“Well, then; thank God it’s only me.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Thank God.”
She shot him a suspicious glance but could not read his expression in the dimly-lit interior.
“Let me show you how to wear it.” He gestured toward her legs.
She debated with a knit brow. “Which one?”
“Whatever feels most natural. As you are left-handed, you may want to wear it on the inside of your right leg or the outside of your left.”
She thought it over. “The left, I guess.” She lifted her left leg and placed it across his lap, pulling up the trouser leg.
“Practice releasing the safety as you draw. In an emergency you may not have much time.” He demonstrated clicking the safety off and on with his thumb as she nodded.
Adjusting the straps, he fastened the holster on her calf while explaining that it should be well-hidden but easily accessible. It was lightweight, and she imagined as long as her pant legs weren’t too tight no one would notice—she hadn’t worn a dress since confirmation, after all—but she couldn’t help but be a bit concerned. “What if someone sees it and I am asked questions?”
He continued his adjustments with deft fingers. “Direct all questions to me.” Pausing, he looked up at her. “That should always be your default; in the event you are asked any questions you’d rather not answer.”
She nodded, wondering to what he referred and deciding it was just as well that she didn’t know. I am indeed too impetuous, she thought, studying his averted profile, but I can’t seem to help myself. “It’s not very heavy.”
“No. Try to wear it at all times.” He was finished, and she practiced releasing the gun and taking it out of the holster, her leg still on his lap. He ran his hands along her leg and met her eyes, which had the electric effect of stilling all movements.
A classic moment, she thought; two peelers, a gun, and sex hangin’ heavy in the air. Finding her voice, she whispered, “Would you like to come up?”
“Yes. If you would like.”
“Yes.” She would like. After all, she had bought new linens yesterday in anticipation of this moment.
They rode up the lift in silence; she noted he already knew her floor and her room number. Perhaps burglary was the Section Seven felony—she hoped the place was halfway tidy at the time.
She unlocked her door and then once they were inside, turned to lock it behind them. As she did so, he rested his hands on her shoulders from behind and then ran them slowly down her arms, raising gooseflesh. He kissed the nape of her neck and wrapped his arms around her, cradling her to him. As she leaned back into him with a sigh, his mouth moved along her shoulder and she decided he was probably not interested in a tour of the place. He turned her around to bestow languorous kisses along her throat, and she lifted her chin to accommodate him, listening to her own ragged breathing in the stillness and stroking his torso under his suit coat. He raised his head and began kissing her mouth with increasing urgency, and she could feel him unfastening her buttons as she ran her hands up his back, caressing the lean muscle beneath his shirt.
“Should I turn on the light?” she whispered. She rather wanted to have a good look at him.
He said nothing but seemed very intent on moving his mouth across her cheekbones; the sensation of his face against hers, the stubble of his beard brushing her sensitive skin was almost overpowering in its intensity and she would have crawled inside him if she could. Instead she gasped for breath and pressed against him while his hands moved on her skin, sliding off her shirt. She hoped he noticed she was wearing a much prettier bra than at the crime scene.
“Am I to take off the holster?” she teased breathlessly into his ear, exultant.
He kissed her bare shoulder and brushed his fingers along her arm. “No. I will.”
He began to steer her toward the bedroom, and she suddenly felt the need for some instruction. “Acton,” she whispered, “should I—”
“Hush,” he said quietly, lifting her palm and kissing it. “Less talk.”
“I talk too much when I’m nervous.”
“I know.” He caught her mouth with his.
He wins, she thought. Snabble it, Doyle.
CHAPTER 13
HE FELT AS THOUGH HE HAD BEEN LIVING UNDERWATER AND HAD finally burst through to the surface. He clipped a strand of her hair while she slept and then lay with her, his fingers resting on her sternum, feeling the pulse of her heart.
The following day Doyle arrived at work bright and early, absurdly cheerful—it was amazing what a clandestine relationship could do for one’s spirits. No worry of being bored, that was for certain. Almost immediately, Munoz appeared at the entry to her cubicle. You’re not his type, Munoz, thought Doyle with satisfaction. I—on the other hand—am, as he made quite clear on multiple occasions last night.
“Drake was here looking for you this morning. What would he want with you?” Munoz was annoyed that another chief inspector was beating down Doyle’s door.
“Haven’t a clue,” Doyle replied, curious herself. “What did he say?”
“He wants you to come by to see him. He said it wasn’t urgent.” She paused and then warned, “He’s something of a letch.”
As Munoz was an authority on all things promiscuous, Doyle did not doubt her. “Thanks—I’ll be bringin’ my hatpin, I will.”
She made her way across the walkway and up to Drake’s office; she had never been to Acton’s office and was curious to see how the upper brass lived—she was rather disappointed to find ordinary offices, not quite as cluttered as those on the lower floors but with the same air of busy distraction. The office door was ajar and she knocked, seeing that Drake was inside and on the phone. He smiled and gestured her in.
At his invitation she sat in one of the chairs facing the desk, noting the array of awards displayed on his bookshelves; he was the type of man who would display all awards.
