She watched as his gaze dipped down to linger on her mouth. And it lifted again, desire flickering. Music pulsed in her ears from the headphones she stubbornly wore so that shewouldn’t have to speak to him. They were singing of hot nights and grinding needs.
Very carefully, she moved away. When she spoke into the mike again, her voice was even huskier.
He rose. He’d decided it was his only defense. He’d meant to annoy her, to distract her from the inevitable phone call that would come before the night was over. He’d wanted her mind off it, and on him. He wouldn’t deny that he’d wanted her to think of him. But he hadn’t known that when he’d succeeded, she would tie him up in knots.
She smelled like midnight. Secret and sinful. She sounded like sex. Hot and inviting. Then you looked into her eyes, really looked, and saw simple innocence. The man that combination wouldn’t drive mad either had never been born or was already dead.
A little distance, Boyd told himself as he moved quietly out of the studio. A lot of objectivity. It wouldn’t do either one of them any good to allow his emotions to get so tangled up with a woman he was supposed to protect.
When she was alone, Cilla made a conscious effort to relax, muscle by muscle. It was just because she was already on edge. It was a comfort to believe that. Her reaction to Boyd was merely an echo of the tension she’d lived with for more than a week. And he was trying to goad her.
She blew the hair out of her eyes and gave her listeners a treat—two hits in a row. And herself another moment to calm.
She hadn’t figured him out yet. He read Steinbeck and recognized Elton John. He talked slow and lazy—and thought fast. He wore scarred boots and three-hundred-dollar jackets.
What did it matter? she asked herself as she set up for the next twenty minutes of her show. She wasn’t interested in men. And he was definitely a man. Strike one. She would never consider getting involved with a cop. Strike two. And anyone with eyes could see that he had a close, even intimate relationship with his knockout partner. She’d never been one to poach on someone else’s property.
Three strikes and he’s out.
She closed her eyes and let the music pour through her. It helped, as it always did, to calm her, or lift her up, or simply remind her how lucky she was. She wasn’t sharp and studious like Deborah. She wasn’t dedicated, as their parents had been. She had little more than the education required by law, and yet she was here, just where she wanted to be, doing just what she wanted to do.
Life had taught her one vital lesson. Nothing lasted forever. Good times or bad, they passed. This nightmare, however horrid it was at this point in time, would be over eventually. She only had to get through it, one day at a time.
“That was Joan Jett waking you up as we head toward 11:30. We’ve got a news brief coming up for you, then a double shot of Steve Winwood and Phil Collins to take us into the next half hour. This is KHIP, and the news is brought to you by Wildwood Records.”
She punched in the prerecorded cassette, then scanned the printout of the ads and promos she would read. By the time Boyd came back, she was into the next block of music and standing up to stretch her muscles.
He stopped where he was, trying not to groan as she lifted her arms to the ceiling and rotated her hips. In time to the music, he was sure, as she bent from the waist, grabbed her ankles and slowly bent and straightened her knees.
He’d seen the routine before. It was something she did once or twice during her four-hour stint. But she thought she was alone now, and she put a little more rhythm into it. Watching her, he realized that the ten-minute break he’d taken hadn’t been nearly long enough.
She sat again, pattered a bit to the audience. Her headphones were around her neck now, as she’d turned the music up for her own pleasure. As it pulsed, she swayed.
When he put a
Very carefully, she moved away. When she spoke into the mike again, her voice was even huskier.
He rose. He’d decided it was his only defense. He’d meant to annoy her, to distract her from the inevitable phone call that would come before the night was over. He’d wanted her mind off it, and on him. He wouldn’t deny that he’d wanted her to think of him. But he hadn’t known that when he’d succeeded, she would tie him up in knots.
She smelled like midnight. Secret and sinful. She sounded like sex. Hot and inviting. Then you looked into her eyes, really looked, and saw simple innocence. The man that combination wouldn’t drive mad either had never been born or was already dead.
A little distance, Boyd told himself as he moved quietly out of the studio. A lot of objectivity. It wouldn’t do either one of them any good to allow his emotions to get so tangled up with a woman he was supposed to protect.
When she was alone, Cilla made a conscious effort to relax, muscle by muscle. It was just because she was already on edge. It was a comfort to believe that. Her reaction to Boyd was merely an echo of the tension she’d lived with for more than a week. And he was trying to goad her.
She blew the hair out of her eyes and gave her listeners a treat—two hits in a row. And herself another moment to calm.
She hadn’t figured him out yet. He read Steinbeck and recognized Elton John. He talked slow and lazy—and thought fast. He wore scarred boots and three-hundred-dollar jackets.
What did it matter? she asked herself as she set up for the next twenty minutes of her show. She wasn’t interested in men. And he was definitely a man. Strike one. She would never consider getting involved with a cop. Strike two. And anyone with eyes could see that he had a close, even intimate relationship with his knockout partner. She’d never been one to poach on someone else’s property.
Three strikes and he’s out.
She closed her eyes and let the music pour through her. It helped, as it always did, to calm her, or lift her up, or simply remind her how lucky she was. She wasn’t sharp and studious like Deborah. She wasn’t dedicated, as their parents had been. She had little more than the education required by law, and yet she was here, just where she wanted to be, doing just what she wanted to do.
Life had taught her one vital lesson. Nothing lasted forever. Good times or bad, they passed. This nightmare, however horrid it was at this point in time, would be over eventually. She only had to get through it, one day at a time.
“That was Joan Jett waking you up as we head toward 11:30. We’ve got a news brief coming up for you, then a double shot of Steve Winwood and Phil Collins to take us into the next half hour. This is KHIP, and the news is brought to you by Wildwood Records.”
She punched in the prerecorded cassette, then scanned the printout of the ads and promos she would read. By the time Boyd came back, she was into the next block of music and standing up to stretch her muscles.
He stopped where he was, trying not to groan as she lifted her arms to the ceiling and rotated her hips. In time to the music, he was sure, as she bent from the waist, grabbed her ankles and slowly bent and straightened her knees.
He’d seen the routine before. It was something she did once or twice during her four-hour stint. But she thought she was alone now, and she put a little more rhythm into it. Watching her, he realized that the ten-minute break he’d taken hadn’t been nearly long enough.
She sat again, pattered a bit to the audience. Her headphones were around her neck now, as she’d turned the music up for her own pleasure. As it pulsed, she swayed.
When he put a
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