a snooze.
Harry went over what he knew about Mallory Malone. Surprisingly, for such a public personality, it wasn’t much. Just that she was originally from Oregon and had attended Washington State University where she had majored in journalism. After a few jobs in small-town radio and TV, she had become a weather girl on a Seattle station. From there she had been picked up by a network and groomed as a newscaster; then she became a morning anchor woman, and now she had her own successful show.
There had been one marriage, to a rich Wall Street broker. But that hadn’t lasted long. Her hours were different from his and he said she was consumed by her work.
“Mallory has dedicated her life to TV,” he had told the press bitterly. “I hope it keeps her warm in bed at night.” There were no children.
As he watched, the door swung open and Mallory Malone stepped inside. She glanced around, her eyebrows raised, as though she were wondering if she could possibly be in the right place.
Harry slid quickly from the booth and loped toward her. “Ms. Malone.”
Her head swung around and their eyes met. He hadn’t realized from TV that hers were such a deep blue, nor that her lashes were so long. When she lowered them and looked down at his outstretched hand, she looked unexpectedly shy. She was smartly dressed in a gray cashmere sweater and skirt with a red jacket, and her golden hair was beaded with glittering raindrops. She looked as out of place in Ruby’s as a tropical flower in Alaska. And she had cold hands.
As she shook Harry’s hand, mal thought uncomfortably that she was overdressed in her cashmere, while Jordan looked scruffily at home in his faded jeans and the beat-up jacket. He was younger than she had expected and, damn it, he was attractive. His rain-wet dark hair was plastered to his narrow skull, his gray eyes were penetrating as they looked into hers, and his firm mouth looked sexy. He had at least a day-old black stubble and looked way too sure of himself. Disconcerted, she removed her hand.
“Detective Jordan,” she said coldly. “It took my driver half an hour to find this place.”
“I’m sorry, though it’s really not that hard.”
Antagonism crackled between them. She glanced disparagingly at the counter with its mirrored display of pies and chocolate cake; at the steamy little kitchen and the cracked red vinyl banquettes and the waitresses slinging hash and fried eggs and burgers and cholesterol.
She raised a superior eyebrow. “Slumming, Detective Jordan?”
Harry gritted his teeth. What the hell did she expect, LeCirque? “I’m sorry it’s not up to your standards, ma’am. But it
is
close to the precinct house, and I
am
on duty.” He shrugged. “Besides, cops can’t be choosers, with what they earn. All the guys eat here.”
Her blue eyes narrowed. “Most cops, Jordan. But not
rich
cops.”
Harry knew he was in trouble. She hated Ruby’s, she hated cops, and she hated rich cops even more. He wondered how she knew—then he guessed it was the same way she had known his unlisted home number. She made it her business to know exactly who she was interviewing, whether it was on TV or not.
Heads turned in recognition as he led her to the table at the back, but she seemed unaware that there were other people in the place. As she slid into the booth opposite him, her foot encountered the soft bulk of the dog. Startled, she peeked underneath, then a sudden smile lit up her face.
Harry stared at her, dazzzled. It was as though somebody had switched her on.
“Say hello to the lady, Squeeze,” he instructed, and the dog, true to his name, squeezed out from between their knees. He sat next to Mallory, then raised his right paw politely.
“Oh,
cute.” She
threw Harry a for-God’s-sake glance. But she took the paw and patted the dog, murmuring sweet nothings to it.
“Back, Squeeze,” he commanded, and the dog slunk obediently under the table again. He rested his head on
Harry went over what he knew about Mallory Malone. Surprisingly, for such a public personality, it wasn’t much. Just that she was originally from Oregon and had attended Washington State University where she had majored in journalism. After a few jobs in small-town radio and TV, she had become a weather girl on a Seattle station. From there she had been picked up by a network and groomed as a newscaster; then she became a morning anchor woman, and now she had her own successful show.
There had been one marriage, to a rich Wall Street broker. But that hadn’t lasted long. Her hours were different from his and he said she was consumed by her work.
“Mallory has dedicated her life to TV,” he had told the press bitterly. “I hope it keeps her warm in bed at night.” There were no children.
As he watched, the door swung open and Mallory Malone stepped inside. She glanced around, her eyebrows raised, as though she were wondering if she could possibly be in the right place.
Harry slid quickly from the booth and loped toward her. “Ms. Malone.”
Her head swung around and their eyes met. He hadn’t realized from TV that hers were such a deep blue, nor that her lashes were so long. When she lowered them and looked down at his outstretched hand, she looked unexpectedly shy. She was smartly dressed in a gray cashmere sweater and skirt with a red jacket, and her golden hair was beaded with glittering raindrops. She looked as out of place in Ruby’s as a tropical flower in Alaska. And she had cold hands.
As she shook Harry’s hand, mal thought uncomfortably that she was overdressed in her cashmere, while Jordan looked scruffily at home in his faded jeans and the beat-up jacket. He was younger than she had expected and, damn it, he was attractive. His rain-wet dark hair was plastered to his narrow skull, his gray eyes were penetrating as they looked into hers, and his firm mouth looked sexy. He had at least a day-old black stubble and looked way too sure of himself. Disconcerted, she removed her hand.
“Detective Jordan,” she said coldly. “It took my driver half an hour to find this place.”
“I’m sorry, though it’s really not that hard.”
Antagonism crackled between them. She glanced disparagingly at the counter with its mirrored display of pies and chocolate cake; at the steamy little kitchen and the cracked red vinyl banquettes and the waitresses slinging hash and fried eggs and burgers and cholesterol.
She raised a superior eyebrow. “Slumming, Detective Jordan?”
Harry gritted his teeth. What the hell did she expect, LeCirque? “I’m sorry it’s not up to your standards, ma’am. But it
is
close to the precinct house, and I
am
on duty.” He shrugged. “Besides, cops can’t be choosers, with what they earn. All the guys eat here.”
Her blue eyes narrowed. “Most cops, Jordan. But not
rich
cops.”
Harry knew he was in trouble. She hated Ruby’s, she hated cops, and she hated rich cops even more. He wondered how she knew—then he guessed it was the same way she had known his unlisted home number. She made it her business to know exactly who she was interviewing, whether it was on TV or not.
Heads turned in recognition as he led her to the table at the back, but she seemed unaware that there were other people in the place. As she slid into the booth opposite him, her foot encountered the soft bulk of the dog. Startled, she peeked underneath, then a sudden smile lit up her face.
Harry stared at her, dazzzled. It was as though somebody had switched her on.
“Say hello to the lady, Squeeze,” he instructed, and the dog, true to his name, squeezed out from between their knees. He sat next to Mallory, then raised his right paw politely.
“Oh,
cute.” She
threw Harry a for-God’s-sake glance. But she took the paw and patted the dog, murmuring sweet nothings to it.
“Back, Squeeze,” he commanded, and the dog slunk obediently under the table again. He rested his head on
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