Manhattan Flame (A Bridge & Tunnel Romance Book 2) (3 page)

Considering the long, frustrating day she'd had with Hans Janz, whose name sounded like a bad joke, Tasha should’ve figured a cold looking, middle-aged cop would greet her and not the one she had been fantasizing about.

She cursed under her breath, slowing her step and rehearsing in her head exactly what she needed to say. By the time she neared the counter, the cop grunted, “Yeah?”

“I’m here to get the...”

Damn, the form number had flown right out of her head it was so long. Scrambling, she found a scrap of paper in her jacket pocket where she had noted the name of the form.

“501-67-B458,” she read. “I filled it out the other day and need a case number so I can get my camera back.”

The cop angled his vacant brown eyes down at her, working his jaw, then asked, “Name?”

“Tasha Buckley.”

“Spell that,” he ordered.

“T as in Thomas-”

“No, spell your last name.” He still wasn’t looking at her but at least his fingers were poised over the keyboard.

She made patient work of spelling her last name and again reminded him that she had filled out the form. “Is Officer Wright on duty?” She added, “He’d remember me.”

He didn’t answer, but his face screwed up ever so slightly as his gaze scanned the monitor that of course Tasha couldn’t see. Soon he was shaking his head.

“Nope,” he said to himself.

“What do you mean, nope?” She asked, keeping her tone even and without emotion since the cops in this precinct evidently had a problem with that kind of thing when it came out of an African-American woman.

“You’re not in the system,” he said in conclusion.

It simply couldn’t be true.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “What do you mean? I filled out the form the other day. Officer Wright helped me. Should I have waited a few more days?”

“No, property forms get logged within an hour of filing. It wasn’t logged.”

Overwhelmed, Tasha leaned further across the counter, angling to see the monitor, as her mind began racing so fast that she almost couldn't think straight. She forced in a deep breath, straightening her back, and managed to say, “There must be some mistake. A very expensive, very irreplaceable camera of mine was confiscated and I filled out a form so I could get it back.”

“At this precinct?” he asked, finally studying her carefully.

“Yes, at this precinct!”

She hadn’t meant to raise her voice, but controlling her outrage was damn near impossible.

He used an authoritative volume when he said, “Ma’am,” and she knew what would come next.

Every part of her wanted to kick the counter, but she clenched her jaw instead. “Yeah, I know,” she said, seething with frustration, spitting each word through her teeth. “I’ll be going now.”

This was the thanks she got for reporting a crime? She yanked the glass door open and stomped out onto the sidewalk. She turned north then south but didn’t have a clue as to where to go. There was nowhere, no place, no hovel she could hide in that would wash away this feeling.

That was it? She had just kissed her camera goodbye and that’s the end of it?

She needed to calm herself, but it didn’t seem likely. She neared the precinct and leaned against the wall so she wouldn't be in the way of oncoming pedestrians. She needed a minute to think.

Her best friends, Greer and Jennifer crossed her mind, but they would only console her. They couldn’t offer a solution to her problem and the damned thing was that no one could unless they had access to the evidence room and could steal her camera back. She snorted a laugh at where that would land her if she attempted such a thing.

Tasha, think
, she told herself. How could she get a camera? Never mind the total outrage she felt towards the 26th Precinct, all she cared about was her upcoming exhibition and having brilliant photographs. How could she solve this? She wasn’t sure she would sleep tonight if she couldn’t come up with a plan.

She sensed more than saw a man approaching she was so bogged down in worry, but when she lifted her eyes, she noticed Officer Wright not just nearing her, but staring right at her.

He was wearing jeans that fit him well, sneakers, and an overcoat that flapped in the gentle, spring breeze. His hair looked more bedraggled than she remembered, but his eyes were the same—bright and wide and concerned.

“Hey,” he said in a smooth voice. “Tasha, right?”

Feeling sour, she said, “Unfortunately,” and her eyes seemed to flutter all on their own.

