by Nora Roberts
thin wires, she decided. A few of them had already snapped. “Would you mind if we all sat down?”
“No. I’m sorry.” Cilla dragged a hand through her hair. She wasn’t putting on a very good show, she thought. And she prided herself on putting on a good show. “I could, ah, make some coffee.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He sat on an oatmeal-colored couch and leaned back against sapphire blue pillows. “Tell us what happened.”
“I wrote it down.” The underlying nerves showed in her movements as she walked to the phone to pick up a pad of paper. “A radio habit,” she said. “The phone rings and I start writing.” She wasn’t ready to admit that she didn’t want to repeat the conversation out loud. “Some of it’s in O’Roarke shorthand, but you should get the drift.”
He took the pad from her and scanned the words. His gut muscles tightened in a combination of fury and revulsion. Outwardly calm, he handed the note to his partner.
Cilla couldn’t sit. Instead, she stood in the center of the room, twisting her fingers together, dragging them apart again to tug at her baggy sweatshirt. “He’s pretty explicit about what he thinks of me, and what he intends to do about it.”
“Is this your first call at home?” Boyd asked her.
“Yes. I don’t know how he got the number. I— We’re not listed.”
Althea put the pad aside and took out her own. “Who has your home number?”
“The station.” Cilla relaxed fractionally. This was something she could deal with. Simple questions, simple answers. “It would be on file at the college. My lawyer—that’s Carl Donnely, downtown. There are a couple of guys that Deb sees. Josh Holden and Darren McKinley. A few girlfriends.” She ran through the brief list. “That’s about it. What I’m really concerned about is—” She spun around as the door opened behind her. “Deb.” Relief and annoyance speared through her. “I thought you had evening classes.”
“I did.” She turned a pair of big, smoldering blue eyes on Boyd and Althea. “Are you the police?”
“Deborah,” Cilla said, “you know better than to cut classes. You had a test—”
“Stop treating me like a child.” She slapped the newspaper she was carrying into Cilla’s hand. “Do you really expect me to go along like nothing’s wrong? Damn it, Cilla, you told me it was all under control.”
So she’d made the first page of section B, Cilla thought wearily. Late-night radio princess under siege. Trying to soothe a growing tension headache, she rubbed her fingers at her temple. “It is under control. Stuff like this makes good copy, that’s all.”
“No, that’s not all.”
“I’ve called the police,” she snapped back as she tossed the paper aside. “What else do you want?”
There was a resemblance between the two, Boyd noted objectively. The shape of the mouth and eyes. While Cilla was alluring and sexy enough to make a man’s head turn a 360, her sister was hands-down gorgeous. Young, he thought. Maybe nineteen. In a few years she’d barely have to glance at a man to have him swallow his tongue.
He also noted the contrasts. Deborah’s hair was short and fluffed. Cilla’s was long and untamed. The younger sister wore a deep crimson sweater over tailored slacks that were tucked into glossy half boots. Cilla’s mismatched sweats bagged and hit on a variety of colors. The top was purple, the bottoms green. She’d chosen thick yellow socks and orange high-tops.
Their tastes might clash, he mused, but their temperaments seemed very much in tune.
And when the O’Roarke sisters were in a temper, it was quite a show.
Shifting only slightly, Althea whispered near his ear. “Obviously they’ve done this before.”
Boyd grinned. If he’d had popcorn and a beer, he would have been content to sit through another ten rounds. “Who’s your money on?”
“Cilla,” she murmured, crossing one smooth leg. “But the sister’s a real up-and-comer.”
Apparently weary of beating her head against a brick wall, Deborah turned. “Okay.” She poked a finger at Boyd. “You tell me what’s going on.”
“Ah …”
“Never mind.” She zeroed in on Althea. “You.”
Biting back a smile, Althea nodded. “We’re the investigating officers on your sister’s case, Miss O’Roarke.”
“So there is a case.”
Ignoring Cilla’s furious look, Althea nodded again. “Yes. With the station’s cooperation, we have a trace on the studio line. Detective Fletcher and I have already interrogated a number of suspects who have priors for obscene or harassing phone calls. With this latest development, we’ll put a tap on your private line.”
“Latest development.” It only took Deborah a moment. “Oh, Cilla, not here. He didn’t call you here.” Temper forgotten, she threw her arms around her sister. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s nothing for you to worry about.” When Deborah stiffened, Cilla drew back. “I mean it, Deb. It’s nothing for either of us to worry about. We’ve got the pros to do the worrying.”
