She stopped in front of him, her key in hand. “Do you have more questions for me, Detective?”

He sighed, maybe because she’d called him “Detective,” maybe because he was as tired as she was. “Yes, I do. The gray-haired man you saw going into the reception hall yesterday afternoon: Can you give me any more details about him? The make of car? Anything?”

“No,” she said briefly. “Gray-haired man, silver car. That’s it. I was having a bad day and my mind wasn’t on scanning people in the parking lot. There’s really no reason to harass me while I’m working, Detective. I have your number, and if I remember anything new I’ll call and let you know.”

“I’m not harassing you.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.” She jingled her keys as a hint, but he remained where he was, solidly blocking her from getting into the car. He’d probably chosen that position on purpose. Instead of trying to force him out of the way—yeah, like she’d have any luck trying that—or looking desperate by opening the passenger door and inelegantly climbing over the console, she stood her ground.

Damn him. Looking at him, she couldn’t help but be yanked back to the other night, when he’d made her feel better than she’d felt in years, when he’d made her laugh, made her cry out, made her forget everything except being a woman. He’d been a night of escape, a momentary slip, and yet right now she’d give anything to have him tell her that he knew she couldn’t have killed Carrie or anyone else, that he believed in her and would fight for her.

Yeah, right. She was wasting her time there.

After a moment of silence, he said, “I have those copies you asked for.”

“Oh.”

Well, damn him, how dare he do something nice for her when she had a good mad worked up against him? “Oh” wasn’t good enough; now she had to thank him. Again.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly, taking the roll of papers he held out to her.

“I’ll need you to come in tomorrow and look at some photographs—”

Tomorrow? She was so horrified, thinking of everything they had going on tomorrow—it would be their busiest, most hectic, absolutely insane day—that for a moment her mind went blank and all she could hear was a sort of white noise. Then she felt her mouth move, and what came out of it was: “Look, Studly Do-Right, either arrest me or leave me alone!”


Chapter Eighteen

“WHAT DID YOU CALL ME?” HE ASKED, HIS TONE STIFLED.

Jaclyn covered her mouth with her fingers. Oh, God, surely she hadn’t said that out loud! Surely this was a nightmare and she’d wake up in a few minutes nice and snug in her bed, instead of standing with Eric Wilder in an almost deserted parking lot lit only by the stark, weird tones of the sodium vampire security lights, which was nightmare inducing if she’d ever seen anything that was.

“Studly Do-Right?” he repeated.

Why couldn’t the pavement just open up and swallow her whole? Why couldn’t she have been struck mute before she opened her mouth? Why couldn’t Eric Wilder have stayed at least sixty miles away from her and never bumped into her in city hall?

“You can be arrested for hostile acts toward a law enforcement officer,” he said, still in that stifled tone, as if he could barely speak.

“Then why don’t you arrest me?” she flared, goaded beyond control. She was so angry that she stuck out her hands, wrists together, daring him. “Why don’t you cuff me and drag me to jail right now, huh? Huh? Go ahead! Charge me with the heinous crime of calling you Studly Do-Right, and let’s see you get laughed out of court, Mr. High and Mighty Law Enforcement Officer!” Some moronic woman she didn’t know had taken charge of her body, and her mouth. The same moron thrust her shoulder into the detective, pushing him back. “Go ahead! Arrest me!” Then she lowered her shoulder again and gave him one more shove, just for good measure.

“Jaclyn,” he said, sounding as if he were strangling. Then he began howling. Literally. Well, not actually baying at the moon or barking like the Georgia fans, but bent over at the waist, red in the face, howling with laughter.

If she could be sure he wouldn’t charge her with assault, she’d have punted him into next week. “Go away!” she shouted. “I regret ever meeting you! I hope you get scurvy and your teeth fall out! I hope you get rickets! I hope you get beriberi!”

“You don’t even know what beriberi is,” he managed to say, before going off again.

“It’s a dread disease that turns you into a stupid jerk man!” She couldn’t remember ever being so beside herself with rage before, and it was all the worse for being so impotent. She couldn’t pick him up and hurl him through a plate-glass window, which would have been hugely satisfying. She couldn’t shoot him or stab him, because she didn’t have any shooting or stabbing weapons. She couldn’t kick him, because she was wearing open-toed pumps and she’d only hurt herself. She couldn’t even hit him with the rolled-up papers, because that wouldn’t do any more damage than swatting a fly. All she could do was yell at him with the mouth that was still under the control of the moron woman she didn’t know.

