She's Got the Look (2 page)

She sighed. “Lately my only fantasies have been about the chocolate volcano cake at Chez Jacques. I'm dying for some, but one bite'll make my butt bulge out of my wedding gown.”

Tanya grunted, probably because she was thin as a rail and ate like a linebacker. Unlike Melody, who had been taking note of every morsel she consumed since her ninth birthday when her mother had given her an electronic calorie counter instead of the Hello Kitty play set she'd asked for.

“My father knows the chef at Chez Jacques,” Rosemary said. “His name's not Jacques, it's Charlie.”

“Okay, Charlie the chef,” Mel said. “He's fourth. A man who makes art out of chocolate must be good with his hands.”

Then there was one slot left. One more fantasy guy. One more traitorous thought of another man before she ended the naughty game and focused on her fiancé. Her
reality.

Draining the rest of her margarita, she contemplated naming whoever had invented fat-free cheese curls, if only to balance things out with the chocolate guy. The words were on her lips when suddenly the big-screen TV over the bar caught her eye. Or, rather, the news segment playing on it did.

She couldn't hear well, but she didn't have to. She knew the story. Everyone was talking about the Georgia hero who'd rescued some orphans in a third-world country. A photographer had captured the amazing moment, right in the heat of battle, and the picture had graced the cover of
Time
magazine last week.

It was the magazine cover that filled the screen right now as the Savannah station picked up on the Georgia-boy-done-good angle. Melody stared, unable to tear her eyes away from the haunting image. The thick-armed marine—strikingly handsome even while covered with grime and streaked with soot—was heroism personified. In one arm, he cradled a baby while, with the other, he braced an older child against his side. A tiny pair of hands and a little tear-streaked face peering above his shoulder said there was a third youngster clinging to his back.

The soldier's dusty face was grim with resolve, his body reportedly wounded yet still so strong. The taut cords in his neck spoke of adrenaline, anger and battle—all so stark against the tenderness with which he held the children. Behind him was the outline of a burning building, orange flames merging with streaks of light that could only have been mortar fire.

But it was the eyes that got to her. The dark brown eyes, full of determination, emotion. Anger and mourning. Eyes that said he had seen too much and been cut too deeply for someone as young as he appeared to be.

His image burned itself into her brain, remaining there long after the news segment had ended and the picture had disappeared.

“Mel? You okay?” Paige asked.

She nodded slowly. Then, without having to give it another thought, she whispered, “Move everyone on the list down one.”

Melody didn't even know the guy's name or where he lived. Or even if he'd make it back from his next mission in whatever war-ravaged country he was in now.

She wanted him. Passionately. Unequivocally. Undeniably.

“Marine hero on
Time
magazine. He's in first place,” she murmured, still visualizing his face.

There was no doubt in her mind that if she ever met the man with the haunting brown eyes—which had seemed to stare directly at her from the cover of the magazine—he'd be absolutely impossible to resist. He was larger than life, a once-in-a-lifetime fantasy man. A hero.

And now, the number-one guy on her Men Most Wanted list.

Present Day

T
HE REDHEAD WITH
the camera was spying on him again.

Nick Walker glanced into his rearview mirror and saw the woman skulking around the corner of the church across the square. Every once in a while, she lifted the big camera that hung from one shoulder, swinging it in front of her face to snap off a shot of the trees. The birds. The sky. The church.

All of which was to hide her real photographic subject.
Him.

He sighed deeply, shaking his head, wondering how long he could wait—and how far he could let her go—before his cover was blown. Not too much longer, that was for sure.

He hadn't figured on going unnoticed when he'd started this undercover assignment a couple of days ago. Nobody dressed in his ratty clothes, with the shaggy beard, and two-days-past-needing-a-shower hair
wouldn't
be looked at in old Savannah. Not to mention the car. It was a standard, city-issued, undercover P.O.S—Piece Of Shit—the color showing through the rust falling somewhere between puce and putrid.

But the cover was still a good one, considering the eclectic nature of the population in this area. There were just as likely to be panhandlers as millionaires moseying around some of the city's famous squares. This getup was noticeable, but quickly forgotten by the busy residents who really didn't want to think too much about how the “other half” lived.

So yeah, he'd been prepared for
some
attention. What he hadn't expected was a frigging Nancy Drew out with her camera, snapping clandestine shots of a suspected bad guy and his license plate. She was about as clandestine as a tank.

“Lady, go home,” he pleaded softly, willing the woman to retreat into the building where she'd recently moved. The building where he was
supposed
to be conducting this stakeout.

That'd been the plan, anyway, which made the woman's nosiness even more aggravating. His partner, Dex Delaney, was involved with the daughter of the building's owner. Dex had felt sure his girlfriend, Rosemary, could arrange to let them use the building. It would have been perfect—discreet, vacant. An ideal place to stake out the first-floor apartment in the building across the street where a suspected drug trafficker resided.

