Trouble (45 page)

A few days later, when Dara and Mike sat on his office sofa, discussing one of her memoranda, Laura buzzed him to say he had an important call.

“Mike?” a voice said curtly when he picked up. “It's Miller.”

Sam Miller was a detective from District One, which covered, among other neighborhoods, the danger zone Jamal called home. Mike had gotten to know Miller pretty well over the years and respected him for his fairness. Even so, a frisson of alarm edged up his spine, and he shot Dara a worried look.

“Everything okay, Sam?”

“No,” Miller said. “I got the call on another case last night around one. A robbery down the block from Jamal's building. We were canvassing the area and saw Jamal on the corner with a bunch of his so-called friends. They were all drunk.”

“Shit.”
Mike tightened his grip on the phone in a feeble attempt to keep his hand steady. His brain, meanwhile, automatically scrolled through the list of charges the police could bring against Jamal for this infraction, any one of which would land him back in the juvenile facility: breaking curfew, underage drinking, public drunkenness, spending time with other felons. The list went on and on, making his gut do sickening cartwheels. “Did you take them in?”

“No, but you owe me one. I gave them a warning, and they scattered without any problem.”

Thank God
.

Overwhelmed with relief, Mike needed a couple seconds to reactivate his voice. “I won't forget this, Sam,” he said hoarsely.

Dara had been watching and listening, her eyes wide with concern.

“What is it?” she asked when he hung up.

Mike struggled hard to keep his temper in check, when what he really wanted to do was march down to Jamal's office and wring his scrawny neck for being so stupid.

“That was Sam Miller, one of my friends on the force,” he said, gritting his teeth. “He had to break up a bunch of punks loitering and drinking on the street last night. Jamal was with them. He was drunk.”

Dara paled. “What about his probation?”

“Luckily, Miller just gave them a warning, and they went home without any problems.”

Too agitated to sit still, he got up to pace and run through his options for disciplining Jamal. Too bad the little idiot was too big for corporal punishment. Should he call his mother? Dock his pay? He could …

Dara stood and put her hand on his arm, stopping him.

“I'm not trying to excuse Jamal,” she said calmly, “but you know teenagers drink—”

Mike gaped at her. Was she for real right now?

“I don't give a shit what normal teenagers do! Jamal is on probation! If Miller had arrested him, he'd be on his way to juvenile detention right now, no matter how much I begged the judge! And what do you think the guards and the other inmates would do to him there?”

“I'm not saying it wasn't incredibly stupid—”

“Good.”

“But it's normal teenage behavior. If you come down too hard on him, you'll drive him away, and who knows what'll happen then? As far as I can tell, you're the only positive role model he's got.”

“I haven't invested this much time and energy in him, and encouraged him and supported him—”

“And loved him,” she supplied quietly.

“Yeah, and
loved
him, for him to do something this fucking stupid and screw it all up in one thoughtless second!”

Dara, being Dara, took his outburst in stride. “Didn't you ever drink with your friends? Sow any wild oats? I'm not saying you should let him off the hook, but keep it in perspective.”

“I rarely drink. I don't approve of teenagers drinking. Do you?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course. The great Mike Baldwin doesn't approve of drinking, and woe to those—”

“‘The great Mike Baldwin?”' he said, surprised. “You really think I'm a pompous ass, don't you?”

Wry smile. “I hate to tell you this, but most of us are mere mortals. We're not going to live up to your impeccable standards every second of every day. Sorry.”

He snorted. “Is there a point anywhere in my future? Before I die of old age?”

“The point is you're the only positive thing in his life, and he needs you.”

Sighing, Mike sat back on the sofa and rested his elbows on his knees.

She sat beside him.

“Don't come down too hard on him.” She leaned closer, her voice sweetly soothing in his ear. “You're not his father. I'll bet he's had a pretty good scare thrown into him already.”

Mike turned to her. “What would you do?” He was, much to his own surprise, anxious to hear her opinion. She and Jamal had become pretty friendly, and she was closer to Jamal's age than he was.

She thought for a moment. “Don't you have a hearing in juvenile court later in the week? Why don't you take him to lockup with you when you meet with the client? That'll give him something to think about. But don't make a big production out of it.”

He hung his head again and rubbed his temples. “I'll think about it.”

“Don't worry, Mike,” she said. “It'll be okay.”

