Jill Shalvis - Serving Up Trouble

She crossed her arms and held her ground, reminding him that while she could look so vulnerable, she was actually tough as hell. “You think I’m a silly little flake.”

There was no mistaking her hurt now, and he swore at himself. “No-”

“But you don’t think I’ve seen this guy.”

“Okay, fine.” He leaned back against his desk, the desk now covered in flowers. He was going to smell like a garden. “Where do you know him from? What’s his name? What does he do?”

“I don’t know.” She took a step back, making him feel like the school-yard bully. “I just know that I’ve seen him coming and going in the used book store next to the café where I work.”

He studied her a long moment, considering. She seemed genuine enough. “You’re certain.”

“Absolutely.”

“Those glasses don’t look too reliable.”

“I can see perfectly.”

He sighed. “Fine. I’ll check it out.”

The look she shot him was purely female, purely annoyed. “But you don’t expect to find him, right?”

“Well…”

“Truth fully.”

How to tell her how many false leads he’d followed? How many times people thought they saw one thing but in reality saw another? “Look-”

“Oh, never mind.” She sent him a smile, completely devoid of the brilliance from before, which for some reason made Sam hurt inside.

“Angie-”

“No, really.” She lifted a hand to ward him off. “You’re busy. Don’t give it another thought.” She headed to the door. “I’m going to go answer those questions now.”

“Yeah. Angie-”

“Bye, Sam.”

Then she was gone and he was staring at the door, torn between relief and a self-disgust because he knew he’d been curt and rude.

Damn, he hated working with people.

Angie got up at the crack of dawn, as always. She drove to work, as always. She figured she’d enter the café fifteen minutes before her shift, then help Elisa prepare for the break fast shift. As always.

But nothing was as always at all, because with one twist of fate-and a very sharp knife-she could have died, and unexpectedly she was still dealing with the horror of that.

And then there was Detective Sam O’Brien. He’d both saved her life and changed it forever, because she’d taken a look into those deep, fathomless, brooding eyes and had seen her future. It sounded silly now, in the sharp, glaring light of a new day, and at the memory of how he’d treated her in his office, she blushed. If that was her future, feeling like a ball of unimportant fluff, she didn’t want it, thank you very much. Been there, bought the T-shirt.

Yes, he’d been sweet and kind during her bank ordeal, and yes, darn it, maybe as a result she’d looked at him with stars in her eyes, but now those stars were so long gone.

She was better off by herself.

But she was going to find his suspect. Oh yes, that would be satisfying, if nothing else, just to prove she wasn’t the kind of person who made these things up to get attention.

She didn’t need attention, not from him. What she needed was to stick to her guns and live her life. She liked the feeling that coursed through her at that thought. This new-lease-on-life-thing felt good. Empowering.

Yeah. And next time she got held up, she wouldn’t need a hero, she’d save herself.

As if her karma was in perfect sync, on the walk to work she caught a glimpse of a man striding away from her, down the alley between the café and the used book store.

She knew that short, dark crew cut. She knew those tennis shoes, that compact, muscle-bound body, as she’d seen him several times now, either loitering in front of the book store where she spent far too many hours and too much of her tips, or as he was now, walking down the alley.

He was also the man she’d seen in the picture on Sam’s desk.

He was Sam’s suspect, and visions of proving him wrong and her right danced in her head. So did visions of getting herself killed, but she was too fond of her new life at the moment to let that happen.

Besides, contrary to popular belief by one stubborn detective, she had a brain. She knew better than to try to stop a wanted man by herself.

To prove it, she fumbled in her purse for the cell phone she’d won just last month in a mailer sweepstakes. At the time she’d thought she’d much rather have won a year’s supply of groceries, but right now she was grateful for the phone.

And the fact that for once her battery was fully charged.

Dialing 911, heart pounding, Angie flattened herself against the wall of the building, holding her breath when the man paused and glanced over his shoulder.

From nearly fifty feet, their gazes met and locked.

“Emergency dispatch,” came a female voice in her ear.

“I need to talk to Sam O’Brien,” Angie whispered, swallowing hard as fear turned her stomach to mush. “He’s a detective with-”

“Ma’am, you need to dial him direct-this is not an answering service.”

