He moved to his chair and sat. It protested his weight with a shrill screech. One of these days, the damn thing would fall apart. Readjusting his weight, he wondered which one would hold together longer, him or the chair. He’d put his money on the chair. “You want to tell me what happened? It might help to talk about it.”
“No.” The teacher voice returned, but it didn’t deter him. He was too fascinated by the way her rain-soaked hair clung to her cheek.
He had the oddest desire to push the strands away, to pull her against him because she looked as if she could use a good holding. Not his job. He pushed back the desire; he was a cop, not a personal caretaker.
Elbows on his desk, he laced his hands together. “You were limping. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
“I’m fine.”
Those two words again. Their eyes met again. “Okay. Then we’ll just sit here and stare at each other while you warm up.”
She abandoned her coffee on his desk. “May I please have my keys now?”
He couldn’t force her to stay here. He knew that. Hell, if the sergeant knew he was holding her keys hostage, he’d get his ass chewed up one way and down the other.
“You won’t go back to your apartment, will you?”
“I have to go back there, eventually.”
“Not for a few days.” He shot her a look that he hoped made the message clear. “This guy isn’t someone to mess with.”
Her bow-shaped lips tightened. “Fine. I won’t go back to my apartment for a few days.”
He picked up a pencil and tapped it on a yellow pad. “Where are you staying?”
“With a friend.” His coat around her shoulders shifted, exposing her wet blouse.
Her breasts drew his gaze again. The lacy pattern of her bra showed through her shirt. He forced his eyes up. She hadn’t willingly entered this wet T-shirt contest, which meant he didn’t have the right to enjoy it.
“Does Stan know where this friend lives? What if he—”
“No.” Silence thickened the air.
Brit gave the pencil a few more taps, focusing on her face, and trying not to think about her breasts. “Drink your coffee, then I’ll return your keys.” He ducked his head and pretended to read some paperwork. Instead, he sat there breathing in her scent, for it had taken up residency in his broom closet of an office.
“Oh, that’s awful.” Her words brought his head up.
The way she looked at the cup made him smile.
“Remember, I didn’t promise you it would be good. Only hot.” Their gazes converged. Excitement stirred in his gut, and that stirring said he’d like to get to know her. Like to see all her expressions, even a real smile or two. Bad idea. He tugged her keys from his pocket, dropped them on his desk, and slid them to her. “Drive safe. And if you’re still limping later, see a doctor.”
She set the coffee down and took her keys. She rose. Shoulders stiff, she took a step then glanced back. Those blond strands of hair clung to her cheeks again. “Thanks for the coffee.”
He grinned. “I thought you said it was awful.”
“It was.” She almost smiled. “God awful. But it was nice of you to bring it to me.”
Warmth fluttered in his gut. He chuckled, realizing he’d never come across anyone who had manners so intact. She didn’t curse and always offered gratitude—even for lousy coffee. He remembered her picking up the useless tampon. Hell, the woman didn’t even litter. Obviously, it came from her upbringing. God knew Brit didn’t come by manners naturally. Oh, his sister had tried to teach him a few, but they never stuck.
She stood there as if waiting for a reply and, as crazy as it seemed, he wanted to please her. “You’re welcome.”
He watched her walk out. The seductive sway of her hips, even in those loose black dress pants, reminded him that he hadn’t been with a woman in too damn long. It took five minutes before he realized that those hips had just swayed out with his leather jacket. Damn. He loved that jacket. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. When he heard someone clear his throat, he sat up.
Lucy, the desk clerk who’d offered to hold him down so Cali could kick his boys, stood there grinning.
“Thanks for helping out,” he said.
She chuckled. “Anderson’s right. You’re a softy.”
“I’m not a damn softy,” he muttered after she disappeared.
Chapter Nine
Cali pulled out of the police parking lot before she realized that she’d taken his jacket. She considered turning around. No. She’d drop it off another time.
The rain pelted her windshield and she turned the wipers on high. As she drove, she kept eyeing the rearview mirror, praying she wouldn’t spot Stan’s white truck. The memory of him coming up behind her, pressing himself against her, made her queasy.
What would have happened if Mr. Jones’s secretary hadn’t come out? Would he have really hurt her? Tried to rape her? Cali gripped the steering wheel.