How to Score (26 page)

Chase stepped on the accelerator as the light changed. “I don’t understand why people are willing to get up and make fools of themselves. I wouldn’t be caught dead emoting in public like that.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw her grin. “Sounds like you have some issues.”

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

“Care to tell me why?”

“Not really.”

“Come on,” she coaxed.

He blew out a sigh. “My father used to get drunk and think he could sing. He embarrassed me more times than I can count.”

“And you don’t want to be like him.” Her voice was soft.

“Yeah.” How the hell had he gotten onto this subject? He’d been looking for a way to lighten things up, and instead he was baring his soul. “Believe me, I’m doing the world a favor. I have a voice like a frog in a bucket.” He was relieved to see the museum loom into view. “Do you sing?”

“Only in the shower.”

He turned into the parking lot and braked beside her car. “I’d like to hear that sometime. See it, too.”

She playfully slapped his arm.

He put the car into gear. “Hey, you just assaulted an officer.”

She grinned. “Is there a penalty for that?”

“You bet.”

She slanted him a sly grin through lowered lashes. “Maybe we can work out a deal.”

“Are you offering me a bribe?”

“Maybe. But since I don’t know if you’re wired, I’d better just give it to you instead of offering it aloud.” She leaned forward, put her hands on his face, and gave him a light kiss.

She started to pull back. He should have let her, but God help him, the touch of her lips drove him crazy. He grabbed her head, wove his fingers into her hair, and kissed her back.

Conscious thought unspooled, then unraveled. Her mouth was sweet and hot and intoxicating. She moaned against his mouth, and the sound drove him crazy. He was about to pull her over the console onto his lap when a bright light beamed in the window, shining directly in his eyes.

Alarm shot through him. His first reaction was to put out his arm and shield Sammi.

The light moved around. “You okay in there?” called a man’s voice.

“It’s just Ernie, the night guard,” Sammi whispered. She smoothed her jacket, ran a hand through her hair, then opened the car door. “Good evening, Ernie,” she said, climbing out.

“Oh, it’s you, Ms. Matthews. Sorry to disturb you.”

“That’s quite all right. I went to dinner with a friend, and he’s just bringing me back to my car.”

Chase waved through the open door. Ernie smiled and nodded. “I was wondering what it was still doing here.”

“How’s your wife?” Sammi asked.

“Oh, she’s much better, thanks. I want to thank you again for that casserole.”

“My pleasure. I’m glad she’s better.”

Chase climbed out of the car. “Ernie, this is Chase Jones,” Sammi said. “Chase is in law enforcement, just like you are.”

Sammi’s overinflated description of Ernie’s job seemed to please him. “Oh, yeah? Nice to meet you. What branch are you with?”

“The FBI.”

“Oh, wow. A G-man, huh? I wanted to join the FBI, but I didn’t have a college degree. But I served with the Tulsa Police for thirty years.”

“Good for you. That’s real frontline work.”

Ernie’s head bobbed proudly. “Yeah. Retired from the force five years ago, and been working here ever since.”

“Ernie keeps this place safe at night,” Sammi explained.

Ernie tipped his hat. “Sorry to bother you folks. Have a nice evening.”

“I need to go,” Sammi said to Chase as Ernie ambled back to his patrol car.

Yes, she did—before he did anything foolish like pull her back into his arms. Chase walked her to her car, opened the door for her, then dropped a kiss on her forehead.

“Good night. Drive safe.”

“You, too.” She shot him a winsome smile. “Thanks for an unforgettable evening.”

Even without the arrest, it would have been unforgettable, Chase thought as he watched her drive off. Sammi had a way of getting him to tell her things that normally couldn’t be pried out of him with a crowbar. The bureau should hire her as an interrogation specialist, he thought wryly.

But extracting information wasn’t her only talent. She made him feel things—deep, warm, moving things.

He opened the door of his Explorer and climbed in, scowling at his thoughts. He wasn’t supposed to be feeling things for her, dammit.