“That’s right.” Althea rose. “Detective Fletcher and I have over fifteen years on the force between us. We intend to take good care of your sister. Is there a phone I can use to make some arrangements?”
“In the kitchen,” Deborah said before Cilla could comment. She wanted a private interview. “I’ll show you.” She paused and smiled at Boyd. “Would you like some coffee, Detective?”
“Thanks.” He watched her—what man wouldn’t?—as she walked from the room.
“Don’t even think about it,” Cilla mumbled.
“Excuse me?” But he grinned. It didn’t take a detective to recognize a mother hen. “Your sister—Deborah, right?—she’s something.”
“You’re too old for her.”
“Ouch.”
Cilla picked up a cigarette and forced herself to settle on the arm of a chair again. “In any case, you and Detective Grayson seem well suited to each other.”
“Thea?” He had to grin again. Most of the time he forgot his partner was a woman. “Yeah, I’m one lucky guy.”
Cilla ground her teeth. She hated to think she could be intimidated by another woman. Althea Grayson was personable enough, professional enough. Cilla could even handle the fact that she was stunning. It was just that she was so together.
Boyd rose to take the unlit cigarette from her fingers. “Jealous?”
“In your dreams, Slick.”
“We’ll get into my dreams later.” He lifted her chin up with a fingertip. “Holding on?”
“I’m fine.” She wanted to move, but she had the feeling he wouldn’t give her room if she stood. And if she stood it would be much too easy to drop her head on his shoulder and just cave in. She had responsibilities, obligations. And her pride. “I don’t want Deb mixed up in this. She’s alone here at night while I’m at work.”
“I can arrange to have a cruiser stationed outside.”
She nodded, grateful. “I hate it that somewhere along the line I’ve made a mistake that might put her in danger. She doesn’t deserve it.”
Unable to resist, he spread his fingers to cup her cheek. “Neither do you.”
It had been a long time since she’d been touched, allowed herself to be touched, even that casually. She managed to shrug. “I haven’t figured that out yet.” She gave a little sigh, wishing she could close her eyes and turn her face into that strong, capable hand. “I’ve got to get ready to go to the station.”
“Why don’t you give that a pass tonight?”
“And let him think he’s got me running scared?” She stood then. “Not on a bet.”
“Even Wonder Woman takes a night off.”
She shook her head. She’d been right about him not giving her room. Her escape routes were blocked by the chair on one side and his body on the other. Tension quivered through her. Pride kept her eyes level. He was waiting, damn him. And unless he was blind or stupid, he would see that this contact, this connection with him, left her frazzled.
>
“You’re crowding me, Fletcher.”
In another minute, just one more minute, he would have given in to impulse and pulled her against him. He would have seen just how close to reality his fantasy was. “I haven’t begun to crowd you, O’Roarke.”
Her eyes sharpened. “I’ve had enough threats for one day, thanks,”
He wanted to strangle her for that. Slowly, his eyes on hers, he hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “No threat, babe. Just a fact.”
Deborah decided she’d eavesdropped long enough and cleared her throat. “Coffee, Detective Fletcher.” She passed him a steaming mug. “Thea said black, two sugars.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m going to hang around,” she said, silently daring Cilla to argue with her. “They should be here in an hour or so to hook up the phone.” Then, she put her hands on Cilla’s shoulders and kissed both of her cheeks. “I haven’t missed a class this semester, Simon.”
“Simon?” Boyd commented.
“Legree.” With a laugh, Deborah kissed Cilla again. “The woman’s a slave driver.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Cilla moved aside to gather up her purse. “You ought to catch up on your reading for U.S. Studies. Your Political Science could use a boost. It wouldn’t hurt to bone up on Psychology 101.” She pulled her coat from the closet. “While you’re at it, the kitchen floor needs scrubbing. I’m sure we have an extra toothbrush you could use on it. And I’d like another cord of wood chopped.”
Deborah laughed. “Go away.”
Cilla grinned as she reached for the doorknob. Her hand closed over Boyd’s. She jolted back before she could stop herself. “What are you doing?”
“Hitching a ride with you.” He sent Deborah a quick wink as he pulled Cilla out the door.
***
“This is ridiculous,” Cilla said as she strode into the station.
