Wild at Heart

by Jane Graves

  He turned away from the woman and reached for the rack so he and Ford could get a game of pool under way.

  “If I were you,” he told Blaylock, “I’d let that one go.”

  “Are you kidding?” Botstein said. “She’s the hottest piece of ass ever to walk into this place!”

  It usually didn’t take long for Botstein to grate on Alex’s nerves, but tonight he’d set the record.

  Alex liked Ford and Blaylock just fine. Ford was a balding guy in his mid-forties, a steady cop who dug in deep to the job and wore it like a second skin. Blaylock was younger, in his late twenties, friendly and congenial, but he didn’t have a problem getting serious fast when the situation called for it. They were guys Alex could depend on, guys he’d trust with his life, guys who could shut up long enough to play a decent game of pool.

  Botstein, on the other hand, never shut up. He’d finally retired a few years ago at the age of sixty-two, which was a real plus for the city of Tolosa, since he hadn’t done an honest day’s work in years. If only he’d do everybody one more favor and move to Florida, Alex would help him pack his bags. Instead he stuck like glue to the cop hangouts, telling stories about those glorious days when police officers got respect, as if he’d ever actually earned any himself.

  “Don’t listen to him, kid,” Botstein told Blaylock. “No guts, no glory, right?”

  “If you get tangled up with that one,” Alex said quietly, “you’ll get a whole lot more than you bargained for.”

  “More than I bargained for?” Blaylock said with a smile. “Sounds good to me.”

  The other men laughed along with Blaylock, but in the end he listened to Alex. He kept his money in his pocket, ordered another beer, and contented himself with admiring the woman from a distance.

  Alex racked up the balls for a game of nine-ball. Ford won the lag for break, then fouled right off the bat by missing the one ball, proof positive that he’d already had a couple of beers too many.

  Alex started his inning by quickly sinking three balls in a row. Playing Ford right now was like shooting fish in a barrel, but given how his day had gone, a little mindless entertainment was fine by him.

  The morning had begun in fine fashion. He’d found out that the crime lab had lost a semen sample from a rape case he’d investigated. Just lost it, as if it were a set of car keys. All Alex had left now was a little he-said/she-said testimony that was never going to cut it, and one more rapist was going to walk.

  Then around noon he’d learned that Richard Murdock, a murderer he’d arrested six years ago, had walked out of prison last week on parole. The guy had ended up with a manslaughter conviction, and after six years of incarceration, the parole board had apparently decided that he was no longer a threat to society.

  Yeah, okay. I killed somebody. But you can trust me. After all, I haven’t stabbed another inmate or taken a swing at a guard in over two years now.

  Alex banked the four ball off the head rail. It smacked the side pocket so hard that it nearly bounced out again, but he felt the need to take out his frustration on something. Paroling a murderer for good behavior. Good God—what kind of logic was that?

  Blaylock came up beside him. “Heard you had a little problem with a shooting down on Carver Street this afternoon.”

  Alex frowned. That was the third thing that had happened to really make his day.

  “Damn rookie didn’t secure the crime scene,” he said. “By the time I got there, a couple of reporters had stomped all over it. I handed the kid a roll of yellow tape and told him where the next one was going to go if he didn’t learn how to use it.”

  Actually, he’d wanted to take the kid by the collar and kick his ass all the way down the street, but of course that wouldn’t have been professional.

  “I suppose you’ve already written him up,” Ford said.

  “First thing tomorrow.” Alex leveled his cue and sent the six ball into the corner pocket with a resounding clatter. An official reprimand. Now that was professional.

  “Why don’t you give the kid a break?” Ford said. “We all had our screwups in the beginning.”

  “DeMarco didn’t,” Botstein said, tossing a handful of peanuts into his mouth, then talking as he chewed. “From what I hear, he’s Superman. X-ray vision, flying, superhuman strength—the whole nine yards.”

  “No kidding,” Ford said.

