warehouse,
and you're going to tell me—if I have to beat it out of you."
Somehow that got to her, because color flooded back into her face
from the neck up. She started moving her head from side to side, slowly, like a
dreamer in denial.
"Yeah," he said softly. "You will." It gave
him deep, fierce satisfaction to have her under his total control. She couldn't
escape him this time, and once he straightened out this mess, he'd make sure
she'd never run away from him again.
Before he could touch her, she shoved at the heavy watercooler,
and knocked it over.
Chapter Three
Terri wanted nothing more than to ditch the impromptu press
conference and get back upstairs before J. D. did something unforgivable—or
worse, prosecutable. But Captain Pellerin was in a lousy mood, and the
reporters smelled blood. Someone had leaked the news that gubernatorial
candidate Marc LeClare had been found burned to death in one of his own
warehouses, and aside from Mardi Gras, there was no bigger news than that.
She stood at Pellerin's side as he issued a terse, no-frills,
no-details statement, refusing to identify the victim until the next of kin
were notified; then he parried a few pointed questions before dismissing the
media. The reporters tried to suck her into spilling something, but Terri knew
better than to open her mouth.
"I want you and Gamble in my office," Pellerin told her
as they went back upstairs. He was a short, heavy-set man who looked like a
rabid bulldog on his good days. "As soon as he's done with the
witness."
"Yes, sir." She kept her expression blank, but her
stomach knotted. Pellerin didn't get steamed without good reason—and it wasn't
just the media sharks. Every friend Marc LeClare had—and he had them all the
way up to the White House—would be calling and demanding answers.
And when they found out about the girl? All hell would break
loose.
She went to her desk to pull the necessary report forms for Laure
LeClare to fill out, when her phone rang. "Detective Vincent."
"It's me," a familiar deep voice, almost identical to J.
D.'s, said. "What's going on down there?"
Every one of her muscles tightened; Terri could think of no one
she'd rather speak to less. The voice belonged to Chief Fire Marshal Cortland
Gamble, another person her partner should have dealt with himself. Unlike his
brother, Cort was rigid and serious, and devoted himself utterly to the job. He
was universally respected and the best fire marshal the city had had in years.
None of which explained why she'd fallen for him years ago.
Terri was still so ridiculously infatuated with Cort Gamble that
she didn't trust herself around him. One kind word from him would have punched
through the fortress she'd built around her heart and wrecked her forever, and
she couldn't allow that. Wouldn't allow him to do that to her. So she
avoided him, and hoped in time that she could starve her stupid female feelings
to death.
It hadn't worked so far, but there was nothing else she could do.
Like J. D., Cort liked high-maintenance, low-IQ women who looked good on his
arm. Terri Vincent was as far from that as a woman could get and still qualify
as a member of the female gender. "Arson, murder, mayhem, the usual."
She kept her tone light and happy. Cort hated light and happy "How's the
weather in Biloxi, Chief? You working on your tan?"
" Ijust got word from my department," he said, his
voice dropping from chilly to flash frozen. "Who killed Marc
LeClare?"
"We're investigating that." She wasn't going to tell him
that his brother's ex-girlfriend was mixed up with his father's best friend;
the phone lines couldn't handle that kind of volume. "Maybe you should
come on home; I think J. D.'s going to need some help on this one." Though
what Cort could do for him, she didn't know. Cortland Gamble was as by-the-book
as a Supreme Court judge.
"I'll catch the first flight I can get. You tell J. D."
Am I his partner or his answering service? That
was when Terri heard
and you're going to tell me—if I have to beat it out of you."
Somehow that got to her, because color flooded back into her face
from the neck up. She started moving her head from side to side, slowly, like a
dreamer in denial.
"Yeah," he said softly. "You will." It gave
him deep, fierce satisfaction to have her under his total control. She couldn't
escape him this time, and once he straightened out this mess, he'd make sure
she'd never run away from him again.
Before he could touch her, she shoved at the heavy watercooler,
and knocked it over.
Chapter Three
Terri wanted nothing more than to ditch the impromptu press
conference and get back upstairs before J. D. did something unforgivable—or
worse, prosecutable. But Captain Pellerin was in a lousy mood, and the
reporters smelled blood. Someone had leaked the news that gubernatorial
candidate Marc LeClare had been found burned to death in one of his own
warehouses, and aside from Mardi Gras, there was no bigger news than that.
She stood at Pellerin's side as he issued a terse, no-frills,
no-details statement, refusing to identify the victim until the next of kin
were notified; then he parried a few pointed questions before dismissing the
media. The reporters tried to suck her into spilling something, but Terri knew
better than to open her mouth.
"I want you and Gamble in my office," Pellerin told her
as they went back upstairs. He was a short, heavy-set man who looked like a
rabid bulldog on his good days. "As soon as he's done with the
witness."
"Yes, sir." She kept her expression blank, but her
stomach knotted. Pellerin didn't get steamed without good reason—and it wasn't
just the media sharks. Every friend Marc LeClare had—and he had them all the
way up to the White House—would be calling and demanding answers.
And when they found out about the girl? All hell would break
loose.
She went to her desk to pull the necessary report forms for Laure
LeClare to fill out, when her phone rang. "Detective Vincent."
"It's me," a familiar deep voice, almost identical to J.
D.'s, said. "What's going on down there?"
Every one of her muscles tightened; Terri could think of no one
she'd rather speak to less. The voice belonged to Chief Fire Marshal Cortland
Gamble, another person her partner should have dealt with himself. Unlike his
brother, Cort was rigid and serious, and devoted himself utterly to the job. He
was universally respected and the best fire marshal the city had had in years.
None of which explained why she'd fallen for him years ago.
Terri was still so ridiculously infatuated with Cort Gamble that
she didn't trust herself around him. One kind word from him would have punched
through the fortress she'd built around her heart and wrecked her forever, and
she couldn't allow that. Wouldn't allow him to do that to her. So she
avoided him, and hoped in time that she could starve her stupid female feelings
to death.
It hadn't worked so far, but there was nothing else she could do.
Like J. D., Cort liked high-maintenance, low-IQ women who looked good on his
arm. Terri Vincent was as far from that as a woman could get and still qualify
as a member of the female gender. "Arson, murder, mayhem, the usual."
She kept her tone light and happy. Cort hated light and happy "How's the
weather in Biloxi, Chief? You working on your tan?"
" Ijust got word from my department," he said, his
voice dropping from chilly to flash frozen. "Who killed Marc
LeClare?"
"We're investigating that." She wasn't going to tell him
that his brother's ex-girlfriend was mixed up with his father's best friend;
the phone lines couldn't handle that kind of volume. "Maybe you should
come on home; I think J. D.'s going to need some help on this one." Though
what Cort could do for him, she didn't know. Cortland Gamble was as by-the-book
as a Supreme Court judge.
"I'll catch the first flight I can get. You tell J. D."
Am I his partner or his answering service? That
was when Terri heard
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