“Which?”
“I don’t see why I have to have a cop in the studio with me night after night.” She whipped off her coat as she walked—a bit like a bullfighter swirling a cape, Boyd thought. Still scowling, she reached for the door of a small storage room, then shrieked and stumbled back against Boyd as it swung open. “Jeez, Billy, you scared the life out of me.”
“Sorry.” The maintenance man had graying hair, toothpick arms and an apologetic grin. “I was out of window cleaner.” He held up his spray bottle.
“It’s okay. I’m a little jumpy.”
“I heard about it.” He hooked the trigger of the bottle in his belt, then gathered up a mop and bucket. “Don’t worry, Cilla. I’m here till midnight.”
“Thanks. Are you going to listen to the show tonight?”
“You bet.” He walked away, favoring his right leg in a slight limp.
Cilla stepped inside the room and located a fresh bottle of stylus cleaner. Taking a five-dollar bill out of her bag, she slipped it into a pile of cleaning rags.
“What was that for?”
“He was in Vietnam,” she said simply, and closed the door again.
Boyd said nothing, knowing she was annoyed he’d caught her. He chalked it up to one more contradiction.
To prep for her shift, she went into a small lounge to run over the daily log for her show, adding and deleting as it suited her. The program director had stopped screaming about this particular habit months before. Another reason she preferred the night shift was the leeway it gave her.
“This new group,” she muttered.
“What?” Boyd helped himself to a sugared doughnut.
“This new group, the Studs.” She tapped her pencil against the table. “One-shot deal. Hardly worth the airtime.”
“Then why play them?”
“Got to give them a fair shake.” Intent on her work, she took an absent bite of the doughnut Boyd held to her lips. “In six months nobody will remember their names.”
“That’s rock and roll.”
“No. The Beatles, Buddy Holly, Chuck Berry, Springsteen, Elvis—that’s rock and roll.”
He leaned back, considering her. “Ever listen to anything else?”
She grinned, then licked a speck of sugar from her top lip. “You mean there is something else?”
“Have you always been one-track?”
“Yeah.” She pulled a band of fabric out of her pocket. With a couple of flicks of the wrist she had her hair tied back. “So what kind of music do you like?”
“The Beatles, Buddy Holly, Chuck—”
“Well, there’s hope for you yet,” she interrupted.
“Mozart, Lena Home, Beaujolais, Joan Jett, Ella Fitzgerald, B.B. King …”
Her brow lifted. “So, we’re eclectic.”
“We’re open-minded.”
She leaned back a moment. “You’re a surprise, Fletcher. I guess I figured you for the loving-and-hurting, drinking-and-cheating type.”
“In music appreciation or personality?”
“Both.” She glanced at the clock. “It’s showtime.”
Wild Bob Williams, who had the 6-to-10 slot, was just finishing up his show. He was short, paunchy and middle-aged, with the voice of a twenty-year-old stud. He gave Cilla a brief salute as she began sorting through 45s and albums.
“Mmm, the long-legged filly just walked in.” He hit a switch that had an echoing heartbeat pounding. “Get ready out there in KHIP land, your midnight star’s rising. I’m leaving you with this blast from the past.” He potted up “Honky Tonk Woman.”
He swung out of his chair and stretched his rubbery leg muscles. “Hey, honey, you okay?”
“Sure.” She set her first cut on the turntable and adjusted the needle.
“I caught the paper.”
“No big deal, Bob.”
“Hey, we’re family around here.” He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. “We’re behind you.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re the cop?” he asked Boyd.
“That’s right.”
“Get this guy soon. He’s got us all shaking.” He gave Cilla another squeeze. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“I will. Thanks.”
She didn’t want to think about it, couldn’t afford to think about it, with thirty seconds to air. Taking her seat, she adjusted the mike, took a series of long, deep breaths, ran a one-two-three voice check, then opened her mike.
“All right, Denver, this is Cilla O’Roarke coming to you on number one, KHIP. You’ve got me from 10 till 2 in the a.m. We’re going to start off giving away one hundred and nine dollars. We’ve got the mystery record coming up. If you can give me the title, the artist and the year, you’ve got yourself a fistful of cash. That number is 555–5447. Stand by, ’cause we’re going to rock.”
The music blasted out, pleasing her. She was in control again.
“Elton John,” Boyd said from behind her. “‘Honky Cat.’ Nineteen seventy- … two.”
