Hot and Irresistible (2 page)

“You have great hair.” He unsnapped the clip at her nape like a man who unsnapped a lot. An unsnapping pro. “And you have incredible blue eyes and a dynamite body.” He grabbed a handful of material at her waist, drawing her suit tight to her frame. “Better.”

And before she could tell him that it wasn’t better at all, his mouth took hers, making conversing impossible and…Lord in heaven, the man could kiss, she’d give him that. What she couldn’t give him was Ray Cleveland. Remember? Wrong side of God!

“Enough.” She took a step away. She held up her hand to keep McCabe at a distance, or maybe herself from falling back into his arms. “I didn’t mean me as the distraction.”

“That’s not what the kiss said. I don’t go around doing this with every girl I just meet, but you’re different. Most women flaunt what they’ve got, you got it and keep it under a brown tent.”

“What about an unsolved murder and missing jewels, how does that sound for intriguing? Makes Ray Cleveland seem like small potatoes.” She pulled a pose to look confident and in control like Prissy did.

“Are you okay? You look sick.”

So much for being in control. “Here’s the deal. Thirty years ago gangs ran Savannah. No one lived in the city.” She nodded across the street to Forsyth Park, big white fountain glistening in the sunlight, sprays of water flinging skyward, mothers strolling babies, kids playing. “Then a few gutsy men who loved this city found buyers for the big old Southern homes and saved them from being sold for taxes and the wrecking ball turning them into parking garages. Look around, there’s no place like Savannah, it’s the real old South all spiffy and put back together. Cleveland took care of the crime. He still does. He’s one of the good guys, you got him all wrong.”

“Thought you had a police force around here to handle the crime part.”

“Cleveland goes places we can’t get to. No one crosses him or gets on his turf. There are over a hundred islands off the coast of Savannah. Do you have any idea what kind of drug smuggling, gun smuggling, or any kind of other problems we could have?”

“That makes him a vigilante.”

“That makes him a concerned citizen protecting a fine city and good folks.”

“He’s no saint.”

“Like you are?” That brought a smile and a hint of a blush and she hadn’t counted on the blush that suggested he wasn’t quite the rat she thought. Except it didn’t matter what she thought. Just get him off the blasted case.

“About the same time Savannah was getting cleaned up, there was a murder at this very morgue and jewels went missing. Now someone’s back trying to find the jewels that might be here and out to get rid of anyone who has claim to them. It’s a cold case that’s suddenly hot and that’s the reason I was out here looking around in the ashes.” That, and Prissy and Charlotte were the ones almost toasted in that fire and Bebe wanted to find the person responsible.

She continued, “Whoever we were just chasing was probably here looking for the jewels, too. Finding a murderer who’s resurfaced is more important than a few gambling tables doing no one no harm.”

“You don’t know that for sure. We all have reasons for doing what we do. You grew up in Savannah and know the city and everyone in it, and now we’re going to do our jobs and nail Cleveland. That part’s not going to change, no matter what you think of him or what you think of me or where I come from or how much you love this city and everyone in it. Or what you do to your hair.”

And
, Donovan McCabe thought to himself,
why the hell did he say that about Bebe Fitzgerald’s hair?
Why’d he give a damn about anything to do with her? Then he remembered how she kissed him and staring into the bluest eyes on the earth turned his brain to sawdust. Mystery solved. It was one of those instant attractions, man to woman, except there was a police badge thrown in to make things impossible.

He’d get over it, dammit. Hell, he’d just gotten over a one-month attraction and before that a two-month attraction. He was the short-attraction king. “We’ll meet up tomorrow at the station, then pay Cleveland a visit. Maybe I can convince him to cooperate.”

Bebe stiffened her spine, her breasts moving under her jacket. Small breasts, about a handful, just the way he liked them. They went with her slender hips and legs that reached clear up to her damn armpits. How’d a woman get legs like that, and why hide them under one butt-ugly suit that went below her knees?

“I sincerely doubt if anyone in this city will be cooperating with you in any way, shape, or form for as long as you’re here.”

