Courting the Cop (7 page)

Brody leaned back in his chair and thrust his fingers through his hair. This case was proving to be frustrating. He sensed he was making progress, that his instincts to focus on Katherine O’Brien were correct, but he had nothing concrete to show for his troubles, and Lieutenant Farrell didn’t possess unlimited patience. He’d have to come up with something or his boss would order him to can the stakeout and concentrate on more urgent work. He didn’t want that to happen. Not when he could almost smell Michael O’Brien in the wind.

Not when he was enjoying Abigail’s company so much.

Crap, why did that have to creep into his thoughts? He wasn’t using this stakeout as an excuse to see more of Abigail, was he? That would be stupid because a) they were pretty much incompatible, and b) if he wanted to see her he could do that on his own without the cover of his job.
But
, a snarky voice at the back of his mind said,
if you didn’t have this stakeout as an excuse to see her, you’d make a pretty crappy boyfriend on your own, wouldn’t you?
Brody scowled.
Shut up, stupid snarky voice. Who said he wanted to be anyone’s boyfriend?

He sighed. Great. Now he was arguing with himself. First sign of madness.

“Knock, knock,” Abigail said from the door. “Pizza’s arrived.”

He started up to see her entering with a small card table in her hands.

“I thought we could eat in here,” she said. “That way you don’t have to leave your position.”

He glanced out the window at the house across the street. A faint blue light flickered behind the drapes, indicating the TV was on. From the surveillance tapes he’d already watched, he knew that Katherine O’Brien had entered her home several hours ago and was probably having her Friday fish dinner at the moment. He also knew she wasn’t likely to get any visitors, day or night.

“We should probably turn that off,” he said, lifting his chin at the overhead light. “And draw the drapes. Don’t want to appear too conspicuous to anyone down there.”

“Of course.” She turned on a bedside lamp, flicked off the overhead light, and closed the drapes leaving only a small opening for him and the camera.

He set up the card table while she disappeared and came back with the pizza, plates, napkins and wineglasses. He stood back and watched in some awe as she arranged the table with as much care as if they were about to sit down to a five-course meal. The dim lamplight made the room feel cozy and intimate. Almost like being on a real date. A tingle slid down his spine.

“I’ll get the wine.” She skipped out and returned with a bottle of red.

“Jeez, now I feel like a heel,” Brody said. “I should at least have brought some wine.”

“Mm, it’s a pity Phyllis didn’t have any to give to you.”

Abigail’s bright blue eyes teased him, and she looked so tempting he felt a sudden rush to grab her and plant a great big kiss on her lips. His hands itched, his body stirred, and his mouth dried with anticipation.

“Let me pay for the pizza at least,” he managed to get out.

“Oh, no, please. You’re making me uncomfortable.” She waved him to the table. “Do you want to sit there?” She pointed to the seat diagonally opposite the camera. “That way you can eat and keep an eye on Mrs. O’Brien’s house at the same time.”

He nodded at her sensible suggestion and waited until she’d taken the other seat before he followed. He’d never eaten pizza so daintily before. He was more used to sitting on a couch, grabbing a slice, and shoveling it down his mouth while watching TV, not tables and bone-china plates and linen napkins.

“My Aunt Edna always ate pizza like this,” Abigail said after a while, as though she sensed what he was thinking. “She said it was more civilized and better for the digestion.”

“She’s probably right. This pizza is awesome, by the way.”

“It’s from Luigi’s, down on Ninth. We always ordered pizza from them.”

“Your Aunt Edna sounds like quite a character.”

“Oh, yes.” Abigail’s smile was wistful. “I’m so glad my parents sent me to her and not Cousin Josephine.”

“Your parents sent you here? Why?”

“It’s a long story.” Her smile faded a little.

“I’m not going anywhere soon.”

Abigail dabbed her napkin to her lips. “Well, maybe it’s not such a long story. My parents work for an NGO that sends them to remote places around the world to immunize children. When I was a kid I traveled with them, but when I was around ten I caught malaria and was horribly sick for a while. They brought me back to the States and left me here with Aunt Edna to recuperate. I was kind of a sickly kid, so in the end they all decided it was better for me to stay here permanently with my aunt.”