He cocked his head at that and then his expression turned serious, almost knowingly, but he seemed to shift his attention to the gray duffle bag over his shoulder, adjusting it with a little jostle.

“You want your camera back,” he stated as though reading her mind.

“That would be nice, but I’m not sure your buddies feel the same.”

“What, like the form hasn’t been processed yet?” he asked. “Even when it is, I mean, it’s going to take some time for you to get it back. That’s just how it goes with investigations.”

“You're sure there’s an investigation? Because according to your man behind the desk in there, I’m not even in the system.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” she said, giving him a moment to weather the same shock she had felt moments ago. “I would think that at the very least I’d be in the computer. How many forms did I fill out? Two? But when the officer typed my name into the computer, nothing came up.”

“Hey, listen, I’m about to go on duty. I’ll look into it.”

She let out a frustrated sigh that sounded guttural and said, “Don’t bother. I know what’s up.”

“Well, I don’t,” he countered, catching her upper arm, as she motioned to leave.

Realizing he might have overstepped his bounds he released her, but he had her attention. Tasha couldn’t see anything else. Wright filled her vision and the way his sharp eyes were probing her did a fast job of convincing her that he actually gave a damn and more.

“I’ll look into it,” he said, as he pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket. Tapping the LCD screen, he leveled with her, saying, “You either get a case number for the form you filled out or you get your camera back on the spot. I’m going to get to the bottom of this as soon as I’m in there and I’ll let you know. What’s your number?”

In an instant, Wright had become infinitely more attractive and her lip curled into a smile in response. God, was she some kind of sucker for a guy willing to help? She straightened her mouth and recited her number, as Wright tapped his cell quickly. A moment later, she felt her own cell phone vibrating in her back pocket.

“That’s me,” he mentioned, indicating he had just texted her.

When he lifted his gaze to her again, his eyes were easy and soft. Was he drinking in the sight of her? Tasha couldn’t deny it stirred something in her that had nothing to do with her camera.

He smiled, though subtly, as he said, “I’m Kevin in case you didn’t know.”

“I knew it was Wright.”

“Good memory,” he complimented and glanced over his shoulder at the precinct entrance.

She didn’t want to keep him, and yet she did.

Nothing was said for a moment, and the only thing awkward about it was that it didn’t feel awkward. Tasha registered the color of his eyes—dusty hazel that erred on the side of blue—and also noted his height. Being in flats as she was he had a good four inches on her, tall in a way that wasn’t towering.

He might have felt their prolonged eye contact had gone on too long, because he asked, “How’s the photography going?”

“Are you kidding me?” she blurted out and—surprising even herself—playfully shoved his shoulder. He took a step back then closed in again, as she reminded him, “I don’t have my camera. How do you think it’s going?”

He laughed and she liked the light, breathy sounds he was making. There was something soft and easy about being around him, which didn’t make sense considering they functioned on opposite sides of the track, not good versus bad, but very different nonetheless.

When they sobered up, smiles waning into something serious that to Tasha felt like flirting, he again broke the silence. “You can’t rent or borrow?”

“Believe me, I’m trying. If I’m being real here, I’m going to have to buy another camera, and I can’t say it’ll be easy.”

Kevin winced for her, nodding and inhaling deeply. “Let me see what I can do. Rest assured, your camera is within those four walls.”

“You want to steal it for me? I won’t stop you,” she teased.

“Ha. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, but I won’t leave you hanging either way. Promise.”

It felt like time to walk away even though it was the last thing she wanted to do, but she fought the urge to close the gap between them and make a bold move. Instead, she took a step away, smirked at him thankfully, and was about to say,
I’ll wait for your call
, when the Russian man who had been following her caught Tasha’s eye.

She didn’t realize her expression had dropped until Kevin asked, “What's wrong?”

“Huh? Nothing,” she stammered, meeting his gaze and forcing a final smirk in thanks. “I’m good. I’ll talk to you soon.”