But how could he help it? She was the kind of woman who knew the night watchman’s family and took them food. A casserole, for Pete’s sake! How many thirty-year-old single women even knew how to make casseroles?

She was the kind who’d climb into a sea of balls with a bunch of four-year-olds, who’d adopt an overgrown dog with a leather fetish, who’d unself-consciously dress up in ugly old clothes to thrill groups of museumgoers, who’d offer to bring homemade soup to a man she’d only talked to on the phone.

She saw everyone as special—which was the thing that made
her
special.

More than special. One in a million. Make that a billion. And she deserved a guy who would treat her right, right from the get-go. A guy who was honest and trustworthy, a guy who hadn’t tricked her or lied to her.

A nerve twitched in Chase’s jaw as he started his engine. As soon as he took her on one more date and cured her of her man-harming ways, she was sure to find such a guy.

And Chase already hated his guts.

L
ooks like I need to make more margaritas,” Melanie said as she emptied the green contents of the glass pitcher into a salt-rimmed glass held by a smiling brunette.

“And more salsa!” called an outgoing blonde named Hailey above the chatter of female voices in Melanie’s living room.

Sammi picked up the empty salsa bowl and followed Melanie through the perfume-scented throng into the kitchen. Most of the women Melanie had invited to her party were married to law-enforcement officers, and they were a warm and inclusive group. “Your friends are really nice. Thanks for inviting me.”

“I’m glad you could come.” Melanie opened the freezer, pulled out some ice, and plopped it in the pitcher. “It’s hard to get a word in edgewise with this group, though. I’ve barely had a chance to talk to you all evening. How are things going with Chase?”

“I have no idea.” Sammi leaned against the kitchen counter and sighed. “What’s the deal with Chase and telephones?”

Melanie opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of margarita mixer and a jar of salsa. She handed the jar to Sammi. “What do you mean?”

“Well, he hardly ever calls.”

“Hmm.” Melanie picked up a bottle of tequila from the counter. “Maybe he’s afraid his phone is bugged.”

Sammi’s eyebrows flew up. “You’re kidding.”

She shook her head. “These guys are overly cautious when it comes to people they care about.”

People they care about
. A little thrill shot through her that she might be in that category where Chase was concerned.

“Maybe he’s taking special precautions because of the Lambino case.”

Sammi unscrewed the lid. “Wouldn’t Paul be taking the same precautions?”

“Well, Chase is more involved in the case, because—” Melanie abruptly stopped and gave an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to talk about it.”

What was the deal? Sammi wanted to press her further, but a petite blonde named Kaitlyn wandered into the kitchen, along with a tall brunette wearing a ponytail. Both carried empty margarita glasses. “What are you two talking about?” Kaitlyn asked.

“About dating a guy in the bureau,” Melanie said.

“I’m an expert.” Kaitlyn opened a fresh bag of tortilla chips. “I dated two of them before I married Michael. What do you want to know?”

“How do you handle a guy with a dangerous job?” Sammi said, setting the lid on the counter.

“That’s easy. You don’t.” Kaitlyn crunched the chip.

“But doesn’t the worry drive you crazy?” Sammi poured the sauce into the bowl. “My dad was a police officer in Dallas, and he was shot in the line of duty.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the brunette said.

“Yeah.” Kaitlyn’s brow creased.

“Even before it happened, my mother was a basket case every time he left the house.” Sammi wiped the rim of the jar with a paper towel.

“I relate to your mom,” said the brunette.

“Well, I handle it by reminding myself that life is risky,” Melanie said. “The hospitals are full of people, and so are the obituaries.”

Sammi cleaned a dab of salsa off the countertop. “That hardly seems comforting.”

“Yeah, but here’s the thing: very few of those people were injured in the line of duty. Most of them got sick or old or were in accidents—things that can happen to any of us, regardless of what job we have or how careful we are.” Melanie screwed the lid back on the tequila bottle. “If we worried about every little thing that could ever happen, we’d never leave the house.”