She spoke matter-of-factly but Brody was faintly appalled. “They just left you here? They didn’t stay with you until you’d recovered?”

“Of course they wanted to, but their work is very important. They were saving hundreds of children’s lives, whereas I was just one child, and Aunt Edna took good care of me.” She lifted her shoulders, a defensive set to her face. “My parents are good people. They did what they thought was best for me.”

He wanted to argue with that—at least when his dad had walked out, he’d had his mom and his sisters—but it wasn’t his place. Instead, he helped himself to another piece of pizza and topped up their wineglasses.

“So where are they now, your parents?” he asked.

“Ethiopia, at the moment. I see them about once a year.”

Did they return when her aunt was dying, or did they leave her to face that on her own as well? Jeez, he was getting too worked up over her lousy parents. He took a gulp of wine to stop himself from asking further questions.

“They were here six months ago for Aunt Edna’s funeral,” she said steadily. She was silent for a few moments before she continued, “I can see I’ve shocked you a little, but I loved living with Aunt Edna, and I love taking over her yarn store.”

“So you’ve been working all this time in her store?”

“Oh, no. I went to college, got my degree in education, and I was supposed to go into teaching, but, well, I didn’t.”

“What did you do instead?”

Abigail looked down at her plate. “I was a research assistant for a college professor for a couple of years.”

“Professor of what?” Brody prompted when she lapsed into silence.

“English.” She picked up her napkin, shook it out, and refolded it with precise movements. “Want some more pizza?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

Brody had interviewed enough people to know Abigail wasn’t comfortable talking about her English professor. So, if he read her right, she’d had a thing for this professor, and it hadn’t ended well, and she was still getting over him. Was that the type she went for? An English professor? Yeah, he could see it. A smooth, educated man fitted in with her idea of courting much better than a rough-and-ready cop who liked his women straight up. What did this professor look like? He pictured a preppy kind of guy with leather elbow patches on his tweed jacket and a plummy voice reading poetry to her by the fireside. Yowsers, that image was enough to turn his stomach.

“So when did you stop working for the professor?” he asked as he realized how silent she’d become.

“About a year ago, when my aunt was first diagnosed with cancer,” Abigail answered quietly. “I moved in with her. She wasn’t too bad initially, but I wanted to spend more time with her, and I was glad I had those final six months with her.” She took a breath and seemed to force some brightness into her voice. “Now I’m determined to keep her store going for as long as possible. I’m realistic, though. I know the odds are stacked against me. If I have to close up shop, I’ll be happy to get on with my teaching career. But I don’t want to do that until I’ve tried my best here.”

She gave a self-deprecating shrug before glancing at him. “That’s enough about me. It’s your turn. Tell me something about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Well, tell me about your parents, for a start. Are you joined to the hip with them?”

“Not really. For one thing, my dad walked out on us when I was eleven.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. That was insensitive of me.”

Brody shook his head. “It’s okay, you weren’t to know. My dad left my mom to raise three kids on her own. She was a patrol officer for thirty years before she retired last year.”

Abigail’s eyebrows rose. “Your mom’s a cop? That’s amazing. Is that why you became a cop too? Because of her?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, his head filling with memories of his mom working her butt off to keep the streets clean and then coming home to do it all again with her three rowdy kids. His mom had had it tough, but she’d never complained, at least not in his presence. “I’m not half the cop she was.”

“Do you tell her that?” Abigail smiled at him, her apple cheeks glowing.

“Huh,” he snorted. “I don’t need to. Plenty of people are only too happy to tell her.”

Abigail laughed gleefully and clapped her hands. “Oh, your mom sounds great.”

His mom was his hero, though he’d never confessed that before. She was a great police officer, had a knack for dealing with drunks, punks and assholes. She’d worked long, exhausting hours, before returning home to face piles of laundry, dirty dishes and three rambunctious kids. She hadn’t cared too much about keeping a tidy home, preferring to spend her time and energy on her children. She’d refereed their arguments, offered advice, helped with school projects. She was the best mom he could ever hope for, and he was glad she finally had the chance to ease up after all these years.

