THE HEART TEACHES BEST (REAL ROMANCE COLLECTION Book 2)

by M. J. Schiller

  Cooper brought the drinks to the table. Aidan and Jenna were having an animated discussion about something, but Laney watched him the whole time as he approached. She smiled even bigger when he reached her and handed her a drink. He clinked glasses with her. They both watched each other drink; then, Cooper threw his hand over his wife’s shoulder, and pulled her in. He kissed her temple, whispering as he did, “How about making this our last drink, and then I’ll take you home, Mrs. Sullivan?”

  Laney reached up and straightened a ribbon on his uniform, sliding her long fingernails down his chest in a way that would have his insides singing opera. “I thought you’d never ask.” She trailed a fingertip around his lips, while nibbling on her own provocatively.

  Cooper raised his glass, and chugged down the rest of his drink. “Well, I’m ready!”

  “Gee, Officer,” she said, still playing with the decorations on his chest, “drinking like that…aren’t you afraid if you go home with me your virtue may not remain intact?”

  “Lady, you took care of that a long time ago.”

  She laughed low in her throat.

  “Not that I’m complaining.”

  “You better not be,” she scolded. She turned to give Aidan and Jenna a kiss goodbye. “Good night, guys,” she chirped.

  “Yeah, good night.” Cooper parroted with a goofy grin. He leaned in to Aidan. “I’m getting lucky tonight.”

  “Congratulations,” Aidan said sarcastically.

  Jenna leaned forward. “You never know, you play your cards right, and maybe you’ll get lucky, too, mister.”

  “Mmm,” he murmured. “You need to hang out with Laney more. She’s a good influence on you.”

  Cooper laughed as Laney gathered her bag.

  Jenna hit Aidan on the arm with her clutch. “Finish your drink, sailor, so I can take you home.”

  He ran his hand up the slit in her dress under the table. “Who’s thirsty?” They looked at each other for one intense second, then bolted from the table.

  Laney shook her head with a chuckle and slid her hand through Cooper’s arm.

  They followed their friends out.

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  an excerpt from

  BETWEEN ROCK AND A HARD PLACE

  Rocking Romance Collection

  Chapter One

  The brass had called Lieutenant Heath McGowan in on the case because it was a splashy, high-profile murder. He knew how to handle VIPs with diplomacy, and still not let them walk all over him. A rare talent he’d heard, particularly when it was found in one so young. It was a skill he had often been called upon to put into use, as in cases like this one, in which a woman had been murdered in the condominium of the famous rock star, Jasmine Barrett.

  The detective flashed his badge at the door of the condo as he crossed the threshold. His partner, rookie detective Adam Cozwell, followed on his heels. Heath was sporting a grey blazer, stretched to the maximum over his upper body, and matching grey pants. Underneath he wore a bright blue shirt with a wide collar that lent his slate gray eyes a bluish tint, something his brother had teased him about earlier in the evening.

  The suit screamed cop so loudly showing his shield at the door had been superfluous, especially since he was acquainted with the uniform posted there. But, regs were regs, and he was trying to set an example for Adam.

  The opulent condominium was humming with police life, as he’d known it would be. He could feel his pulse begin to beat a little faster with the excitement of a new case. Crime scene technicians were busy doing what they could to record the scene, but had been told to leave things as they were until he arrived. He said a quiet hello to those he knew by name as he passed them and nodded to those he recognized from other crime scenes. The whole time his eyes were taking in details and recording them, an attribute that had earned him the nickname “Hawk” or “Hawkeye.” Some guys on the squad would probably be hard-pressed to come up with his given name, but “The Hawk” was known in circles wide and small.

  Now his keen eyes took mental note of the plush white carpeting that still had vacuum trails visible in it despite the large amount of traffic that had been in and out. He surveyed and logged in his mind, a list of the expensive looking furniture in neutral colors, along with pricey glass and wrought iron tables. Very few personal items graced the walls and tabletops, though he saw a large black and white print, perhaps an Ansel Adams, hanging on the central wall. It was an interesting shot of bare trees along a walkway lined with empty park benches.

