Pierced: Pierced Trilogy Boxed Set (10 page)

I shimmy into the kitchen and set about putting a pot of water on to boil and pour a tiny bit of olive oil into the water. Then I take out one of the precooked grilled chicken breast I bought at the store and begin to cut it into bite sized pieces, all the while swaying and gyrating to the rhythm of the music. I sauté the chicken with fresh portabella mushrooms and sun-dried tomatoes. When it’s done, I set it aside and go to work on making my alfredo sauce.

When the sauce is ready, I add the chicken and vegetables to it and turn the heat way down to simmer, and my water begins to boil. I drop in the cheese-filled tortellini and give it a stir. As I’m waiting for it to cook, my doorbell rings. Who in the world could that be? I go to the door and stand on tip toe in order to look through the peep hole, and my heart crashes into my ribs. It’s Detective Pierce!
Breathe, Sam.
My subconscious whispers frantically.
Just breathe.

I rush over to the iPod and turn the music down a notch. Then over to the mirror that hangs above the small table near the door and hastily run my fingers through my hair. Great. Fresh out of the shower and no makeup! I ignore my subconscious, but she’s right. Not that I normally wear much make up anyway but, right now I look pale and dull. I pinch my cheeks to bring a little color and groan at my reflection. I give up, I’m useless. I roll my eyes at myself and hurry back to the door. When I open it, our eyes collide for a few unending seconds. Wow.

“Hello, Miss Colby.” His deep voice sounds husky. As if he’s unsure of himself.

“Detective Pierce.” God, he looks good. My heart is beating wildly, keeping time with Madonna’s sexy little tune. “Please, come in.” I open the door wider and step aside. As he walks by me, I note that he really is tall, at least six feet. Maybe even a couple inches taller than that. That’s at least five or six inches taller than my five foot, seven inch frame. He walks into my apartment and glances around and, if I didn’t know any better, I would think that he was slightly nervous. I close the door and walk over to where he stands, looking around my place.

My apartment is in an upscale building but, I wouldn’t call it grand, although it is on the penthouse level and it’s two stories. But it’s not like I’m in a sleek highrise the way Lucas is in his apartment downtown. The door opens onto the large living area and the kitchen is off to the right. An L-shaped counter separates the two spaces. The kitchen is as large as any you might encounter in a small house, and off of it sits the small dining area. It’s large enough for my full-sized round glass table and four chairs. A breakfast bar with two stools forms the other half of the L-shaped counter, separating the kitchen from the dining room, and beyond that is a second balcony. Aside from my bedroom with the en suite bathroom, the place has a second bedroom with a guest bathroom across the hall. The entire second floor upstairs, I use as a work space to paint because the light is amazing.

“What brings you by, Detective?” I ask. My voice sounds very breathy to me and I really hope that he doesn’t notice.

“Well, I heard you were released from the hospital today,” he begins, his voice sounding hesitant, “and I wanted to come by … and check on you. Make sure you had gotten those locks changed,” he adds, nodding toward the door.

“Oh, yes. Of course,” I stammer anxiously. His steady gaze is unnerving. “My brother had the locks changed yesterday.”

He nods at my response. “That’s good … that’s good.” He looks away, and again I get the sense that he’s slightly nervous. In a strange way, it makes me feel emboldened. Or maybe that’s just the power of Madonna.

“I’m sorry, where are my manners?” I say, shaking my head slightly. “Would you like a drink, Detective?”

From his raised eyebrows, I deduce that I have surprised him. But he quickly follows with a frown. “No.” His response is gruff, almost as if he’s suddenly angry and I am more than a little bewildered. “I should go,” he says and he turns quickly and moves toward the door. He stops short and stands facing the door for several seconds. Then he turns to me and he looks … just as bewildered as I feel.

“I’m sorry, Miss Colby,” he says looking me in the eye. “I didn’t mean for that to sound so harsh.”

“No, please. Don’t apologize,” I say quietly. “I’m sure it was my fault. I should have guessed you were on duty.”

“No, I’m not actually,” he mumbles with a shrug.

“You’re not on duty right now?” I ask, and my voice registers my surprise.

“No. I don’t usually work the weekends unless I have a hot case, or I get a lead on a case,” he says.

I am floored.
Maybe Megan’s right,
my subconscious whispers to me.
Perhaps he is interested in you!
I completely ignore her delusional fantasies and ask, “You came all this way to check on me … on your own time?”

