Valentine's Day Is Killing Me (12 page)

Ray let his breath out hard when she said nothing, but simply listened. “I was standing there with flowers in one hand and champagne in the other. Had to talk to myself and just turn around and walk. Still had my gun on me—it could not have ended well. So, he’ll get over it. You didn’t take him there, and were very, very cool with how you handled it—did it with class. Wish they all did it like that.”

She still hadn’t spoken, but the look in her eyes said it all. It wasn’t pity, just understanding, a gentle knowing that said she hurt as he told her that story.

“So,” he said, making his voice take an upbeat turn, “from that day forward, I have always worked Valentine’s Day. Every Hallmark holiday, you can find a brother at work.”

“Since how long?” she asked, her voice so soft that he’d barely heard her.

“I don’t know,” he said offhandedly. “A year or two—I lost track.”

She pulled her gaze away from his face, and sent it out the window to process what she’d just heard. This tall, handsome, built brother with the deep, sexy voice has been off the market for years because some chick on his job burned him? What was wrong in America? This was a travesty. Her heart was pounding hard, but she wasn’t exactly sure why.

“You don’t still bump into her, do you?” Jocelyn asked, her tone a shy probe, not wanting to offend—but shoot, she needed info!

“Yeah,” he hedged. “From time to time. Since I got promoted, I don’t run into her as much. I don’t see her the same way I used to, either—I mean, it doesn’t mess me up.” He shrugged and turned a corner. “Was a time when one glimpse and I’d be done, jacked around, for the rest of the day. Then, one day, I ran into her, and I spoke, she spoke, I walked, and I was cured. Don’t ask me how that happens, but that’s why I’m saying your professor will live.”

She smiled. “I wasn’t trying to be an egomaniac, thinking—”

“I know, girl,” he said, laughing, “I wasn’t taking it that way.”

Did he say
girl
, in the I’m-getting-so-comfortable-in-your-presence-that-I-can-drop-the-professional-formality-and-kick-it-with-you-like-we’re-from-around-the-same-neighborhood girl? The tone wasn’t the same one that would have made her haul any other man’s butt into court over a workplace violation. No…this was code familiar. Old Philly neighborhood connection stuff. Jocelyn almost slid out of her seat.

“Aw’ight,” she countered. “Just so you don’t go around thinking I have a big head.”

He laughed harder. Did she just slip into comfortable, ’round the way slang on him? This woman was gonna make him stop breathing.

“Listen, we need to start over. I had you collared, brought downtown, run through the wringer, and let you freeze in a silk robe. Can I at least buy you a cheese steak, or a basic dinner and a beer and get you to call me Ray instead of Detective Mayfield—since you just got all in my bizness?” He smiled as she shyly glanced down at her black gloves, and was very pleased that his easy slip into neighborhood patois had made her blush. This woman was something else—a conflict, a dilemma, and a wonderful one at that.

“I’lln’t know,” she said, keeping the game alive by playfully displaying her colloquial dexterity.

Her bright smile and hearty giggle did him in. Her eyes flashed with mischief. Her mouth was full and lush…her teeth perfect. God, she was beautiful. Her warm humor made the smile form inside his chest and work its way back up to his lips.

“They call me Detective when I’m working. Right now, I’m not working. I wanted to give you a ride,
aw’ight, sis
?” he said, adding inflection to the words to make her gorgeous smile widen.

She chuckled. “Then you believe my story that I hate Valentine’s Day, and why?”

He extended his fist for her to pound. “I’ve sworn off of it.”

She pounded his fist and laughed harder. “Oh, me, too! I’m done. I almost got arrested on V-Day, okaaaay?”

He shook his head and banged it on the steering wheel. It was absurd. “Can I call you Jocelyn, and apologize, righteous?”

“Hmmm…I don’t know,” she said, putting one finger to her lips. “Had me outside, walking with my tail between my legs, getting read the Riot Act by my professor—who I had to show to the door later in a hurry, when it was all said and done. Then on my job, there’s all this follow-up drama to contend with. It might cost you some
scrimps
.”

Ray threw his head back and laughed even harder. She had mangled the word
shrimp
to tease him further, saying it like she knew he’d once thought she would. But she’d taken the whole ordeal with such good humor; it only turned him on more…a brilliant woman who wasn’t stuck-up, had made him bare his soul, who he had run through every acid test and come out with flying colors…a caring, kind, sweet beauty who could laugh at life, even the most bizarre aspects of it, and who had a forgiving soul. And packaged like she was packaged, too? Oh, yeah, he’d almost stopped breathing and had to laugh to play it off.