She turned in her chair to face him. He was looking damned pleased with himself, she thought. That half grin on his face, his hands in his pockets. It was a shame he was so attractive, a bloody crying shame. “Well, well, you surprise me, Slick. Remind me to put you down for a free T-shirt.”
“I’d rather have a dinner.”
“And I’d rather have a Porsche. But there you go— Hey,” she said when he took her hand.
“You’ve been biting your nails.” He skimmed a thumb over her knuckles and watched her eyes change. “Another bad habit.”
“I’ve got lots more.”
“Good.” Instead of sitting back in the corner, he chose a chair beside her. “I didn’t have time to get a book,” he explained. “Why don’t I watch you work?”
“Why don’t you—” She swore, then punched a button on the phone. He’d nearly made her miss her cue. “KHIP. Can you name the mystery record?”
It took five calls before she had a winner. Trying to ignore Boyd, she put on another cut while she took the winner’s name and address.
As if
she didn’t have enough on her mind, she thought. How was she supposed to concentrate on her show when he was all but sitting on top of her? Close enough, she realized, that she could smell him. No cologne, just soap—something that brought the mountains to mind one moment and quiet, intimate nights the next.
She wasn’t interested in either, she reminded herself. All she wanted was to get through this crisis and get her life back on an even keel. Attractive men came and went, she knew. But success stayed—as long as you were willing to sweat for it.
She shifted, stretching out to select a new record. Their thighs brushed. His were long and as hard as rock. Determined not to jolt, she turned her head to look into his eyes. Inches apart, challenge meeting challenge. She watched as his gaze dipped down to linger on her mouth. And it lifted again, desire flickering. Music pulsed in her ears from the headphones she stubbornly wore so that she wouldn’t have to speak to him. They were singing of hot nights and grinding needs.
Very carefully, she moved away. When she spoke into the mike again, her voice was even huskier.
He rose. He’d decided it was his only defense. He’d meant to annoy her, to distract her from the inevitable phone call that would come before the night was over. He’d wanted her mind off it, and on him. He wouldn’t deny that he’d wanted her to think of him. But he hadn’t known that when he’d succeeded, she would tie him up in knots.
She smelled like midnight. Secret and sinful. She sounded like sex. Hot and inviting. Then you looked into her eyes, really looked, and saw simple innocence. The man that combination wouldn’t drive mad either had never been born or was already dead.
A little distance, Boyd told himself as he moved quietly out of the studio. A lot of objectivity. It wouldn’t do either one of them any good to allow his emotions to get so tangled up with a woman he was supposed to protect.
When she was alone, Cilla made a conscious effort to relax, muscle by muscle. It was just because she was already on edge. It was a comfort to believe that. Her reaction to Boyd was merely an echo of the tension she’d lived with for more than a week. And he was trying to goad her.
She blew the hair out of her eyes and gave her listeners a treat—two hits in a row. And herself another moment to calm.
She hadn’t figured him out yet. He read Steinbeck and recognized Elton John. He talked slow and lazy—and thought fast. He wore scarred boots and three-hundred-dollar jackets.
What did it matter? she asked herself as she set up for the next twenty minutes of her show. She wasn’t interested in men. And he was definitely a man. Strike one. She would never consider getting involved with a cop. Strike two. And anyone with eyes could see that he had a close, even intimate relationship with his knockout partner. She’d never been one to poach on someone else’s property.
Three strikes and he’s out.
She closed her eyes and let the music pour through her. It helped, as it always did, to calm her, or lift her up, or simply remind her how lucky she was. She wasn’t sharp and studious like Deborah. She wasn’t dedicated, as their parents had been. She had little more than the education required by law, and yet she was here, just where she wanted to be, doing just what she wanted to do.
Life had taught her one vital lesson. Nothing lasted forever. Good times or bad, they passed. This nightmare, however horrid it was at this point in time, would be over eventually. She only had to get through it, one day at a time.
“That was Joan Jett waking you up as we head toward 11:30. We’ve got a news brief coming up for you, then a double shot of Steve Winwood and Phil Collins to take us into the next half hour. This is KHIP, and the news is brought to you by Wildwood Records.”
She punched in the prerecorded cassette, then scanned the printout of the ads and promos she would read. By the time Boyd came back, she was into the next block of music and standing up to stretch her muscles.