  “It’s true,” Botstein said. “You guys notice that whenever we see Superman, DeMarco’s never around?”

  Blaylock turned to Alex with a grin. “I think he’s got you there.”

  That was just what he needed right about now—for Ford or Blaylock to start agreeing with Botstein. Alex just shook his head. Why the hell did he keep coming to this place? It was a bad habit he was going to have to try real hard to break.

  A few minutes later, Alex sank the nine ball into a corner pocket, then informed Ford that he owed him ten bucks. Playing him was really no sport at all. Even when he was sober, he didn’t give a damn about the outcome, while Alex never played any game he didn’t intend to win. He collected his money, downed the rest of his beer, then decided he’d call it a night.

  “It looks to me like you need some real competition.”

  He turned at the sound of the female voice, only mildly surprised to find a certain redhead standing behind him. She was holding a pool cue, twirling it lightly between her fingers. Her red dress was even more spectacular up close, a glittery sheath with a zipper from her cleavage to her navel. And judging by the way her nipples protruded through the clingy fabric, she didn’t find undergarments to be the least bit necessary.

  “I’m not looking for anything right now,” Alex said. “In fact, I was just leaving.”

  “Actually, I lied,” she said. “I’m the one who’s looking for some real competition.” She pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of the side pocket of her purse and laid it on the edge of the table.

  “And I think you’re just the man who can give it to me.”

  chapter two

  The redhead’s words said she wanted to play pool. The way she spoke said she wanted to play a different game entirely. Alex had a feeling she was a master of both, and he really wasn’t up for either one.

  He glanced at the other guys. Blaylock’s eyes were popping out of his head as he stared at her, and Botstein’s tongue was practically dragging on the floor. Ford simply looked amused. She’d also caught the attention of other people in the vicinity, mostly men, and they eased closer to see what was happening.

  “No, thanks,” Alex said. “As I said, I’m on my way out.”

  “Of course. I understand. I suppose it would be rather embarrassing for you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s always a blow for a man when he gets beaten by a woman. Even at a game like pool.”

  Alex heard a few snickers from the crowd. He knew she was merely pushing his buttons, but at the same time he’d never been one to back down from a challenge, no matter where it came from.

  “That assumes, of course, that you expect to win,” he said.

  “We won’t know until we play, will we?”

  “I’d hate to take your money.”

  “I’d love to take yours.”

  That generated a few catcalls from the crowd. They eased in closer. Excitement was hard to come by around here, and they didn’t want to miss out on any of the fun. At the same time, the redhead continued to stare at him. With a flick of my cue, her expression said, I can take you out.

  What the hell, Alex thought. He could always use an extra hundred bucks. He flipped through his wallet, then laid a pair of fifties on top of her hundred. “Nine-ball?”

  “Fine by me.”

  Alex discovered very quickly that she hadn’t been bluffing. She won the lag, broke, then wasted no time in sinking six balls in quick succession. And every time she leaned over the table to take a shot, her skirt rode up, the fabric stretching so tightly over her ass that anything she wore beneath it woul
d have clearly shown through. Alex found himself wondering what every man in the place had to be wondering, too: Did she have anything at all on under that dress?

  Then, miraculously, she missed a relatively simple bank shot off the foot rail, setting him up to drop the final three balls. She backed away from the table. Somebody handed her a drink, and she sipped it slowly, never taking her eyes off Alex.

  He sank the four ball, then the seven. Then he rose, leaning on his cue to study the final shot. He glanced over at the redhead. She placed the glass she held just beneath her collarbone and rolled it gently back and forth, blinking languorously, and a second later a bead of condensation slithered down her chest in a skinny rivulet and disappeared between her breasts.

  So much for subtlety.

  Alex turned his attention back to the pool table and took his shot. Unfortunately, his brain remained more attuned to that droplet of water than to the nine ball he was trying to sink. It got caught in the jaws of the corner pocket, ricocheting back and forth three or four times before coming to rest an inch away. He stepped away from the table, automatically holding his expression steady and unconcerned, even though he’d just set up a shot a blind man couldn’t miss.