“Scrimps it is, then. There’s a Mexican place on Lancaster that does shrimp to the max, or if you want a whole pile of fried, coconut-battered decadence—Chili’s is around the corner. Your call?”

Oh…the man’s voice was awesome when he laughed…and his eyes, so intense, but held fun. Some out-of-her-mind sister had thrown him back into the availability pool? Please God, don’t let her make a fool of herself. Please! He was stop-your-heart-good-looking…seemed honorable, didn’t like games. Wasn’t arrogant, had a very self-deprecating brand of humor, could be from around the way, and the next moment the quintessence of professional—she’d seen that no-nonsense side under dubious circumstances, true, but he delivered an on-the-job cool without all the mess that went with it. Didn’t seem to think he was God’s gift to women, had a heart, or why would he have gone underground for years? Her Momma ain’t raise no fool.

This brother was upwardly mobile, had a work ethic, had been promoted, and the torch was waning for this chick. Hmmm…No. What was she thinking? He could have issues, be secretly gay, have anger-management problems; besides, why would he even think of her as anything more than a potential suspect?

“Wanna go to Zocalo?” she asked, hedging, testing, and hoping he’d want to do the little Mexican restaurant that was quieter and more intimate.

He settled back in his chair and sipped a Corona with a lime from the bottle, totally disinterested in the shrimp being prepared. Soft light framed her, hugged her close like her delicate pink sweater hugged every curve. No wonder his boy had lost professional distance—was it possible to maintain such a thing in Jocelyn Jefferson’s presence? Yet there was something so classy about her that a man had to take his time and be very careful not to offend. It was almost too disorienting to watch her take dainty sips from a beer bottle, too. Everything about her was disorienting.

He’d also seen too much, as well…her hair tussled all over her head, a flaming red silk kimono precariously wrapped around her body. He watched her fingers clasp the bottle…little pink hearts drew his attention and made him remember her red pedicure with the reverse pattern on her smooth, pretty toes. He could also remember her hyperventilating, but definitely had to shake that sound out of his head—sounded too close to something that was waaay too early to consider. But as he listened to her light banter, and as her voice coated his insides, the more he felt the years of no affection making him stupid.

Then they messed up and brought the plates. She’d selected a spicy concoction of shrimp in a black bean sauce, and he had to watch her eat it and lick the oozing gravy from her full mouth…dip her finger in the corner of it to pick out a shrimp, toss her hair out of the way and bite it over her plate to spare her pastel pink top. That’s when he stopped breathing, for real. His fork was moving from his plate to his mouth on automatic, but as good as the food was, he couldn’t taste a thing. Wasn’t sure what he’d even ordered. He was just glad he had a napkin in his lap.

She knew she was talking too much, just running her mouth a mile a minute, a nervous habit she’d had ever since she was a kid. She’d become so flustered watching his intense, dark-brown eyes and the slow, methodical way he brought his fork up to his sexy mouth that she’d forgotten her table manners completely—just swiped a shrimp from the edge of her plate! Have mercy.

Maybe it was the way the muscles moved in his arm under his sweater; she had to make her eyes stop scanning his broad shoulders and the tight bicep bulge created when the fork left the plate and moved toward his mouth…what a mouth…even, white teeth, a hint of a gap, moist but not wet. She had to stop getting mesmerized and then going into a breathless, bungling, run-on account of her crazy life experiences. This man didn’t care about her entire life from grade school to grandmom…she had to breathe, she had to breathe, she had to breathe; a sip of Corona helped, but not much.

“So, tell me about you,” she finally said, refusing to blow this evening by being a chatterbox.

“Not much to tell,” he said, smiling around the mouth of his beer bottle.

She could barely find the table to set her beer down; her eyes wouldn’t leave his face. Couldn’t. She watched his Adam’s apple bob in his throat…three years of no male attention was making her fray at the seams. “C’mon,” she said, her voice working its way out in an unwanted plea. “I’ve been going on and on this whole dinner.”

He set his bottle down very carefully and twirled it slowly at the edge of the table. “There’s really not much to tell, other than our families are a lot alike. My pop passed away early, like yours did, although I had a bunch of brothers and sisters—but our mothers are the same, both strict.” He smiled. “There’s no big secrets, or anything like that.” He looked at her intensely. “But I was thoroughly enjoying hearing your voice. You’ll make a good social policy activist, Dr. Jefferson.” He raised his bottle and clinked it against hers. “Takes heart and a lot of discipline to make it as far as you did, as fast. I admire that.”