“Miss Wilde?” the minister asked hesitantly from several yards away, having left the church by the side door and witnessed her pitching a hissy fit. “Are you all right?”

“No, I’m not all right!” She stomped her foot, threw her keys on the ground, and would have jumped up and down on them with both feet but at the last second destroying her remote struck her as self-defeating, so she clenched every muscle in her body and screamed a wordless sound of fury.

Eric was laughing so hard he had to lean against her car for support, his hands braced on his knees. Still whooping, he recovered enough to bend a little farther to pick up her keys, but it took him three tries to actually grab them.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” the minister persisted. He was visibly perturbed, perhaps because he thought there was some threat to her, but more than likely because the ladylike Jaclyn Wilder had turned into a raving maniac in front of his very eyes.

“Yes!” she roared, and pointed at Eric. “Punch him in the nose! Punch him as hard as you can, and then I’ll feel better.”

“I can’t do that,” said the minister, aghast.

“Then don’t volunteer!” She snatched her keys out of Eric’s hand and hit the remote to unlock the door. Some glimmer of sanity was returning to her rage-fogged mind, and it struck her that the best thing she could do was get out of there before she really did end up arrested for something, probably disturbing the peace, because she’d certainly done that.

Choking and wheezing with laughter, Eric slapped a hand against her car door and prevented her from opening it. “Jaclyn … stop,” he managed to say, his shoulders heaving.

She pushed her face close up to his and snarled, “Make me.”

“Oh, God.” He sucked in a huge, shuddering breath, looked at the minister, and said, “Sorry, padre.”

“It’s okay,” said the minister, smiling a little. “I think I understand.”

“She’ll see you tomorrow, and she’ll be so calm you’ll think you dreamed this.”

“I doubt that, but I’ll give it a try. Now, young man, is she going to be all right if I leave her with you?”

“She will be. I’m not so sure I’ll survive.” He began snickering again.

“Stop giggling,” Jaclyn snapped. The presence of a third party had given her time to catch her breath, a little, though it hadn’t done a lot to ease her temper. She never lost her temper like this, but she couldn’t think of anyone who had ever made her so angry before. Even when Carrie had slapped her, she hadn’t thrown a full-scale tantrum.

Eric scrubbed his hand over his face. “Cops don’t giggle. I’m a cop, therefore I don’t giggle.” He was teary-eyed, red-faced, and breathless from laughing so hard. The minister gave them a warm smile—what was up with him?—and walked back to his car, leaving them alone.

In the deep well of silence that followed, Jaclyn could hear herself breathing hard, too. The unreality of the past five minutes seized her as the cool voice of reason began to make itself heard again. She never acted like that, especially not in public. The way she felt went beyond mere embarrassment; a mixture of horror and sheer mortification froze her in place. She’d been out of control, acting like a child, and she hadn’t been able to stop.

A buzzing in her ears warned her that she needed to breathe, though she honestly would prefer not to; she’d rather just drop unconscious to the ground and lay there until Eric left. The problem with that was, he wouldn’t leave. He’d stay with her, maybe take off his jacket and put it under her head, call 911, things like that. As uncomfortable as remaining conscious was, it was probably her best option. She gulped in a breath of air. “I’m sorry,” she forced herself to say. She had to clear her throat before she could get the words out. Even then her voice was hoarse and kind of hollow; she didn’t sound like herself at all.

“That’s okay,” he said lazily, settling his ass against her car again.

A simple “sorry” wasn’t good enough, she thought fuzzily, not after everything she’d said and done. Her face burned, and her voice took on a ragged edge in addition to the hoarseness as she said, “No, it isn’t okay. The way I acted was appalling. I embarrassed you—”

“I wasn’t embarrassed. I was entertained. That was one of the best hissy fits I’ve ever seen. For sheer inventiveness, it even tops the time my mom dumped a canister of flour on top of my dad’s head. Mom is more into action. She never would have thought of beriberi.” He crossed his arms and smiled at her; for an instant she was caught in the same tractor beam of chemistry or hormones or pure insanity that had gripped her the first time she’d seen him. She could feel it start dragging her in, which horrified her almost as much as her loss of control. She had to tear her gaze away from his before she could resume her apology.