Mike stilled, his eyes drifting shut. The way she said his name in that husky voice was an endearment. And she was so close. He wanted to lay his head in her lap, soak up her comfort, and let her share some of the worrying about Jamal, because he needed her. Did she do this with Sean, too? For once he didn't care. As long as she did it with him.

And then, to his utter astonishment, she stroked the back of his neck.

Her hand felt soft, warm, and smooth—her touch firm and confident. And his whole body heated for her. He wanted to crush her supple form to his, to taste her sweet lips, to lose himself inside her body, to feel her convulse around him as she cried his name.

Sean's face flashed through his mind's eye, an ice-cold and unwelcome intrusion upon this thrilling moment with Dara.

Mike's entire being clenched.

“Don't,” he barked, surging to his feet.

She snatched her hand back and stared up at him. Bewilderment flashed through her eyes, followed quickly by hurt. She jumped up and fled without a word.

He watched her go, wanting to snatch her back and beg her to touch him again.

Jamal found Dara in her office later. “Mike says I should thank you for saving my sorry ass.”

Dara had heard the two males shouting it out earlier. While it wasn't the fifteen-round bout she'd feared, Mike had still extracted his pound of flesh, which made her wonder what it would've sounded like if she hadn't “saved” Jamal.

And she was gratified and ridiculously pleased that Mike—strong, opinionated, arrogant and determined—had bothered to listen to anything she'd said.

She shouldn't have touched him, of course.

“What happened?” she asked, pushing the image of Mike's furious face far away.

Jamal grimaced. “He's docking my pay for two weeks and giving me a bunch of shit work.”

She kept her face neutral. “You think that's unfair?”

He broke into a grin that was as wicked as ever. “Nah. Not when you consider the stuff I've gotten away with that Mike doesn't know anything about.”

“Excuse me?” she snapped. “I don't really think doing things that could get your probation revoked is a laughing matter.”

“I screwed up.” His smile faded, leaving his young face vulnerable and sincere. “I won't do it again.”

“Good,” Dara said, mollified.

“What I want to know is, what have you done to Mike? He doesn't listen to anyone.”

A fierce wave of heat crawled up her neck and over her face, probably making her glow like a fire engine beneath a spotlight.

“We just talked,” she said, waving a hand as casually as she could.

“
Talked
. Yeah.” Jamal turned to go but stopped to look back at her. “I just hope you use your powers for good and don't go over to the dark side.”

This next group of deleted scenes deals with Mike and Dara's growing
attraction as they try to work together at the office and/or their developing
relationship once they stop fighting the attraction. I cut them because they're
duplicative of other scenes in the book. But I still think they're kind of fun!

Mike stalked relentlessly back and forth in the brownstone's foyer. It was seven thirty Monday morning, and he was the only one there so far. Weak sunlight streamed in through the slats of the open wooden blinds, making the room a warm, peaceful haven at this time of day, but he didn't notice. With every step, he felt himself become more agitated, like a teapot right before the boil. Dara would be here any second. And he was waiting for her—had been since seven. It wasn't cool to accost the poor girl the second she arrived at the office, but at this point he was too far gone to care about social niceties.

He'd barely survived the weekend. Saturdays and Sundays were getting harder and harder because he couldn't stand to go two days without seeing Dara. In fact, what used to be the best part of the week now felt like a forty-eight-hour punishment. If he kept on like this, he'd have to institute a mandatory weekend workday just so he could get his fix of her. This weekend was especially unbearable because he kept remembering how she'd felt in his arms in the supply closet, how she'd turned her face up to his, how she'd vibrated with passion. Now he knew one undeniable fact: Dara wanted him.

That one fact didn't do him a damn bit of good, but it gave him a fierce feeling of satisfaction.

And a strange sort of hope.

He stopped pacing long enough to glance at his watch. Seven thirty-one. Aaargh! Was she even coming? When would she get here? Soon? God, he hoped so. He couldn't possibly get any work done until she arrived. His unfailing discipline had failed. Nothing on earth felt as important as seeing Dara. Still, he hated to completely waste his time. Maybe he should make some coffee. Yeah. Good idea. He'd taken two steps toward the kitchen when he heard the jingle of keys outside the front door.

There she was!

He wanted to fling the door open and jerk her into his arms. Instead, he turned and sprinted up the steps to his office. He felt idiotic, like a love-struck schoolboy riding his bicycle past a neighbor girl's house to see if she was home.