He held her gaze as if he didn’t quite believe her and then glanced in the direction she had been looking.

She took it as her opportunity to skirt away and when he called out, “Talk soon!” she waved without looking back.

It was a bitch and a half speed-walking around the entire block to shake the weirdo who had been following her, but Tasha managed and just before she padded down the subway steps, she pulled her cell from her pocket to make sure she had Kevin Wright’s number. Aiming to open the text message and save his contact information in her phone, she tapped the icon and stilled just shy of the subway railing to read the message.

You made my night, I hope I can make yours.

Chapter Four

When Tasha finally stepped inside her studio apartment on the corner of 126th Street and Amsterdam Ave, having climbed five flights of stairs, she was slightly out of breath, significantly unnerved, and substantially flattered—a conflicting mix of emotions she wasn’t quite sure how to deal with.

So she wrapped her hair in a towel and took a long shower, mentally wrestling with the gut feeling that she was in danger—that’s what being followed amounted to, right? After stepping onto the cool tiles she dried off and changed into her most comfortable pair of sweatpants along with a loose tee shirt that she’d borrowed from Greer and never returned.

Her apartment was cramped or
cozy,
as most realtors would describe a studio space that was barely five hundred square feet. She had arranged it as best she could, fitting her queen-size bed in the corner, a loveseat flush against the footboard, a coffee table nearby. There was a window covered with purple curtains in that area. She had situated her desk in the opposite corner against the wall. On the other side of that wall was a narrow kitchen and down the truncated hallway beyond it was the bathroom. She didn’t have a TV set, only a laptop computer on the coffee table. She sat on the loveseat, folding her legs and eyeing her cell phone.

Reading and re-reading the text message that Kevin had boldly composed while in her company, she pulled the towel from her head and set it beside her,

It was just vague and flirtatious enough to keep her guessing. She had made his night? The logical side of her insisted that she could’ve only made his night because her unfortunate predicament had given him a reason to delve into the crime at hand. But the woman in her intuited that Kevin was interested and that helping straighten out whatever administrative error was going on was his excuse to get close to her.

Would she let him?

She wondered.

Not to be presumptuous—who knew why men did the things they did?—but she sensed that if and when she received another text from him, it might be laced with the same innuendo.

She had never been with a guy like him. She’d certainly never gone out with a cop, not that Kevin was angling to ask her out. But even the guys at her old college that reminded her of him had never sparked so much interest in her that she ended up pursuing them or vice versa.

Tasha had a definite type—athletes, a bit rough around the edges, a bit hardened by life, but who had a distinct charm about them, and most consistently, she was into black guys.

Yet something about Kevin had him running around her thoughts in a way she didn’t at all mind.

Should she text him?

His eyes kept coming to mind. He had those thick, dark lashes, yet the actual color of his iris was hard to nail down—dusty hazel didn’t quite capture it. They’d seemed blue or green, but darkened with brown. She found it alluring not being able to pinpoint the exact color. And his mouth was another story. It wasn’t just the shape—straight and pale and perfectly proportioned—that had her daydreaming, but the way his lips were framed with a subtle dusting of growth, dark stubble spreading across his jawline... He was damn sexy.

In fact, the sum total of his dark brows, straight nose, prominent cheekbones, and chiseled jaw made her wonder if he might photograph well with the George Washington Bridge in the background. She might have to rethink the theme of the photos she planned on exhibiting...

Itching to text him if for no other reason than to strike up a conversation, she opted to open the window instead since the air in her apartment was getting a bit stuffy.

She unlatched the lock and hoisted the heavy thing up, eyeing the fire escape just beyond and stealing glances at the curtained windows of the apartments across the way.

A cool breeze rolled in, billowing the purple curtains, so she tied the cloth to the side and then returned to the loveseat, unaware of the smile that had formed on her face.

She stared at her cell, the text message, and began bouncing ideas around. Maybe a simple thanks? No, she had already thanked him. Maybe she should ask if he’d heard anything? That was no good either. She’d only come off sounding pushy and nervous.