“It’s an emergency.” This whole calling-a-cop thing looked so much easier on television. “I have one of his suspects in sight right this very minute, and I think he’d want to know.”

“Where are you and what’s your name?”

Sam’s suspect stared at her for exactly two more seconds before vanishing around a corner.

Angie grated her teeth and gave the dispatcher the information, knowing it would be too late. “Tell Sam to hurry, and that if he needs me I’ll be working in the café.” Frustrated, she stood there staring down the alley, wishing she was a police officer so she could go find the guy herself.

The war between doing just that and staying put wasn’t a hard one to fight. She knew better. And anyway, despite feeling strong and sure, she didn’t have quite enough nerve.

But she’d give anything to be a big, tough, armed cop at this moment. With one last sigh, she entered the café.

“About time,” her boss groused as she came into the kitchen.

Angie hung up her sweater, pulled a hair band out of her pocket and tied up her hair. “Good morning to you, too. And I’m not late. I’m early.”

“Hmph.” Josephine looked at her and let out a huff. “It should be illegal to look as good as you do wearing that ugly uniform and your hair all piled on top of your head like that.” She continued slicing cantaloupe as she sighed, and on her two-hundred-plus-pound frame, the sound was substantial. “Why aren’t you in bed after your ordeal?”

“My ordeal was two days ago. Besides, I’d be bored to tears in bed.”

“Not if you put a man in there first.”

“Yeah, well…” Angie reached for her apron. A man in her bed had never brought her anything but a vague sense that she was missing some thing. “You should know, there might be some excitement here in a few minutes.”

“Excitement?”

The heavy knock at the back door caused Angie to jump. Casually as she could, she opened the door and faced one glowering Sam O’Brien.

He was imposing, intense, and very unsmiling.

“You got my message,” she said, amazed and trying not to gape at the oddly thrilling sight of his big, tough body standing there. “I didn’t think the dispatcher would tell you. She thought I was a prank call.”

“Was it?”

“Was it what?”

“A prank call,” he said slowly, through his teeth, towering over her.

“Of course not.” She had to remind herself that just because he was breath taking didn’t mean he couldn’t be a complete jerk. Although that seemed a bit unfair, because she could remember quite vividly how gently and warmly he’d held her, talking her through the after math of the holdup.

Where had that man gone?

“Did you look down the alley?” she asked.

“Yes. And in the still-closed book store. And in all the neighboring alleys. There’s no one out there, Angie. No one.”

“He was.”

He closed his eyes and shoved a hand through his hair. Then he leveled her with a look that made her want to cringe. It was that look, the one that said she didn’t know what she was talking about, and if she did, it probably wasn’t important anyway.

She was very tired of that look, of feeling invisible. It came from being average, she thought, annoyed with herself. All her life she’d been so average most people had never even noticed her.

And she’d allowed it.

That would have to change, too. Maybe she’d go blond. No, that would only multiply the ditzy image. Redhead? Hmm, some thing to think about. “I saw him,” she repeated, raising her chin, refusing to let him make her feel stupid again. “And if you lost him, it’s your own fault. You need to respond faster.”

“I got here in less than five minutes from your original call,” he pointed out, still through his teeth, his huge body practically quivering with temper.

What was it about her that brought out the worst in people? Another thing she intended to change. Thinking only to soothe, she reached out and put her hand on his arm.

The considerable amount of muscles beneath his skin jerked, but he con trolled himself with nothing more than pure will power.

She under stood the effort, if not the reasoning. She too felt an almost physical jolt. Unnerved, she dropped her hand.

He stared at her for a long moment before pulling a business card from his pocket. “Take this. It’s got my office and cell numbers on it. Call me direct next time.”

The air whooshed out of her lungs. “You believe me?”

He put his sun glasses on. “I don’t know.”

“You believe me.” She grinned, ridiculously relieved, even when his frown returned.

“But if you’re in danger, call 911. Got that?”

“Yes. So which number should I call next time I see him?”

Sam looked pained. “You won’t.”

“I think I will.”

“Angie-”