Then, after Nick had grown in a beard and scavenged clothes from Goodwill, the ax had fallen. Rosemary's father had refused, saying he'd rented the building to a family friend in need. Considering Rosemary's social circles, the woman probably needed a place to stay so her mansion could be painted.

One thing
he
hadn't needed was to have his stakeout made ten times tougher because of a rich woman's whim. “Why the hell couldn't she have moved in next month?” he muttered, still frustrated by the change in plans that had him sitting here on a sweltering ninety-five-degree day in a car that smelled like the last ninety-five men who'd been in it.

Sometimes he really didn't like his job.

“But not often,” he admitted to himself.

Most times, he
loved
his job. Being a cop gave him more satisfaction than he'd ever dreamed of having in his civilian life. Funny, coming out of the marines four years ago, he hadn't been sure what he'd do. Going back to his hometown had been impossible. College? A fantasy. He'd gotten used to being in action, to fighting and surviving. To nailing bad guys. On a big scale or on a small one, taking criminals out of commission was what he did best…he'd figured that out back when he wasn't sure he'd ever give a damn about anything again.

Nick liked to think of it as weeding out the bullies. Pushers or terrorists, they were all the same. Narrow-minded. Violent. Caring nothing for anyone else. Just like any other loud, abusive, small-town bully trying to impose his will on everyone around him.

The one he'd grown up with, for instance.

So yeah, being a cop was a perfect fit. He'd never regretted his choice of careers. Except maybe a
tiny
bit on days like today. “Come on, Rupert, you punk, come visit Mr. Miller here so I can go home, shave and take a shower,” he said under his breath. Rupert was a low-level dealer. Miller was the big fish who brought in the shit that poisoned kids, ruined lives and sparked crime by addicts desperate to get one more high.

Nailing Miller would help a lot of people…which meant a lot to Nick. Because he'd discovered something else when he'd been fighting half a world away in a war-torn area foreign to anything he'd ever known: he was good at helping people who couldn't help themselves. That was his talent, his calling.

He'd picked up that burden in Kosovo. And he'd never been able to put it back down.

“Hey, partner, you still awake?”

He slid down, trying not to let his head come in contact with the headrest. His personal ick-limit wouldn't stand for it.

“I'm here,” he said softly into the small, handheld radio, keeping it concealed by his fingers. “Nancy Drew's back on the beat, keeping the area safe from miscreants and jaywalkers.”

Dex laughed. He
could.
He was covering the back of the building. In the shade. In a newer car. With air-conditioning.

Nick was the rookie detective. So he got the P.O.S.

“You ever find out from Rosemary why this friend simply
had
to move in
now?
” he asked, his voice still low, his eyes constantly scanning the street.

“She's an old friend of Rosie's who's starting a new photography business,” Dex said.

Hence the camera.

“Apparently she just came out of a really ugly divorce.”

“Wait…there's a truck pulling up.” Nick lowered the radio, watching in his side mirror as a sizable U-Haul truck maneuvered up the street. It almost clipped a BMW and came damn close to taking out a street sign. As the truck passed, he casually glanced over and saw a small woman with curly light brown hair clutching the wheel as if she was a lion tamer holding a chair.

“No,”
he bit out when the truck stopped. “Keep going.”

The radio crackled. “What is it?”

“Trouble. A big truck just pulled up in front of Rosemary's father's building and double-parked. It's completely blocking my visual on the perp's apartment. Not to mention traffic.”

“Want me to get a uniform out there to tell them to move?”

“Absolutely,” he said when he realized the driver was getting out of the truck. The woman called to someone. Somehow, Nick couldn't muster up much surprise when he saw she was waving at the nosy photographer, who came jogging over.

That female was destined to be the bane of his existence this week.

He waited, tapping his fingers on the dash, watching the two women from behind his dark sunglasses. They stood beside the truck and talked for a while, looking upset. Finally the short, curly-haired driver pulled a cell phone out of her purse. Crossing the street to the shady square, she sat on a bench and started an animated phone conversation.

“No, you are
not
doing this,” he muttered, shaking his head as he observed the other one—the tall photographer—open the back of the truck and climb inside.

But she
was
doing it. As he watched in disbelief, she came staggering down the truck ramp carrying a double mattress. All he could see of her behind the mattress was two sandal-clad feet at the bottom, and two hands clutched on either side. Her oblivious friend was turned the other way, not even watching.

“Dammit.”

He looked at his watch. Tried again to peer around the truck. Wondered just how long it was going to take a beat cop to get his ass here and get the truck off the street. But most of all, he wondered what the heck the woman thought she was doing schlepping furniture all by herself on a hot summer day.

“Watch it, lady, you're gonna fall,” he whispered when she reached the curb, which he thought she might not see.

Nope. She didn't see it. Realizing what was going to happen, he called, “No!” and leaped out of his car. But it was too late. She tripped and fell forward. It was her extreme good fortune, however, that she landed right on her own mattress.