  On the large beige couch he spotted her, Jasmine Barrett, or “Jazz,” as her fans called her. She did not look at all like her press photos or videos, where she was often clad in scanty clothing with wild, flowing hair and her legendary pouting mouth parted suggestively. Instead, she wore one of those big, fluffy white robes often found in luxury hotels, provided one had the means to stay there. Her hair was not even shoulder length, he was surprised to find. After thinking it over, it made sense she might wear wigs as part of her “image.” The color was not a flamboyant blond or red, as he had seen in the past, but instead it showed a rather staid brown color, although it was wet, which probably muted the hue some. In the call she had placed to the precinct, Jasmine Barrett had stated she had been in the shower prior to discovering the body. Some junior officers had chuckled and wolf-whistled at that, for which he felt compelled to chew them out, despite the fact he had some rather steamy fantasies about that famously fabulous body himself on the way over to the scene.

  As he watched her, he noticed the slight tremble in her slender hands as she clutched a white coffee cup and then attempted to raise it to her lips. No doubt someone had slipped something in there to calm her down, but her eyes still shone with terror. She alternately glanced around at all the faces surrounding her, and then stared at the empty table in front of her. Her damp hair was wavy and slicked back away from her pale face, offsetting her large eyes and wide, red lips. She lifted those eyes and caught his for a second. Hers were an arresting shade of green. And, indeed, he felt like his heart had been cuffed and read its rights for a minute as he peered into them, but then her gaze darted away. He saw anguish and horror and disbelief in her eyes, something that never failed to strike him to the core when he met a victim.

  “Hawk.”

  He turned at the sound of the familiar voice.

  “Man, am I glad you’re here.” The speaker slapped Heath on the back, giving Adam a slight nod. Chief of Police Gary Larson was a balding, but physically fit, sixty-three-year-old who had never given up his habitual gum chewing, despite having stopped smoking some years ago. “I’d have handled this myself if it weren’t for IAB breathing down my neck on the whole Menendez thing.”

  Menendez was a fellow policeman who had responded to an incoming call, and discovered his own fiancé being sexually assaulted. He’d shot and killed the suspect. Heath and Adam had been the first arrivals on the scene after shots were fired, and it hadn’t been a pretty one. The girl had been found tied to the couples’ own bed, badly beaten, her blood splattered everywhere. She had physically recovered from the attack, but now, the pair had decided to put their wedding on hold until the investigation into Menendez’s actions played out. Yeah, the chief had his hands full on that one.

  “Glad to be able to help, Chief.”

  “Okay, let me bring you up to speed here, Hawk,” he said in a rush, obviously wanting to rid himself of the sticky case as soon as possible. “Jasmine Barrett, as you can see.” He motioned to the couch, pausing to gaze, with poorly-hidden desire, at the young singer in the robe across the room. Adam caught his eye, raising an eyebrow. The Chief was not being subtle. “She found the vic, a…” he flipped open a worn notebook, “…Patricia Norman, in the back bedroom, Ms. Barrett’s bedroom.” He gestured in the direction of a hallway. “Scene’s a real mess.” He sighed, glancing up at the star again. “Poor thing hasn’t said but a few words.” He shook his head. “‘
Course with her jackass of an uncle—name’s Brody Barrett, by the way—blabbering on and on...”

  Heath took in the tall figure to the girl’s left, one hand stretched protectively behind the girl. Or, after watching a few minutes, a more accurate assessment might be that the man’s arm was stretched possessively around her since he made no move to comfort her in any way. He had a long face with strong lines, dark-grey eyes, and a cleft in his chin. He wore an expensive looking burgundy silk shirt and black, pleated pants, but Heath couldn’t help thinking he would look more at home at a horse track. The feeling was so strong he began to wonder if he had seen the guy at one at some point.

  “This dude’s such a good mouthpiece,” the chief was saying now, “he oughta go to law school.”