Tasha kept formulating options and then jolted when her cell vibrated of its own accord.

It was an incoming text message and when she swiped it open, the number she had memorized as Kevin’s—it hadn’t been too taxing since it was a palindrome—appeared along with a brief note.

Looked into it... very weird.

She must have read it over five times before she realized he hadn’t sent a second message to explain things further. She had been too caught up on the profound lack of flirtation it contained.

So she typed out her response—
I’m afraid to ask so just tell me
.

She waited, staring at her cell and at times checking the amount of bars on the screen, an indication of cell reception that tended to be lousy in her place.

“Come on,” she grumbled when he still hadn’t responded. She let out a shaky breath, reminding herself that as a cop, Kevin probably got sucked into new cases all the time especially if he was working the front desk. Maybe someone had walked in with a pressing issue and he needed to file a bunch of forms.

She was about to call Greer just to keep herself busy, but her cell began vibrating in her hand. This time it wasn’t a text.

He was calling her.

Clearing her throat and palming her black curls like a nervous tick, she bit down on her lower lip, accepted the call, and placed her cell to her ear.

Don’t sound nervous, sound sexy, but not too sexy
, she told herself, but what came out was, “Yo.”

She cringed at her lame choice of a greeting. She didn’t say
yo
in real life for Christ’s sake.

But in an instant his deep, smooth voice filled her ear, as he said, “Hey, its Kevin from the 26th.”

“Yes?” she said, doing a much better job of sounding like herself even though she didn’t especially love the nervous waver in her tone. “What’s going on with my camera?”

“I can’t be on my cell.”

Then why had he called her?

“But I have a break coming up...”

“Can you just tell me what’s going on?”

She hadn’t meant to say that or sound dismissive. Of course she’d rather meet him than hear news—bad news—over the phone or worse, in a series of texts messages, but this whole situation had her stomach twisting with knots.

“Not in a sentence,” he said almost in a whisper then she heard what sounded like his palm covering the receiver and a rushed, muffled conversation ensued. When the line opened up again, he said, “I’d really like to talk to you in person.”

Eagerly she asked, “Where?” not wanting to lose him to another conversation.

“There’s a 24-hour diner called Annie’s Kitchen on Amsterdam and 134th-”

“I know it,” she cut in.

“I can be there in ten minutes.”

Again, his end of the phone went soft, but this time Tasha heard him greeting someone approaching the counter.

When his voice returned, he sounded curt, asking, “See you there?”

“I’ll be there,” she said fast before the line went dead.

Tasha sprang from the couch and after a moment of indecision, padded to her dresser beside the desk in the corner of her studio and pulled open drawer after drawer, feeling excited and strangely panicked in anticipation of seeing him.

What
was
that? she asked herself, as she selected a purple, v-neck tee from the bottom drawer along with a pair of black jeans. Dressing quickly and wasting a few too many seconds on whether or not to wear a necklace, she decided there was nothing wrong with liking a guy simply because he seemed to care. And he
did
care. Unlike that other cop who hadn’t believed her until she’d handed her camera over, and unlike the desk attendant who couldn’t even look at her earlier that night, Kevin had not only met her gaze, but had actually
seen her
and his actions had shown that he was invested, even aligned with her, in such a way that he was willing to see this through so she wouldn’t feel alone.

Once dressed, she slipped on a pair of Converse sneakers and her gray, leather jacket, locked up her apartment, and rushed down the stairs.

Annie’s Kitchen was a good ten blocks north of her building on Amsterdam. Traffic hummed down the avenue as she worked her way north, walking briskly along the blocks and waiting impatiently when the crosswalk signal flashed red. At times she glanced over her shoulder and across the street, slightly paranoid that the Russian might be following her, but all she saw was pedestrians walking with metaphorical blinders on. No one had her in their sights.