“Tell me about your siblings,” Abigail said, her eyes alive with interest. “Are you the youngest?”

“I’m in the middle. Shannon’s my older sister, and Caitlin’s younger than me. She’s away at college.”

Leaning her elbow on the table, Abigail rested her chin in her palm, looking like she was settling in for a while. “Tell me more.”

Brody squinted a questioning look at her, but she seemed genuinely interested, so he told her about his two sisters and his mom and the ordinary childhood he’d had growing up in an ordinary, working-class suburb. Half-an-hour flew by. The pizza was finished, the wine was half gone. He couldn’t remember when last he’d talked so much about himself, but Abigail was good company, and Brody was feeling comfortable and relaxed. So relaxed, in fact, that he’d almost forgot the reason why he was here.

With a sigh he flicked his gaze to the house opposite them, and once again there was no movement and the camera hadn’t recorded anything.

“I’d better clear up,” Abigail said, rising to her feet.

He was up in a second. “I’ll do that. You’ve done enough tonight.”

“But you’re on a stakeout. You might miss something.”

“So you sit here and keep watch.” He gestured to the chair he’d vacated. “Go on. I can wash up a couple of plates and sweep up a few crumbs, you know.”

“Or, you can just leave the dirty things in the sink, and I’ll—”

“Sit,” he ordered, pointing at the chair. Jeez, didn’t she trust him with her bone china? “I got this.”

She hesitated before sinking into the chair and turning her eyes to the window. He cleared away the clutter, binned the empty pizza box, and carefully washed the plates.

Abigail’s kitchen was spotless. His own kitchen wasn’t too bad, but that was only because it didn’t get used much. He couldn’t remember when last he’d cooked himself a proper meal. In contrast, Abigail’s kitchen was an altar to homemaking. The copper-bottomed pots hanging above the stove, the little pots of herbs growing on the sill, the well-used food mixer gleaming on the counter—these weren’t for show. She was a regular Betty Crocker.

She even had a retro red-and-white apron hanging behind the door. As he fingered the white frills of the apron, he couldn’t stop himself imagining Abigail wearing it…with nothing underneath…her back turned to him as she bent over to open the oven door… Holy crap, how had his thoughts turned so dirty so quickly? He pulled his hand away from the apron. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he stop these fantasies about Abigail?

Maybe because he knew she was out of bounds. Maybe he only fantasized about her because he couldn’t—shouldn’t—have her. Maybe because he was screwed up.

He couldn’t stay in her kitchen pawing at her apron all night. Drawing in a deep breath for strength, he returned to her bedroom. Abigail was perched on the edge of her chair, leaning forward to peer down through the crack in the drapes. At his approach, she twisted her head to smile at him over her shoulder, her hair swinging softly about her cheeks.

“Nothing to report, Detective. All quiet down there.”

“That’s what I expected.”

She stood and stretched her arms. “Must be awfully boring, these stakeouts.”

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. With her arms raised, the loose sweater clung to her body, drawing his attention to her breasts. She was all soft and supple, from her sweater to her hair to her leggings. All cushiony and smooth and creamy…cream…yeah…

“That’s what stakeouts are,” he said as heat rolled through his veins. “A lot of boring followed by a sudden burst of excitement.” One part of his body was definitely bursting with excitement.

She lowered her arms slowly, as if she sensed what he was thinking. How could she not? The space between them throbbed with awareness.

“Um, well, it’s your turn to be bored.”

She edged away from the chair, then paused. He wasn’t blocking her path, she could have moved away from him, but she didn’t. She stood there, wide eyes fixed on him.

“I’m not bored,” he said, trailing his gaze over her. “Not with this view.”

Not five minutes ago he’d told himself to stop his dirty thoughts about Abigail, yet here he was spouting them out to her. What an idiot he was, but it seemed he had no self-control where she was concerned.

He took a step toward her, recklessness building in him. “I know exactly how to give us both some excitement.”

Something flickered in her blue eyes—anticipation?—before her mouth curved up. “Do those lines honestly work on women?”

He hesitated. What? Was she laughing at him?

“Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”