He hesitates as he looks at me, and he seems to be having some sort of internal dialogue with himself. “Yes,” he says finally. “I was … worried about you.” He shrugs again.

Just then, I hear my pot of pasta boiling over. “Oh, my pasta,” I say with a start. “Excuse me!” I turn and hurry into the kitchen. Removing the pot from the stove, I carry it over to the sink where my colander sits waiting. I drain the pasta and grab a serving bowl from the cupboard. As I move around my kitchen, I am aware of Detective Pierce’s eyes on me and it both unnerves and exhilarates me. I transfer the drained pasta into the serving bowl and then pour the alfredo sauce down over top. The aroma is mouthwatering.

Carrying the dish of pasta to the breakfast bar, I ask, “Would you like to join me, Detective? I’ve made enough for a small army here.” I glance over at him and the look on his face almost makes me combust. He is so hot. He is dressed in a nice pair of jeans and a blue, long-sleeved dress shirt. Over the shirt he is wearing a black leather jacket, and I wonder idly if he’s wearing his gun beneath it. He appears to be momentarily speechless as he just watches me, and I take his silence to mean that he wants to stay but is reluctant to agree. I quickly grab two place mats from the drawer and go about setting two places at the breakfast bar. When I glance at him again, he is trying to stifle a smile and I grin. I am rewarded with an answering grin of his own and wow … my heart skips a beat. He is so handsome!

“Um … what would you like to drink?” I ask nervously, heading to the fridge. I pull out a bottle of apple Izze sparkling juice for myself. “Izze okay? I have apple, blueberry and peach.”

He is watching me warily now, as if he doesn’t quite know what to make of me. “Miss Colby,” he says. But I don’t give him the chance to continue his decline of dinner.

“Or, I have beer,” I offer. “Is Corona okay?” I say, taking out a frosty bottle. He shoots me a raised eyebrow and I think I’ve finally won him over.

He chuckles and accepts the beer, walking over to the breakfast bar. He sits the bottle down on the counter and removes his leather jacket, draping it over the back of a dining room chair, and I spot the butt of his gun at the back of his jeans. I become completely captivated at the sight of his broad chest and shoulders beneath his crisp blue shirt. The shirt, I notice, makes his unbelievably blue eyes really stand out.
Wow.
He sits on one of the bar stools and begins to open his beer.

“I have lime if you’d like,” I offer.

“You don’t have to go to any trouble,” he says softly.

“It’s no trouble at all,” I answer. I grab a small lime from the bowl of citrus in the fridge and take out a knife and cut off a small wedge. Then I place it gingerly into the mouth of his open beer bottle. When I look up from my task he is staring at me intently, his bright blue eyes bulldozing into me. I hold his gaze for what seems an eternity.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

“You’re welcome.” My response is a breathy whisper. I tear myself away from his eyes and join him at the breakfast bar and I know that he is watching my every move. I try to steady my nerves as I silently dish some pasta onto each of our plates.

We eat in silence for several minutes and my hunger is all but forgotten. I am a nervous wreck. He, on the other hand, eats heartily and it makes me smile.

“This is delicious, Miss Colby,” he says, glancing at me.

“Please call me Samantha,” I reply, taking a sip of my Izze.

He hesitates for a beat and then smiles slightly. “Samantha,” he says softly.

I watch, mesmerized, as he takes the lime from his beer bottle with his long fingers and gently squeezes it into the beer. Then he discards the lime on the edge of his plate and takes a sip of the beer. “Um … your name,” I say distractedly. “It’s Guy?”

I think my question startles him and looks at me strangely. “What did you say,” he asks, sounding slightly irritated.

“Uh … your first name,” I say timidly. “I heard the other officer call you Guy.”

“Oh,” he says, seeming to relax a bit. “No,” he shakes his head to emphasize his point. “Guy is just a nickname they use around the station. No one calls me that but other cops.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he smiles. And his irritation appears to be forgotten. “My name is Joshua. Although most people just call me Josh.”

“Joshua Pierce,” I say, testing the name with a smile. “It’s a nice name.”

He looks at me with a smirk. “Thanks,” he chuckles. “I’ll let my mother know.” He turns back to his pasta.

“So, what’s it like being a detective, Joshua?” I ask as I smile sweetly at him.