All she could do was stare at him. No other man she’d ever met had made such a simple but profound admission. She saw genuine pride and respect in his eyes, and needed to pinch herself to be sure she wasn’t dreaming. His acceptance didn’t seem laced with fraud, or insecurity, or any yang that could cause relationship terminal illness…and when her mind had made the quantum leap from a mere apology date to a relationship, she wasn’t sure, but was very sure at the moment how much that didn’t matter.

However, there was such a thing as protocol. If she wanted him to stay around, then it seemed unwise to just jump the man’s bones tonight—though, if he’d asked…She straightened herself with a smile, clinked his bottle in return, and murmured, “Thank you.” It was supposed to come out casual and upbeat, but she’d breathed the words, and was about to die.

But the response really wasn’t her fault. This man was awesome. Was so laid-back cool, no pressure, respectful, and seemed to be a good sport about all her madcap drama surrounding his career-case. Her hands fell away from the bottle she was clutching and she folded them neatly in her lap.

If she wasn’t such a lady, he would have called for the check and just boldly asked her to come back to his place. If Jocelyn Jefferson breathed another sexy statement, they’d have to mop him up off the floor. But since she was a lady, a classy one at that…and since he wanted more than that from her, he wasn’t gonna act a fool.

“You want some coffee, an espresso, some dessert, uh, maybe an after-dinner liqueur?” He was babbling, had to regain his composure. She shook her head as a polite decline. He had to back up and not press her for more of her time. But if she’d allow him to, he’d soak it all up tonight. He’d gotten lucky; she’d agreed to come along with him this far. Cool had long since gone. She was drop-dead, smack yo’ Momma fine. She had told him her life story with those big, innocent brown eyes, no games, just laughing easy and talking sweet. And then something struck her, and she felt it—he saw it, the same current that ran down his spine.

How could he speak, remember the past, and string together coherent sentences when she made him feel this way? How in the hell did he know what he liked, did as a kid, music, huh, sports, oh yeah, b-ball, sisters’ and brothers’ names—not sure right through here, favorite what? Irrelevant, he’d tell her later. But oh, man, her eyes. That was his favorite thing right now—happened real fast, too.

She had gotten this look on her face that, for a fleeting second, told him the wild thought of passion had run through her mind. He was a contender. Her eyes told him that. She was considering next moves. It was written all over her face, or was it only his wishful thinking? But how did a brother read the signs and know for sure? She got all nervous, couldn’t look at him for a moment, cheeks flushed. Oh dear God, don’t let him make a wrong move, or not make the right move when it could be made. Then again, he wasn’t just trying to make a move or play some game—she was a keeper.

“If you want something else, I might dip my fork into the edge of yours, though.”

“Huh?” Dazed, he felt like lightning had struck him. “I mean, sure.” His hands were practically trembling as he grabbed the dessert menu and studied it real hard. “Chocolate mousse, cheesecake, uh, what do you like—I’ll share, but don’t want to eat it all myself.” He was babbling again—no woman had ever just robbed his cool like this.

He slid the menu toward her, and her warm hand brushed his as she accepted it, leaving a burn in its wake. She hesitated, glanced up and held his line of vision. “Are you really hungry?”

He looked at her without blinking, his mind processing a hundred responses at once. Did she mean what her voice sounded like she meant, or was she asking whether or not he was digestively challenged? Okay, okay, okay, man, be cool.

“If you want something, I’m down,” he said with a shrug. He let the statement hang in the air between them.

He’d made the comment with such a low, sensual resonance that she almost shuddered. Did he mean what his voice sounded like he meant, or was he being polite and asking her about her choice of desserts? Okay okay, okay, remember what your momma taught you—be a lady at all times and do not grab this man by the front of his sweater and put your tongue down his throat.

“I confess, Officer. Chocolate is my weakness.” She laughed and pushed the menu back across the table.

Was she flirting with him? Did she just drop her guard and make a tender offer—or did the woman want the mousse? He hailed the waiter, not sure what was politically correct right now, and placed their order. But there must have been something in the thick vibe surrounding them that made the waiter return with one dish and two spoons.

They both stared at the silverware and the delicate dessert between them. The challenge was going to be establishing the right protocol of sharing a dessert with a new person without making the consumption seem too sexy, too forward, but just sexy enough to let it be known there was definite chemistry.

“It looks real good,” he murmured, not looking at the dessert, but staring at her.

“It does, doesn’t it?” She released a sigh and picked up her spoon, allowing it to hover over the small bowl of pudding-like substance without taking her eyes from his. “It’s so pretty, so perfect, I’m not sure where to begin. I’d hate to mess it up.” She allowed the tip of her spoon to drag along some of the raspberry sauce, hitting the mint leaf and coming to rest against the swirl of whipped cream topping.