Before he could think better of it, Nick jogged the few yards over to her. “You okay?”

The woman was still lying there, facedown on the mattress in the middle of the sidewalk. She mumbled something but since her face was buried, he couldn't make out what.

While waiting for her to move, he noted the richness of her thick hair, which, on closer inspection, was more auburn than true red. It was a warm shade, the color of vibrant earth after a rain. And he definitely noted her tall, curvy form, clad in tight jeans and a sleeveless white tank top.

If he'd thought she was really hurt, he might not have taken a second to appreciate the way she filled out those jeans. But she'd landed on something soft, and the view was definitely worth appreciating.
Definitely.
Hell, a saint would have looked, and no Walker had ever been accused of being a saint. A devil straight from hell was a more frequent expression.

Breathing deeply, he swallowed his libido back into his gut. “Ma'am? Do you need help getting up?” He cast a quick look to the side, noting that Miller's blinds were closed tight. Hopefully he wasn't sitting there in the darkness of his apartment, watching the world through his warped little drug-pushing eyes.

“I'm fine,” he heard as the woman pushed herself up to her knees, until she was on all fours right below him.

Lord have mercy.

Nick closed his eyes briefly, thrusting every low-down wicked Walker thought out of his head by sheer force of will. Trying to find the good manners his mama had tried so hard to teach him, he got hold of himself. When he opened his eyes again, the woman had risen to her feet. Thank God.

It took him less than a second to realize she was afraid of him. Though she jutted her chin out and kept her head up, she did step back. She obviously recognized him as the suspected pervert from the rust bucket parked at the curb around the corner.

He put his hands up, palms out. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

The tension in her body eased a bit, which gave Nick a chance to study her from behind his tinted sunglasses.

She was tall, and as nicely curved in the front as she was in the back. Though dark circles hinted of stress and her cheeks were a little pale—maybe even gaunt—her face didn't suffer for it. In fact, she had a
great
face—wide mouth that would probably be beautiful when she smiled. Big old eyes that he figured were blue, but couldn't tell for sure because of his glasses. Long lashes, creamy complexion, high cheekbones. Yes, indeed, his Nancy Drew was a pretty woman. Even if she was a busybody.

“If you'll excuse me, I have to get this done,” she said, her voice sounding shaky. As if she hadn't completely accepted that he was merely a nice bystander wanting to help out. Considering how he looked, he couldn't blame her.

Then she turned her back on him and bent over again—heaven help him for being a
bad
man—and tried picking up the mattress.

“You're gonna hurt yourself,” he said, his throat tight.

“I'm stronger than I look.” Still bent over, she stared doubtfully at the building and added under her breath, “Though the stairs up to the third floor may be…difficult.”

“
Third
floor?” he snapped in disbelief.

“It'll be fine,” she insisted, straightening up—without the mattress. “I'm just bringing a few things up there. Not much.”

He followed the airy hand she waved and looked into the truck. No, not much. Just a frigging box spring, dresser, small table, two chairs and a love seat. “You're nuts. For God's sake, wait for the movers.” Then, remembering he had a job to get back to, he added, “And you
have
to move this truck.”

She stiffened. “I don't have any movers. Paige's—my friend's husband was supposed to be here, but he's not.” Her voice rose a little and she stepped closer, as if she didn't even realize it. “I have to empty that truck and return it before four o'clock or I'm going to owe Paige for another day's rental.” Another step. Another flash of spirit. Another decibel and she was almost shouting. “And dammit, that truck is not going anywhere until I get
this
furniture into
that
building.”

Feisty. He liked that. He almost smiled, but figured she wouldn't appreciate it.

Despite a little quiver in her bottom lip, and her initial fear of him, the woman was standing her ground. But that quiver, and a hint of moisture in her big eyes, made him suspect she was hanging on to her bravado by a thin thread. Remembering what Dex had started to say a few minutes ago, he realized this woman was probably moving out on her own for the first time after her…how had his partner described it?
Ugly
divorce. With nothing but a bed, a table and a few chairs.

His heart twisted, even while a voice in his head whispered,
No, this is not your problem.

Damn. The last thing he needed was to worry about her, but he couldn't help it. Despite being a better-than-average-height female, she had such a look of vulnerability. Particularly in that unsmiling mouth and those darkly circled eyes. Empty eyes. Frightened eyes, he'd say, if he didn't already know she had guts, because of the way she'd been standing up to him.

Before he could decide what to do, a marked car pulled up behind the truck and a young beat cop Nick recognized from the station got out. Their eyes met for one second and the kid's mouth quirked in a smile as he took in Nick's getup.

“Someone's going to have to move this truck,” he said as he approached them. “It's blocking traffic.”

Nancy Drew's friend finally realized what was going on and came running from across the street. “Wait, please, we'll be so quick unloading it you won't even know we were here.”