“If we really thought about it, we wouldn’t stay in the house, either, because that’s where most accidents happen,” Kaitlyn added. “We’d all just huddle outside under a tree.”

“And get hit by lightning,” the brunette said. “Or a meteor.”

Everyone laughed.

Sammi wasn’t ready to concede the point. “But there’s an increased risk with a law-enforcement officer.”

“Sure.” Melanie poured the greenish-yellow mixer into the pitcher. “And a willingness to accept that risk is part of what makes our guys who they are. So we have to accept it, too. To wish Paul had a different job would be to wish he were a different man, and I can’t do that. I love the man he is.” She picked up a long-handled spoon and stirred the pitcher. “Besides, without people like Paul and Chase, the hospitals and obituaries would be a lot fuller than they are. They make this world a safer place for all the rest of us.”

“She’s right, but it’s still not always easy,” the brunette said, reaching for another chip.

Kaitlyn nodded. “Loving a law-enforcement officer isn’t for everyone.”

“Are you in love with Chase?” the brunette asked.

Sammi’s heart hammered. She’d deliberately avoided even thinking the word.

“Of course she is,” Kaitlyn said. “How could she resist?”

The brunette sighed. “Chase is pretty dreamy, all right.”

Sammi screwed the lid on the salsa jar and handed it back to Melanie, hoping no one noticed that her hand was shaking. “We’ve only been out a few times.”

“It doesn’t take long when you meet the right guy,” Kaitlyn said. “I knew Michael was the one by the end of our first date.”

“I was head-over-heels right from the start, too,” said the brunette.

“Attraction isn’t the same as love,” Sammi said.

“No, but it’s a great place to start.”

To her relief, Melanie held up a full pitcher of margaritas. “Hey, who wants a refill?”

Arlene lifted a black wool dress from the wooden trunk, her mood just as dark and heavy as the fabric. For twenty years she’d left Justine’s clothes alone, ignoring them and pretending they didn’t exist. Pretty much the way she’d always dealt with Justine.

She smoothed the dress. Despite the astronomical price tags, Justine’s clothes had mostly struck Arlene as dowdy. But then, Arlene had thought Justine was ancient, because she’d been fifteen years her senior. Chandler had been twenty-one years older than she was, but on him, the years had seemed like an asset.

Arlene inspected the embroidered label hand-sewn in the back of the dress. It was an Oleg Cassini—a designer favored by Jacqueline Kennedy—and it smelled faintly of old perfume. The scent was hauntingly familiar. Arlene’s stomach dipped as she recognized it. The perfume from their anniversary trip.

Oh, that trip had been a spike through Arlene’s heart. Arlene sank onto the folding chair she’d positioned next to the trunks. The dress fell across her lap as her thoughts flew back to 1965.

She and Chandler had been three years into their affair. She’d been taking notes during a staff meeting when Chandler had dropped the bomb. “I’m going abroad for two weeks next month. Mike will be in charge while I’m out.”

Arlene had frozen. He couldn’t be going. He had meetings booked throughout the month. She knew, because she made all of his appointments.

He’d avoided looking at her, and he’d been uncharacteristically unavailable the rest of the afternoon.

At the end of the day, Arlene could stand it no longer. She’d sauntered into his office, stood before his enormous ebony-inlaid desk with a hand on her hip, and put on her most flirtatious smile. “I didn’t know you were going to Europe. Should I start packing?”

Chandler had toyed with his tie, a sure sign he was uneasy. “I’m, uh, taking Justine.”

“Oh?”

He’d cleared his throat. “It’s our anniversary.”

“I see.” He was married, and married people celebrated anniversaries. That shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Still, her gut had cinched tighter than the Windsor knot in Chandler’s tie.

“It was Justine’s idea,” he said, as if that made it all right. “She made all the arrangements.”

Her mouth had gone cotton-ball dry. Arlene always handled Chandler’s travel plans.

“She, uh, went through a travel agent,” Chandler explained.