Drake finished his conversation, rang off, and walked around his desk to lean casually against it while he spoke to Doyle, and it was clear that he believed this pose showed him to advantage. He chatted for a few moments and was definitely friendlier than he should have been with a lowly DC from across the metaphorical tracks. Mother of God, she thought in amazement—another one down.
Flashing his even white teeth, he said, “I came by to tell you how much I appreciated your help at the conference on the racecourse murders. Acton is lucky—you do an excellent job.”
I do believe he indicated as much last night, she thought wickedly, but said aloud, “Thank you, sir,” in the manner of a lesser being who is humbly grateful. Faith, it was either feast or famine—she was nearly paralyzed with dread, contemplating what she should say if he asked her out on a date.
He then hung his head in a way she could see that he thought was endearing, “I hope that my remark about the Irish did not offend you.”
Doyle wanted to laugh aloud. Here she was, thinking every man jack had a fatal attraction to her fair self, and instead he was worried about being written up for sensitivity training; it served her right for being such a vain knocker.
She told him with all sincerity, “Please do not think of it again, sir; I assure you I thought nothin’ of it.” She added for good measure, “It’s a sad day when we all can’t tease each other with impunity.” She hoped he was impressed with the fancy word.
“Yes, well, Acton mentioned that I’d best be careful—you never know who might be offended even though no offense was intended.”
Of course he did, thought Doyle—the overprotective meddler. “Chief Inspector Acton was perhaps bein’ too sensitive.” Understatement of the century.
Drake smiled and relaxed. “It’s a good trait, though. Between you and me, he mentioned that he thought Sid had a bit of a problem. I checked into it and he’s agreed to go to rehab. Never would have guessed it, myself.”
Good one, Sid, thought Doyle with satisfaction. And here’s another subject Drake shouldn’t be fla
pping his jaws about; he was one who didn’t think of such things. “I hope it all works out for him; he had a good idea about the medical personnel at the course.”
“Yes, Acton’s put the new TDC in to help out in Sid’s place, he seems very eager to learn.”
“Owens? I met him at the Somers Town murders. Perhaps I’ll give him my regards.” Poor Owens, she thought—no doubt he would prefer to be learning field work, what with his treatise on bloodstains and all. As for herself, Doyle would rather be tortured than left to do research all day.
“Certainly,” said Drake, who stood when Doyle did. “He’s down in Research—I’m sure he’d appreciate a visitor.”
Thoughtfully, Doyle considered Drake’s tendency to give out state secrets and decided to take a cast. “It’s a difficult case, sir.”
Drake chuckled. “But not on my watch, thank God.”
“Do you think it could be the Russians?”
He tilted his head, thinking about it. “Solonik, you mean? No—he’d never be such a show-off.”
“Ah.”
They shook hands and parted, Drake taking the opportunity to try to glance down her shirt. I don’t think sensitivity training would succeed, she thought as she left. But he may respond to electric shock treatment. Men; honestly.
Doyle then descended the lift to Research, where the poor souls did not even have cubicles but were seated at tables piled high with files and treatises, working away like so many Bob Cratchits. She looked about and saw Owens, who was so absorbed in whatever he was researching that she had to speak to get his attention. “Hallo, Owens—I’m Detective Constable Doyle.”
He started and looked up in surprise. He was not happy to see her.
She was a bit taken aback. “I thought I’d come by and wish you luck. I met you at the Somers Town crime scene with DCI Acton.”
“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I remember. You were upset.”
She ducked her head in rueful acknowledgment. “That I was.” You are never going to live that one down, my girl. “But I was not so upset that I didn’t notice your sharp work—you have a good eye, I think.”
“Thank you.” He did not offer any further conversation.
Prickly, she thought; I’d best soften him up—he’ll not get far thinking he doesn’t need friends and supporters around here. “Chief Inspector Acton was very impressed; he asked if I would have noticed what you did and I had to confess I would not have.”
This seemed to be the correct tack, as Owens visibly unbent and turned around on his stool to face her. “That’s very kind of you. I was happy to help.”
Remembering that Acton wanted her to draw him out, she offered, “I came by because I imagine you’d rather be doin’ field work. If I can get permission, I’ll see if you can come along with me or one of the others when we’re out and about.”
The pale blue eyes brightened. “Thanks—I’d appreciate it. Are you still working that Somers Town case?” He sounded slightly incredulous, which wasn’t very complimentary—not a reservoir of tact, was our Owens.
She replied in a mild tone. “No, I was ignominiously thrown off. But if you’d like, I can find out who is workin’ it, and perhaps you can lend a hand, havin’ opened it up, so to speak.” Doyle well understood the proprietary feeling one got about a case—she was sorry to let it go herself.
“That would be great,” he agreed with equal parts enthusiasm and gratitude. “I would very much like to know how it goes.”
“Do you have security clearance to review the log notes? If you do, you can see who’s on it and how the investigation is goin’.”
“Yes, I do.”
Doyle paused, as this was not true; perhaps he did not want to acknowledge to her that he was not cleared as yet, or it may have been a male-female thing, although she was getting the strong feeling that with him, male-female was not something he was very interested in.
She didn’t argue it. “Well, let me know if you need any help, or I’ll give you a ring, if I may—I need all the help I can get, I’m afraid.”