The diner's neon sign—orange but steady—came into view on the corner. Tasha slowed her step, taking a moment to look up the sidewalk in case Kevin was hurrying towards, but she didn’t see him and ducked into the restaurant, pushing the glass door open.

She was met with the familiar clatter of dishes being slapped on tables, orders being shouted in the kitchen, and the scent of late night pancakes, hash browns, and milkshakes.

It would’ve been nicer if the diner wasn’t so brightly lit, but she couldn’t say she wasn’t used to it. She had been to Annie’s probably a million times since moving into her studio apartment, and the fact that Kevin had suggested it made her wonder if he frequented the place. Would she have met him if she hadn't witnessed a murder?

Which brought her to a more pressing question, what the hell was going on that he had to tell her in person?

The approaching waitress—an aged looking forty-year old wearing the standard Annie’s yellow smock—seemed too bleary eyed to greet her properly, but understood well enough when Tasha mentioned she was meeting someone.

After the waitress plucked two sticky, oversized menus from the hostess stand, she led Tasha down the aisle along the window and as she slowed at a vacant booth, she asked, “Coffee? Beer?” then slapped the menus on the table.

“Water for now,” she said, sliding into the far side of the booth so she could keep her eye on the door. It wasn’t until the waitress started for the kitchen that she blurted out, “What tea do you have?”

With a sigh, the older woman began reciting the options, but Tasha’s attention was stolen, as the entrance door swung open and Kevin rounded towards the hostess stand.

He was dressed in full uniform, minus the police cap, and after scanning the room, his eyes locked with hers, which sent a stark jolt of excitement through her and caused her chest to burn.

She tempered her breathing, as he made his way down the aisle.

The waitress asked him, “And for you?”

But he was holding Tasha’s gaze. The moment of eye contact seemed to linger and though he directed his statement to their waitress, his gaze remained on Tasha.

“I might need a minute.”

Ignoring his request, she rattled off, “Coffee? Beer? Wine?”

Kevin cocked his head at Tasha, as if wondering what she had ordered so she supplied, “I’m thinking tea.” Glancing at the waitress, she asked, “Do you have rooibus?”

The woman looked annoyed. “We have earl grey and black.”

“Water’s fine,” she said quietly, trying not to stare at Kevin, something about being in his company a third time sent her heart racing in a way that she didn’t mind, but also worried she couldn’t control. She didn’t want her voice to start quavering.

Kevin grasped the back of the booth, telling the waitress he’d have a Rolling Rock then his eyebrow arched as he flicked his eyes at Tasha.

Drinking on the job?
she thought to herself, not that she was judging him.

As the waitress lumbered off to fetch their beverage orders, he slid into the seat across from her and offhandedly said, “It’s one of those nights.”

“Already?” she asked, studying him, as he rested his elbows on the table, perhaps an excuse to lean towards her. Whatever it was, she couldn’t help but notice how the angle caused his uniform to pull taut around his biceps.

His gaze went soft as if remembering a rocky encounter he’d just escaped, yet his lips curled at one corner. “It’s a combination,” he began explaining, “of having dealt with some bullshit, but also anticipating there will be a lot more before I’m released at three in the morning.”

“Damn,” she said, her brows floating up. “That’s a long shift.”

“Not really,” he said easily before drawing in a deep breath and leaning his back against the booth. “Just late hours.”

He angled his eyes on her and rested his hands on the table, but said nothing, only held her gaze. Tasha’s knee-jerk reaction was to fill the silence so things wouldn’t feel awkward, but after a moment of wracking her brain for literally anything to say, she realized nothing about this situation felt awkward. If anything, her elevated heart rate and sudden self-consciousness were anchored in the thrill of having this time with him. But as exciting as it was, it didn’t detract from her curiosity about why he had asked her here.

The waitress shuffled over with his beer and a cloudy glass of tap water, and set them down with little tact. Kevin’s beer clanked against the plastic surface and Tasha’s water sloshed all over the table, not that the waitress noticed. She lifted her pen to her notepad and asked, “What’ll it be?”