His touch gave her bedroom eyes.
Last night he’d diverted her from hooking up by suggesting they “date”. But even dating wouldn’t stay at the hand-holding stage for long. She’d expect more. Kissing. Touching. Full body contact. Naked, sweating, rhythmic movement full body contact. “Whatever it takes” was the motto for most undercover cops, and Matt was the best there was, especially on long-term assignments. He’d do “whatever it takes” to blend in.
But while sleeping with her was a betrayal, pretending to date her was ten times the deception. He didn’t need weeks in Eve’s company to know he was trading a physical lie for an emotional one, or to know that she’d tolerate neither.
Rather than think about that, he focused on the way she interacted with customers. Women might come to Eye Candy for the bartenders and the dancing, but he’d bet they also came back to see Eve, who had a real knack for making everyone feel drawn into her inner circle. She circulated, moving from group to group, introducing people, getting clusters to merge and new friendships to form. After even a two-minute conversation with a customer, that person smiled more widely, laughed a little louder, looked just a little looser and more relaxed. She reflected light like the dozens of tiny, mirrored disco balls dangling above the dance floor, taking whatever energy radiated from an individual and multiplying it.
He strode into the squad room and nodded a greeting to Sorenson. Lieutenant Hawthorn emerged from his office and braced himself against Andy’s desk. “Report.”
Sorenson had scrounged up a whiteboard and a bulletin board, the latter of which was now decorated with photographs of the pertinent players: Lyle Murphy, Eve Webber, and Lyle’s most frequent companion, a known offender from the East Side called Travis Jenkins. On the whiteboard Matt wrote out a list of employees, giving first names and last names when he’d been able to hear them, and drew a basic sketch of the bar’s interior and exterior, including exits. “The staircase you can see in the bar goes into her office. There’s a door here,” he said, tapping the spot on the diagram, “and a staircase down to the alley you can see from the storeroom door. I’m guessing her apartment is behind the door in her office.”
“I’ll start pulling files,” Sorenson said. “Does Lyle have anyone on the inside?”
“Cesar,” Matt said. “Maybe. I don’t recognize him, but the ink connects him to the Strykers at some point in time.”
“Good work,” Hawthorn said as he examined the building layout and the photographs. “Stay alert. We lose her, we lose the whole case.”
The group dispersed, leaving Sorenson leaning against his desk, staring at the pictures on the bulletin boards. “She likes you,” she said, noncommittal, just observing.
He didn’t pretend to not know who she meant, but he did try to play it down. “She’s flirting. It’s a way of life for her.”
“Is that a trained observer’s read on Eve Webber?” Sorenson asked with a mocking look. “She doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who takes no for an answer.”
I know exactly how to read Eve Webber. She’s sexy as hell, secretive, whip-smart, and for the first time in a very long time, I want something. I want her.
I always finish what I start.
At the memory of Eve’s husky voice, both flirtatious and flat-out serious, he flushed. He actually flushed, a very male, very human response—a very un-Dorchester response. Sorenson didn’t miss it. Both blond eyebrows rose ever so slightly. He firmed up his voice and said, “I’ve got this.”
“By the way, Hawthorn and I will be in the bar tonight. Hawthorn called in McCormick to handle exterior surveillance.”
“Got it.” He pushed away from the desk and headed back to Eye Candy.
*
Shortly after Eve found her chopping groove, Pauli ambled into the bar and disappeared down the hall. Every shift, he’d set himself up in the dish room with his homework and his iPod, emerging again at the end of the night soaked in sweat and smelling of industrial soap. A few minutes later the front door opened again, briefly silhouetting a now familiar, tall, muscular figure against the summer sky before closing.
Chad, who thought she deserved better than fast, back early again.
“You don’t need to get here until closer to five,” she said.
“I’m turning in my paperwork before you get busy, in case you had any questions.” He slid the completed W-4 and application onto the bar.
She wiped her hands on a towel, then reached for the papers, neatly filled out in black ink with block printing. “No felonies or drug convictions, right?” she asked absently as she skimmed the application.
“No.”
“It’s not a deal-breaker,” she said. “I just want to know up front.”