  The redhead handed her drink to the man standing beside her, then moved around the table. With a flick of her cue, she sank the ball. A roar went up from the crowd. She laid down her cue and picked up the money, and as the crowd dispersed, she drifted over to Alex.

  “You’re a good player.”

  He eyed her up and down. “When I’m not distracted.”

  “Yes,” she said. “The music is a little loud in here, isn’t it?”

  Music. As if that had a thing to do with it.

  Then she leaned so close to him that he could smell her perfume, an exotic, musky scent that penetrated the air between them. “I know a place where the music’s just right. I’d love a little company.”

  To his surprise, she slipped the hundred-dollar bill into his hand. He saw an address written across it—1834 Augusta Drive.

  Augusta Drive. Waverly Park. The high-rent district.

  It was just as he’d imagined. She was rich and bored and looking for a playtoy for the evening, but it wasn’t going to be him. He sensed that an evening with her would be far from a relaxing experience, not to mention the fact that she appeared to have a pale, narrow indentation around the ring finger of her left hand, where he was pretty sure a wedding band usually resided.

  He took her hand, turned it palm up, laid the hundred in it, then closed her fingers over it. “You beat me fair and square. It wouldn’t be right to take your money.”

  The redhead raised her chin slightly, as if trying to decide whether or not to get offended by his brush-off. Then she slipped the hundred inside her purse. She gave him a very clear “you don’t know what you’re missing” smile, then turned and walked out the door.

  Botstein watched her leave, then came up beside Alex. “So what was that all about?”

  “She was looking for a little company for the evening.”

  Botstein’s jaw dropped. “And you turned her down? Are you nuts?”

  “Yeah, Botstein. I’m nuts. But that means she’s free tonight. If you hurry, you can still catch her.”

  Ford and Blaylock hooted at that. Botstein gave them a “go to hell” look, even though it was a generally known fact that he hadn’t had a nonprofessional sex partner since the Nixon administration.

  Alex handed Ford a twenty. “I’m calling it a night. Settle up for me, will you?”

  “Sure, DeMarco. See you later.”

  Alex left the bar, the country music becoming dim and muffled as the door closed behind him. The night air was hot and stagnant. He strode across the parking lot to his car and opened the driver’s door. Then he heard a woman’s voice behind him.

  “Hello again.”

  He turned to see the redhead sitting on the hood of a black Lexus across the parking lot, one red stiletto heel hooked over the front bumper. She motioned for him to come over.

  Damn. He did not need this.

  He shut his car door and approached her, wondering what she had in mind this time. “Is there a problem?”

  She held out her hands helplessly, giving him a self-deprecating smile. “Yes, I’m afraid so. I just did the silliest thing. I broke my key right off in my door lock. Can you believe it?”

  He glanced at the driver’s door of her car and saw part of a key protruding from the lock.

  “I would have thought a late-model Lexus would have keyless entry,” Alex said.

  “It’s not working. That’s why I used the key.” She gave him a sweet, innocent look as she spun her story, even though they both knew there was nothing sweet or innocent about her. “I don’t suppose I could beg a ride home, could I?”

  If there was one thing Alex hated it was manipulation, and this woman used it at every opportunity. For some reason, the image of a spider slithering along a web came to mind.

  “Why don’t you call your husband to come pick you up?”

  She stared at him evenly. “I don’t have a husband.”

  “Your boyfriend, then.”

  “I don’t have one of those, either.”

  “Then I’ll call you a cab.”

  “I don’t trust cabdrivers. Not in this part of town. They prey on defenseless women.”

  She was right about this part of town, though her suggestion that she was defenseless was something he’d take issue with. He didn’t think this woman had a defenseless bone in her body.

  “But you trust me? A man you’ve never met?”