  Heath snorted, giving Brody one last, long look as he sat blathering to some uniform. Across from him, seated in a large, cream-colored chair, the officer took down his every word as if trying out for a position in the stenographers’ pool.

  Police Chief Larson took off down the hallway. “Right this way.”

  Heath and Adam followed the chief’s long strides to the murder scene. The door opened on a wide room that smelled of new paint and blood. A huge round bed was the focal point, with a short, pewter, viny-looking curved footboard, and a much taller headboard made of the same material. In the middle of the bed, the victim’s nude body had been posed like some twisted mannequin. The killer had placed her in a seated position, back resting against the headboard, her hands and legs splayed crudely to the sides. Her head was cocked at an angle, held in place by a bright, pink, silk scarf tied around her neck and to one of the rails behind her. Fire engine red lipstick had been smeared around the her mouth, and her eyes bulged out of what must have once been a pretty face, but now was a bizarre effigy of sorts. Oddly, her curly blond hair looked immaculate. A white rose, dipped in the blood and dripped over the bedspread, lay at an angle across the bed.

  Heath was almost startled when the chief started talking again. “The victim was twenty-six years old. Lived here, down the hall. She was a photographer and personal friend of Ms. Barrett’s.” Adam made entries in a small notebook he had removed from his pocket. “Ms. Barrett was in the shower. She claims to have heard nothing as does her dipshit of an uncle. There was no sign of forced entry.”

  The chief broke off as Heath approached the bed, crouching to get a better look at the girl’s face. He glanced up and noticed the coroner, a tall, thin African American, standing nearby, jotting her own notes. “Cause of death?” he asked.

  “Strangulation.” She pointed with her pencil to the victim’s chest. “The knife wound happened shortly after death. The blade entered here and then was moved up and down, as if to be certain it hit the heart. But the heart had stopped pumping or the blood splatter would have gone considerably farther. As it is, the blood is focused in one large pool on the mattress. The knife was left on the bed.”

  Heath noted an area where blood had dripped from the victim onto the lavender comforter in a line, where it appeared the knife had been discarded. It had apparently already been bagged.

  “The knife was clean.” The coroner stopped and bit the tip of her pencil eraser, eyeing Adam to make sure he was getting everything down. “This was personal. The knife was pushed in so hard the hilt left an impression on her skin.”

  She waved her pencil in a circle around the wound where he could now make out the marks left by the crosspiece of the blade. He stood to gaze at the wall behind the bed, where a set of filmy curtains were draped. The killer had written in blood with large letters at a slant, “JAZZ.” The crimson liquid had dripped sickeningly down the wall from the letters.

  “After you’ve gotten everything you need here, pictures, and evidence…” he instructed, not looking away from the gruesome scrawling, “…let’s make sure we try to clean this up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Heath and Adam followed the Chief back out to the front room, Adam still scratching in his notebook. This was the upside of having a rookie with him. He could think without having to be concerned about recording everything. He noted the location of the shower as they passed. As he walked toward Jasmine Barrett, he noticed her position hadn’t changed. She still sat, with her legs curled to one side, holding onto her cup like a lifeline. For some reason, his eyes were drawn to her feet. They were pretty, slender and well-groomed. Again he was surprised to find no flash of color on her nails, as he might have expected a rock star to have. Instead, he saw a rich woman’s pampered feet; no hangnails there, no jagged edges, simply clean and classy. His gaze followed the soft curve of skin visible where her calves showed, ending with the line of fluffy, white fabric. Her gaze flitted to them as they approached.

  Heath reminded himself to be patient with her. If there was one thing he hated, it was spoiled brat, prima donnas. But, spoiled or not, this one had just been through hell, and he could spare her some compassion. He would just have to work on it a little.

  “Ms. Barrett…I’d like to introduce you to Detectives Heath McGowan and Adam Cozwell. Detective McGowan is the man I told you about who will be in charge of the investigation. He’s the best.”

  The girl swung her feet down in front of her to shake his hand and hastily set her cup down on a side table, spilling it.

  “Dammit, Jasmine!” her uncle cried out.