Chuckling, he shook his head and eyed her. “That’s hard to believe—you’re working with the chief inspector.”
Among other things, she thought, but joked, “That’s why I need all the help.”
He unbent enough to lean forward and offer a conspiratorial smile in acknowledgment. “He’s a little scary.”
“Indeed he is.” You have no idea, my friend.
“You were so lucky; I mean, that he was willing to work with a first-year, given his history.” It was evident that although Owens had not been here long, he had nevertheless managed to plug in to the gossip. “Was there any particular reason he chose you?”
The reason, of course, could not withstand the light of day—or more properly, was best explored at night. “I had a good record with interrogation,” she said instead, which was indeed the truth.
“Oh.” He knit his brow. “I don’t think that’s my strong suit.”
No, thought Doyle, the brusque and bloodstain-obsessed Constable Owens would not be good at handling people. He was much more suited for research—or perhaps forensics. She smiled, “It’s the blarney in me, I suppose; I was fortunate to be given the chance, and I have learned a lot.” Especially last night; I learned a whole lot—stop it, she cautioned herself—you are going to make a mistake and say something aloud that you oughtn’t. Instead she offered, “I should be goin’, I have to work on redeemin’ my sorry self.”
He nodded. “Good luck to you. I really appreciate your coming to see me.”
It was true. Well then, thought Doyle; I’ve charmed him—I’m a charmer, I am.
After exchanging contact information, they parted, and Doyle was so lost in thought on her way back to her building that she almost knocked into Acton, who was coming from the other direction.
“Hallo,” she greeted him, the effervescing happiness within her breast powerful in its intensity. “Fancy meeting you here.” It was no coincidence, of course; she recalled that he could track her through the GPS unit in her mobile.
“Have a moment?” His lovely dark eyes were fastened upon hers.
“Here?” she teased him.
He gave her a disapproving look, then ushered her into an empty conference room. No sexual innuendos at work, she thought; mental note.
He closed the door and they looked at each other for a long moment, the chemistry crackling between them. “How are you?”
“Well,” she answered gravely. “And you?”
He broke eye contact first and ducked his head because he could not contain a smile. “I am well.”
This is fun, thought Doyle; I could do this all day.
He raised his head again and reached into his coat pocket. “I bought you a private mobile.” He handed it to her, coming around so that he could lean against the conference table beside her. She did not own her own mobile phone, as she considered it an unnecessary expense; instead, she used the CID-issued unit. She turned the small, expensive unit over in her hands, noting that it was already charged and programmed. “Thank you.” She knew why he had bought it.
He indicated the contact information, brushing with a forefinger so that it scrolled. “I’ve programmed my work line and my private line.”
Gently, she asked, “How often would you like me to check in?”
He met her eyes and hesitated. “I don’t want to suffocate you.”
“I know,” she replied. “How about every hour? We’ll try to work on trimmin’ it down over time.”
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “I appreciate it.”
She was thoughtful. “I will be the percentage sign—my very own secret symbol.”
“All right—although in an emergency, text an exclamation point on the private line.” He was dead serious.
Interesting, she thought. I wonder what’s afoot; he’s definitely spooked, although at dinner last night he said it was nothing he could identify. She put the unit in her pocket, hopin
g that his anxiety would decrease once they became more accustomed to each other. It could be that his—condition—had intensified simply because their relationship had intensified. No question that he was anxious and striving mightily to hide it.
“Any leads on Capper?” She threw him a look. “Real ones, I mean.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “As a matter of fact, we have information that he is rooming with Willard Smythe’s relatives. He’ll be brought in any time.”
She mused, “Smythe was the barkeeper—it’s a small cast of characters.”
“I’ll give you a ring when he’s in so that you may observe the interrogation.”
“Done.” He needed a truth detector, then. “D’you mind if I ask Owens along? I was just speakin’ to him.”
He crossed his arms. “Were you? What do you think of him?”
Doyle didn’t want to queer the pitch if Acton thought Owens would make a good detective; on the other hand, she wanted to be honest. “He’ll never make chief inspector. He’s a bit rude—says things he oughtn’t.”
“Not like me,” Acton teased her.
“Not at all like you,” she protested. “You are unfailingly polite and I’ll not hear a word against you.”
“Bring Owens,” Acton said, standing up to leave. “But don’t devote too much time or energy on him; the jury’s still out.”
“Don’t worry, he’s not my type.” She added the unspoken thought, I believe it’s a situation where you are his type—those beaux yeux.
CHAPTER 14
HE WAS HESITANT TO TELL HER FOR FEAR OF HER REACTION; FOR fear she would weep again, which was the next thing to unbearable. But she should know, if for no other reason than to be made wary.
Doyle spent the greater part of the day doing background work and phoning potential witnesses who were by and large unhelpful. She texted her symbol to Acton on the hour and wondered if he would want to see her again tonight or if he was too busy catching up with his caseload, what with the recent spate of murders—perhaps there was to be no fieldwork today. Unless he had gone out without her. This thought gave her pause and she decided to ring him; she phoned him on his business line and he answered immediately.
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