He swallowed hard. “Plunge right in. It’s gonna be good going down and be messed up when we’re all done, anyway.”

She swallowed hard. “I like to pick around the edges, though…just break off a little of the dark chocolate cup. There’s an art to eating good chocolate.”

His lids lowered by a fraction, and all he could do was nod, pick up his spoon, and break the side of the cup. “This edge is broke down bad, now.” He motioned with his spoon toward the decimated side of the dessert and smiled. “If you don’t hurry up, all the good stuff is gonna ooze out.”

He watched her smile and lower her eyes, then take a small dip of the mousse with her spoon. Her graceful hand had a slight tremor to it that ran all through him. When she placed her spoon in her mouth, closed her eyes, and released a satisfied sound, he almost lost it. Oh, yeah, he might have to act foolish tonight.

“You have to try this,” she murmured.

He wasn’t sure how to respond, and hesitated.

“Don’t you like chocolate?” she pressed now, seeming concerned.

“Love it,” he said, low in his throat.

“Then have some,” she said with a warm smile, taking a more liberal amount on her spoon. “C’mon,” she teased. “Don’t you want some?”

“I definitely want some, but I’m trying to be a gentleman and let you get yours first.”

They both stared at each other for a moment. She swallowed away a smile. He saw it; she knew he saw it. Until she smiled, he wasn’t sure if the loaded statement had crossed the line. Okay, now what?

She set her spoon down and chuckled. “You’re missing out, brother. And I do appreciate the chivalrous stance, but chocolate is chocolate. Just dip your spoon in and enjoy before I eat it all and leave you hanging.”

He laughed, and a much-needed release of tension wafted through him as he put a huge glob on his spoon and shoved it into his mouth. “See, I warned you. I know me. I’m an extremist—once I get started, you’ll have to go for what you know.”

She leaned in and scooped a huge glob onto her spoon and laughed, covering her mouth. “I’m an only child and selfish. Oh, I’ll get mine. Not to worry.” She dodged his spoon, shot-blocking it with hers, and dipped hers under it. “Strategy, patience—see what I mean?” she said, placing another spoonful in her mouth.

By the time they’d finished, they were laughing like little kids, fighting over the remains and spoon-battling with each other. He couldn’t remember laughing that hard with a woman and yet being so turned on at the same time. Her mouth was sticky, her fingers gooey from snatching at melting shavings to best him in the challenge. His were all messy, too, and they laughed out loud as she glanced over her shoulder like a thief, and quickly sucked the chocolate off her fingers.

That was it, the thing that made him call for the check. He didn’t care. She didn’t seem too appalled by the move. His car was right out front by a meter; her place was around the corner. His boy Marcus could go to hell; he’d seen her first, had called his friend in to keep her out of harm’s way. Marc even had first shot—and blew it at a fancy lunch, talking rhetoric. The fact remained, she was holding onto
his
arm, laughing her way out of the restaurant and licking her fingers…all from a reasonable dinner at an out-of-the-way joint. Women, go figure, but he wasn’t trying to go home alone tonight.

Of all the possible hookups in the world, of all the craziest collisions of chance meetings, she would never in a hundred years have expected this. She was laughing to keep from crying. Had to lick her fingers as a poor substitute for the fantastic, rock-hard, semisweet chocolate that was escorting her to his car. Momma never told her there’d be days like this, or nights when three fine, eligible bachelors would rush her for a little affection. But hey, what was a girl to do?

As she climbed into the navy-blue Crown Victoria, she suddenly became aware of just how good the man smelled. It was something beyond the earthy cologne…something all male that made her fight the urge to snuggle up next to him and breathe him in.

“Thank you so much for a great time, even though you
are
a cop.”

He laughed and gave her a jaunty wink. “I’m off duty, remember?”

“Yeah,” she said with a satisfied sigh. “Since I’m no longer a suspect…would you like to come up for a coffee?”

Now they both knew good and well that they’d just left a restaurant where every coffee imaginable was served. So it stood to reason that more than coffee was being offered. He just wasn’t sure how much or how far, but he was definitely down to find out. Just one kiss would be enough, right now, and he was fairly certain that she wasn’t ready for the main course…she didn’t strike him that way. So, he wouldn’t push her like that. But he wouldn’t mind seeing her space, coming away with a kiss or two, a date for tomorrow night, a chance to move a little closer to the next level…God, she was blowing his mind.