“Except you.” And she had dynamite shape and form…somewhere. Before he snagged her back into his arms for a kiss he wouldn’t want to end or she offered up another rant on the virtues of the local mobster, Donovan headed for his car. Damn, he hadn’t planned on meeting up with someone as distracting as Bebe Fitzgerald. Then again, he didn’t plan much these days except putting one foot in front of the other and somehow getting on with his life.

And that life was moving damn slow at the moment. Ten miles an hour? This place wasn’t Savannah so much as Slow-vannah. And what was with these parks in the middle of the damn streets? Drive along…make that creep along…and suddenly he couldn’t go any farther because there was a park and he’d have to go around the park to get to the rest of the street. What idiot planned a park in the middle of the street?

Circling Monterey Square, he stopped for a tribe of picture-taking tourists. “Crosswalks? Did you all ever hear of crosswalks? And haven’t you all ever seen flowers before,” he muttered and where the hell did that “you all” part come from? He was forgetting how to talk.

He powered down the window to a warm April breeze. Moss hanging from oaks-on-steroids drove home that this was definitely the Low Country. He honked at tourists and got the evil eye from their guide. In Boston he would have gotten the finger and a string of four-letter words that turned the air blue.

He rounded three more squares—Madison, Chippewa, and Wright—then pulled his Jeep to the curb in front of Magnolia House Hotel, with its glass doors, brass chandelier glowing, and wrought-iron railings. If that Colonel Sanders guy came strolling out with a bucket of chicken tucked under his arm, Donovan wouldn’t have been surprised.

He considered his last gig in that crumbling shit-hole down by the Boston docks. Of course, that was ten months ago doing undercover vice when Sly was still alive, cracking jokes at McCabe’s Tavern every night and Ma serving him corned beef on rye, double coleslaw, no pickle. Donovan glanced at the empty passenger seat beside him, the pain of loss so sharp it took his breath away and he closed his eyes. So much for getting on with life. Fuck.

“Afternoon, Mr. McCabe,” the doorman greeted. “I’ll park your car and take real good care of her now, you hear. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

Donovan gave him a tip and almost said, “Hey, buddy, it’s a Jeep not a Beemer, no sweat.” But somehow Donovan didn’t think it mattered. The car would be taken care of…period.

“We hope you’re having a good day now, Mr. McCabe.” Daemon Rutledge, first-rate hotel manager complete with lapel rose, smiled. Donovan headed toward the piano music mixed with polite bar chatter. Nothing like the neighborhood bar his family owned for fifty-something years. Donovan claimed a stool, the bartender setting down a Guinness and frosted mug, same as Donovan ordered last night after he drove in late from Atlanta. Till he got to Savannah he figured Southern hospitality was like beans in Boston, a stupid cliché.

“Next time give Moon River a try,” said the guy next to him. He held out his hand. “I’m Beau, and the Moon’s our beer of choice here in Savannah. Welcome to the South, Yank.”

Donovan took the hand and offered his name. “How’d you know?”

Beau grinned, the kind that made women dreamy-eyed and probably got him a piece of ass anytime he felt the need. “It’s Savannah, everyone knows everyone.” The grin grew into more of a gotcha and he read Donovan’s shirt. “McCabe’s Tavern, West Broadway and H. I vacationed a year in Afghanistan with a Southie. Recited the neighborhood bars like the litany of the saints. So, what’s a Southie like you doing in the land of Paula Deen?”

“Took that same Afghanistan vacation myself. Next time I’m doing Disney World.” Donovan passed on the glass and drank from the bottle. “Ever have one of those jobs you thought for sure would be a slam dunk and the only thing that got dunked was you?”

“Woman problems do that to you every time.” Beau lowered his voice. “Fact is, I got dunked so damn bad I’m taking kissing lessons. Well, piss,” Beau added with a sheepish boy grin and took another swig of beer. “That’s what happens when I drink too much, I talk too much. Now you gotta understand, I love women, I really truly do. All kinds, have since kindergarten. I was one of those early bloomers.”

“Kissing lessons? Hell, man, I think you’d have it nailed down by now.”

“I did. I was an ace…till I met this girl.
The
girl. You know, the one that gets you right in the gut and sets you on your ear.” Beau lowered his voice even more, staring at the wet rings his beer made on the bar. “And now I can’t…perform. Nothing on me works proper, lips, hands, other more crucial elements. I’m thinking it’s payback for all those gals I loved and left. Not that I led them on or anything, but I didn’t hang around much either.”