He narrows his eyes at me. “Did I mention that I hate ‘Joshua,’” he says, trying to hide his grin.

With wide eyes and a small smile, I slowly shake my head ‘no.’ “You just said everyone calls you Josh.”

“Hmm,” is his only response. Well, that and another smirk. But I can see laughter in his gorgeous blue eyes.

“So,
Josh,
what’s it like being a detective?” I smile, and he laughs slightly in response. The sound of his laughter is deep and warm and it makes me smile even more.

“Being a detective is … sometimes a lot of long, boring hours and a lot of paperwork,” he says with a smile. Then he grows serious and continues, “But it can also be exciting and … very rewarding. Especially when I get the chance to really help someone. Make a difference in their lives.” He looks at me with a sober expression and says, “Sometimes what I do means life or death.”

I am taken aback by his earnestness. “It sounds like you take your job very seriously,” I say quietly.

He nods slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. “Being a cop is all I ever wanted to do. So, I guess you could say I give it my all.” He takes a long swig of his beer.

“That’s inspiring,” I say softly.

“Inspiring?” He looks at me questioningly.

“Yes,” I nod at him. “To have something you love that much. Something you want to use to … help others. I envy you,” I shrug.

He studies me for a moment and asks, “What about you, Miss Colby?”

“Samantha,” I correct him. “Or Sam.”

“Samantha.” He looks at me pointedly. “I know you work at the art museum. And I see a lot of art on your walls around here,” he says looking around my apartment. “Obviously, you’re into art,” he smiles.

“How did you guess,” I laugh.

“Hey, I’m a detective,” he smiles. “It’s what I do.”

I laugh at his lame joke. “Well, most of the art on my walls was either drawn or painted by yours truly.”

“Really?” he asks, surprised. “You did all this?”

“Yep. The frames are worth more than the art that’s in them, I’m afraid,” I say with a frown. “Although, I do have one piece hanging in my bedroom that is actually worth something. I love it; it’s an Amedeo Modigliani. One of his nudes. I bought it at an auction in Italy last year. Do you know his work?” I ask enthusiastically.

“Uh … no,” he says with an apologetic smile. “I know almost nothing about art. But your stuff looks great to me,” he says looking around at the still life paintings on the walls of the dining room. “I think you’re really good.”

I smile at his praise. “I am a total amateur. But thanks.” He looks back at me and smiles in response.

“So, you’re an heiress, right?” he asks suddenly with a slight frown. “Why don’t you have more of the real stuff?” My smile fades and he looks mortified. “Oh, God.” His voice is tinged with fear. “That came out completely wrong. I didn’t mean … um, I just meant…”

“No, it’s okay,” I say quietly. “I know what you meant.”

“No, it’s not okay,” he insists. “That was very rude of me. I’m sorry.”

“Josh, it’s okay. Really.” I give him a reassuring smile. “And you’re right. I could have an apartment full of priceless works of art if I wanted to.” I sigh and look around at my mediocre artwork. “The thing is … since I don’t actually work at Colby Coring, I feel like I didn’t do anything to earn any of that money. It was just handed to me. And I’m really proud of my family’s legacy. My Dad and my uncle and my grandad … and my great-grandfather. They all worked really hard to build that legacy. So, in a weird way, I don’t…” I sigh as I try to find the right words. “I don’t feel like I have a right to just frivolously enjoy it. I want to do something good with it.” I look over at him and he is studying me intently. “Make a difference in someone’s life somehow … like you said. Only I don’t know exactly how I want to do that yet. Once I figure that part out … then it’ll be my turn to enjoy it.” I shrug and look down at my half eaten plate of pasta.

“That’s … that’s really admirable of you,” he says quietly.

“I don’t know about that,” I reply with a shrug. I really need to lighten this conversation up. I notice that he’s finished his pasta and his beer. “Please help yourself to seconds,” I say. “Would you like another beer?”

He hesitates a beat and then answers, “Sure.”

Happily, I stand and go over to retrieve another Corona from the fridge. Without asking this time, I cut him another small wedge of lime as he opens the bottle. Our fingers touch as I hand him the slice of lime and I feel that same jolt of electricity I felt when he touched my hand at the hospital. I gasp softly and his eyes seem to lock onto mine. We are frozen for what feels like several minutes, but I know in reality it’s only a few fleeting seconds. I look away nervously.