  She tried to stop the flow of the liquid onto the carpeting with her hands.

  “Here, I’ll get it,” he snapped, hopping up off of the couch and heading in the direction of the kitchen. Heath pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, quickly handing it to her to mop up the spill.

  “Oh. Thank you.” Her hands shook more violently as she struggled with the gush of what he now recognized as hot chocolate, and, almost without volition, he covered them with his own large hands. Jasmine Barrett looked up and he could see the tears she was struggling to hold back in that sea of green in her eyes. Her hands were so soft. It was like cupping a dove.

  “Let me help you.” He crouched beside the table next to her.

  Brody Barrett reentered the room. “Oh, detective. Let me get you a towel. Jasmine!” he barked. “Get out of the way!” He climbed over her with a stack of towels, and she backed away. Seeing the soaked handkerchief she held, he snatched it with a huff, handing her a towel for her hands. “Let me get you a new handkerchief, detective.”

  “No. That’s not necessary, really.” Heath straightened up, but then shifted to sit on the corner of the coffee table in front of the couch. He sat in an open, relaxed stance, one knee pointed in Jasmine’s direction, one slung carelessly over the other side of the table, facing a chair. He glanced over at Adam who stood posed with pen and notebook. “Ms. Barrett, I’d like to ask you a few questions if you feel like you’re up to it—”

  “My niece has been through a horrible ordeal,” Brody Barrett interrupted, sounding like a sound bite for the eleven o’clock news. “Besides, she has already answered all of this officer’s questions.”

  “Actually,” Heath responded, injecting a hint of coolness, “it seemed as if you were providing many of the answers. I assure you, I will be reading Officer Davis’ report, but I have a few questions of my own.”

  “Uncle Brody,” the singer’s voice rang out, startling all the men present. “If I can help them catch whoever did this to Trish...”

  “As you wish.” He arched his eyebrows, staring at her icily before returning to his seat next to her. Jasmine dropped her gaze, looking at her hands as they fidgeted with the ends of her belt, then, seemed to purposefully still them, folding them carefully over each other.

  “Could you tell me what happened?” Anticipating Brody’s interruption, Heath stopped him with a look and added, “In your own words?”

  She smoothed out invisible wrinkles in her robe for several seconds before speaking. “I was taking a shower—I had just finished working out—Tr-Trish and I were going to watch a movie—” Her voice caught and Heath watched as her f
ists clenched in her lap. “I came out…t-to change. I took an extra-long shower. I had a sore neck from a show…oh, my God!” She lifted her face and he could see her come to some sort of epiphany. “If I had come out earlier, maybe I could have stopped him. Maybe I could have fought him off…or called the police or something!” She became nearly hysterical.

  “Detective…” Brody placed his arm around his niece, gripping her shoulder. Again Heath saw it more as a restraint than a comfort. “My niece needs to get some sleep.”

  “Sleep?” she said weakly. “I c-can’t sleep. How could I sleep?” She sounded confused.

  “We’ll get you something to sleep, Jazz.”

  “I don’t want to sleep!”

  “Detective, as you can see, she really is no help to you in her condition.”

  “All right,” he admitted. “The questions can wait until the morning. I’ll read Officer Davis’ report in the meantime.” He reached out to squeeze Jasmine’s hand. “I am sorry for your loss, ma’am.”

  She nodded, seeming unable to trust her voice, as he rose to leave. Brody stood, shaking hands with the Chief.

  “The crime scene people will probably be here for another couple of hours. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but some of the evidence taking is very time sensitive—”

  Heath tuned the conversation out while sneaking another look at the girl. She sat as if in a daze, oblivious to all the activity around her, wearing that broken look many victims displayed, like all the neurons in her brain were pinging around, unable to connect and make sense of anything. He felt sorry for her. Hell, her world is usually filled with manicurist appointments and Caramel Latte Frappuccino’s, or whatever—not friends murdered in your own bed. He half wished she would look up again and catch his eye so he could give her a reassuring smile, but she didn’t. She looked small and lost, set adrift on the ocean of the couch.