“Women getting even?”

Beau’s head popped up doing the holy-shit bob, his eyes widening with understanding. “Well, merry hell, I didn’t consider that one. It’s an out-and-out organized female plan. I think you’re on to something, Donovan. I’m nothing but a cursed man.”

Donovan offered a grin of his own. “I’ve been cursed at so damn many times I’ve lost count, but it never killed my performance.”

“Not that kind of cursing. The kind that involves the hour for doing good, the hour for doing evil, settling scores if you’ve been wronged. I think some gals are getting even with me that way. Dang.”

Donovan put his hand on Beau’s beer and looked him square in the eyes. “I think you’re wasted, man.”

“I think I’m screwed and in this particular instance not in the good way.” He ran his hand over his face, looking a little pale.

“Well, there’s only one way to find out if you’re right or not.”

“See Minerva about a potion?”

“More like see if you’re the kissing teacher’s prize student. If nothing else it’ll be more fun than swinging a dead cat under a full moon.”

“Around here it’s little rag dolls with sharp pins and maybe women have done pinned all my important spots. That’s got to be the answer.”

Ouch
, Donovan thought. He squirmed, his dick shriveling. “You really believe in that stuff.”

“Jeff Teller’s boat sank right out from under him when his wife decided she’d done had enough of him catfishing every Sunday and she paid a visit to Minerva. Tubby Hendricks nearly got roasted in his own bed when sleeping with some hooker from Beaufort and his wife found out and made that same visit to Minerva.”

Beau checked his watch and gritted his teeth. “I’m late for class.” He ran his hand through his sun-bleached hair. “I’d sure appreciate you keeping all this performance stuff under your hat while you’re visiting here in town.”

“And with any kind of luck that should be as short as possible,” Bebe Fitzgerald said from behind Donovan, making his blood flow faster and hotter and his dick un-shrivel. “In fact,” she said to Donovan, “why don’t you pack up and go back to Boston where you came from?”

“Hey,” Beau said, sliding his arm around Bebe as she kissed him on the cheek. “What brings Savannah’s prettiest law enforcement officer to this neck of the woods and why are you all over Donovan’s case? The man just got here, give him a break, pretty girl.”

For a second Donovan thought Bebe was Beau’s girl, the one who turned him into underperformance guy. But that was a friend kind of a kiss, putting a grin on Donovan. It also enrolled him in dumbass-of-the-year club, since the chances of him and Bebe-the-bombshell getting together had more strikes against it than a Sox game.

Why did he have this thing for Bebe? He usually went for the hot chicks out for a fun time. Bebe wore no makeup except for a little lip gloss, a suit that was definitely from a bargain basement somewhere and definitely no bargain at any price. And were those Hush Puppies like Grandma McCabe’s?

Bebe Fitzgerald was completely oblivious to how gorgeous she was. So, that’s why he liked her. To Donovan McCabe, there was nothing sexier than a sexy woman who didn’t know she was sexy at all. But how the hell could she not know? She looked at herself every day in the mirror and her friends must have clued her in at some point. Beau just did.

“I want you to meet someone,” Beau said to Bebe. “This here is Donovan McCabe. He’s visiting Savannah all the way from Boston and he’s a downright smart guy, even if he is from the wrong side of the Ohio River.”

Her eyes went to half-closed and totally angry. Her hands fisted on her hips. “And he’s also the last person on earth you want to be sharing a beer or conversation with. Detective Donovan McCabe, meet Beau Cleveland, as in Ray Cleveland’s son, the guy you’re wanting to lock up in the slammer and throw away the key.”

Well, damn, he never saw that one coming. Beau put down his beer with a thud, looking like a guy who could perform just fine in tearing off Donovan’s head and stuffing it where the sun didn’t shine. Bebe said to Beau, “Remember last month when that fancy-dancy politician from Atlanta rented out the Cove for the weekend for himself and his cronies, then proceeded to lose his shirt?” Bebe patted Donovan’s cheek. “Well, guess what, Detective McCabe here is revenge sent in by the sore-loser politician to settle up the score. Politician loses his money, Ray loses his establishment.”