  She slipped off the hood of the car and walked toward him, her dress clinging to her breasts and hips like a coat of red paint. “One of the waitresses in there told me you’re a cop.” She stopped in front of him. “Is there any reason I shouldn’t feel safe with a cop?”

  “Of course not. I’ll call a patrol unit. They’ll be happy to see you home.”

  “Oh, but that would be such an inconvenience for them, when you’re right here to handle the situation.” She cocked her head imploringly. “It’s getting late, and I’d just like to go home. Is a ride really too much to ask?”

  His sister Sandy told him he always went for dumb women because smart women intimidated him. That wasn’t true at all. He loved smart women. What he hated was shrewd women—shrewd, unpredictable women with so much baggage it would take a team of skycaps thirty minutes to drag it across a room. And he had a feeling that this woman fit that description perfectly.

  Alex started to parry one more time, then decided to give up the game. Her house wasn’t too far out of his way. He could pull up to the curb, drop her off, and that would be that.

  They got into his car, and during the fifteen minutes it took to drive to her house, she didn’t say a word. No small talk. No humming along with the radio. Nothing. She merely crossed one leg over the other and ran her fingertips up and down her thigh, relying on body language to remind him of exactly what she had to offer. And he still had no intention of buying.

  He pulled up next to the curb at 1834 Augusta Drive, a house so big it could hold three families and they’d never even come close to each other. He left his car running.

  “Is this the place?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Thank you so much. You don’t know how much I appreciate—” She stopped short, her hand flying to her throat. “Oh, my God.”

  “What?”

  “The light in my bedroom. It’s off.”

  Alex looked toward the house. “So?”

  “I always leave it on when I go out at night.” She turned a panicked gaze toward Alex. “Somebody’s in my house.”

  “Do you live alone?”

  “Yes. And I know I left the light on. I know I did.”

  “The bulb probably just burned out.”

  She swallowed hard, fear clouding her eyes. “Do you think you could … would you please come inside?”

  Her persistence amazed him. She w
as smart enough not to try a direct come-on again, but she had no shortage of other ploys she could call into action. Was there anything this woman wouldn’t do to get him into her bedroom?

  “I’m sure you just forgot you turned off the light,” he said.

  “No. I didn’t. I swear to God I didn’t.”

  “Look,” he said sharply. “I have no intention of going into your house. Now if you’ll just get out of the car—”

  “So this is the kind of help I can expect from the police?” she said, her voice ringing with indignation. “I’m afraid to go into my own home, and you won’t even check things out for me?”

  Alex wanted to beat his head against the steering wheel, because she’d just given him no choice in the matter. If she went into that house alone, and by some stretch of the imagination she happened to end up on the other end of an intruder’s gun, she’d tell the world that she’d requested police assistance and had been ignored. Did he really want to deal with that possibility, no matter how remote?

  “Okay,” he said with a disgusted sigh. “I’ll check it out.”

  He killed the engine, got out of his car, and followed her to her front door. Once inside, she turned and punched a code to disarm the security system.

  “Was it still on?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Does anybody else have the code?”

  “No. No one. I can’t imagine how someone could have gotten in.”

  That’s because they couldn’t have.

  Leaving the front door ajar, he scanned the foyer, then glanced into the living room. The sheer size of it was amazing, with gleaming wood floors and ceilings that soared to at least fifteen feet. If all the stuffy antique furniture and Oriental rugs were cleared out and hoops were put at either end, it would have made a great basketball court.

  “Which way to the bedroom?” he asked.

  She pointed down the hall. He walked in the direction she indicated, the woman following tentatively in his wake. On the way there, they passed double doors leading into a large room with dark paneling. He paused a moment and looked inside. It appeared to be a den, with a leather sofa, a pool table, and walls filled with hunting trophies. Exotic ones. Leopards. Buffalo. Wildebeest. A zebra skin was stretched across the floor in front of the fireplace.