”
“You say that as if I’m a sellout,” she said indignantly. “As if a reporter’s not really needed to write this story.”
He gentled his voice. “There’s some truth to that.”
“Let’s get one thing straight,” she shot back. “This assignment is my idea of hell.”
Before he could respond, he saw his mother enter the squad room, carrying a stack of flyers, probably asking for clothing donations for the homeless. As much as Truman loved the woman, she had a knack for showing up at the worst moments. He could almost hear her saying, “Ah, so you’ve found your bride!”
Which meant he had about three minutes to get rid of Trudy. Maybe five, seeing as his mother had stopped to talk to Capote and Dern, who’d been salivating around the watercooler ever since they’d been handed the Glass Slipper case, however temporarily.
“Before we go,” he said, “I’ve got a few things to take care of here.” Closing the file with his picture in it, he pushed it across the desk, toward Trudy. “My cruiser’s in the garage downstairs.”
“The one with the dice hanging over the rearview mirror?”
“Cute,” he said again. “Mind waiting? I’ll meet you there. Twenty minutes.”
“No problem.” She offered a curt nod. Sweeping the file off his desk, she turned, hugging it to her chest, and he whistled softly, watching her weave through the squad room. He’d been right about the legs. Long and shapely, they were encased in shimmering summer hose. The gentle twitch of her backside could make dry cotton salivate.
He didn’t really have any work to do. He’d come in early this morning, but after meeting Trudy, he needed a moment to think. He needed a strategy for dealing with her. The truth was, she was determined, opinionated and reminded him of Sue, the woman he’d almost married. There was nothing like young love to rip your heart out, he thought. Nothing like losing an unborn child to keep you from healing.
Shaking off the thoughts, Truman headed for his mother, and then later, after she was gone, he sipped a third cup of coffee. Finally, he glanced at his watch. “Thirty minutes.” Long enough to communicate he was a busy guy.
Returning to his office, Truman traced his eyes over the files on his desk. “Where are they?” he suddenly whispered. As messy as things looked, he was flawlessly methodical. Capote and Dern hadn’t picked up the files for the Glass Slipper case, which meant they should still be on his desk. They’d been right here, beneath the PR file that Trudy Busey…
“Oh, she’s good,” he muttered, realizing she’d stolen his files. And then he took long strides to the precinct’s parking lot.
NOT ABOUT TO DWELL on the charged encounter with Truman Steele, Trudy curled a foot beneath her in the seat of his cruiser and delved into his files, scrutinizing photos of the most gorgeous shoes she’d ever seen. Steele was a good cop, she grudgingly admitted, jotting notes as she read statements taken from the theft victims, all of whom were nationally known women working in film, fashion, music or politics.
“These shoes are incredible,” she whispered excitedly, leafing back through nearly a hundred publicity photos taken while the women were wearing them. There was a model on a runway, an actress traversing the red-carpeted entrance to the Oscars, an ex-first lady giving a luncheon speech. On their feet were everything from genie slippers to fabric-covered mules to zippered sandals with spiral heels. The NYPD hadn’t released nearly this many photos to the press.
Assuring herself it was purely academic interest, Trudy started wondering how Truman had handled interviewing women who were so rich, beautiful and accomplished. Inhaling shakily, she tried not to think about how Truman’s every breath and movement was underwritten by the taut thread of his sexuality. It was unbelievable, but nothing more than how he’d looked at her had made her shudder. His eyes were so much more than brown. They were hot honey that warmed, sweetened, promised…
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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