The Hotshot. Jule McBride
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assignment with her meant working those cases in his spare time.
“With or without a partner?”
“Usually with. Mine just quit.”
Her lips twitched. “Let me guess. You didn’t get along with him?”
“She was transferred to Police Plaza.”
Trudy was surprised. “Your partner was a woman?”
His ability to work with the opposite sex was probably why he’d gotten stuck with Trudy, not that he’d mention it. “She still is. And we got along. Usually my encounters with women aren’t nearly this antagonistic.”
She almost smiled. “Maybe I’ve got more important things to do today, too, Officer Steele. Did you ever think of that?”
So that was it. She’d guessed he’d been complaining to Coombs. And no, Truman had assumed she’d be thrilled to ride around with a cop. Most women liked it. “Important things?” he couldn’t help but say. “Lunch at the Plaza? Or maybe a hot story’s breaking at the museum? Ah—” he nodded sympathetically “—new baby pandas at the zoo?”
He hadn’t riled her. “The pandas are in San Diego. This week our mayor’s made budget cuts, and I thought I’d be at the closing of a psychiatric hospital this morning. That’s why I’m dressed this way. For the record, I didn’t ask to be here.”
Guess she’d told him. “Well, since you’re here, I’m glad you wore that suit because we’ll be zipping around the fancy-schmancy Upper East Side these next two weeks, fining well-heeled women with poodles who forget to scoop up the doggy-do.” He smiled. “If things get really hectic, maybe you’ll even see me haul in a jaywalker.”
Trudy shot him a steady look. “I’m hoping for that special someone who didn’t put the extra quarter in the meter.”
“Only if I’m not too busy ticketing unleashed dogs.”
“Look,” Trudy said, all pretense vanishing. “Don’t blame me. If your PR people quit coming up with these assignments—”
He stared incredulously. “The News is the problem. Your boss is racking up favors from the mayor again by making the city look like Kansas.”
“Kansas can get nasty. Look what happened to Dorothy.”
He sighed. “How long have you been working there, anyway?”
“Long enough.”
“Ah. You’re bright and ambitious, but the boys aren’t letting you get ahead?”
He’d struck a nerve. “Two years,” she muttered.
Suddenly, he felt sorry for her. Already, he could tell she was smarter than most reporters he’d met. Realizing he was staring at her like a besotted fool, he averted his gaze, and the file he’d been holding slipped between his fingers. Cursing, he quickly tried to grab the grisly color photos that fanned over his desk. They were from a shooting death in a crack house near Penn Station. “Sorry,” he murmured.
Her voice was cool, her pen poised. “Why don’t you guys get file cabinets? Budget problems? Any comment?”
There were budget problems, of course, and yes, he’d like to comment, but she was unnerving him. First, it was clear she meant to turn her public-relations story into something more in-depth, which would infuriate their bosses. And the grisly photos hadn’t even phased her. “How’d a girl like you wind up with such a poker face?”
“I’m not a child.”
Curiouser and curiouser, he thought. Trudy Busey apparently moved through the world expecting to be patronized. His cop’s instincts got the best of him. “Who treats you like a kid?”
“I’m not the interview subject. You are.”
Subject. He wasn’t used to hearing himself reduced to that. “Well, now you know how it feels.”
“Sorry, but like I said, I didn’t ask to be here.”
No, and it was starting to annoy him. “Most people like cops. We’re the good guys. The heroes.”
She chuckled. “Unless you’re on the take.”
“You don’t quit, do you?”
“Tenacity,” she returned. “A good trait in reporters.”
He went for her weak spot. “Maybe not so good in a woman.”
She rose swiftly. She was slender and economical, without a shiver of wasted movement. With a full-frontal view, he could see that her conservative outfit left hints of temptation: an extra button undone at the throat, a lace bra visible through the blouse, a skirt just tight enough to mold the sexy rounding of her tummy. He’d bet every penny of his coming five million that the legs he couldn’t see were shapely enough to model panty hose, and that she treated them to top-drawer silk stockings.
Just as her fisted hands landed knuckle-down on the desk, he caught a glimpse of a diamond. His heart plunged, then he registered the diamond was on the right hand, not the left. He was a cop, so usually he got details like that straight. Not that he’d noticed wedding rings before his mother’s recent challenge. “C’mon,” he murmured, realizing he’d risen with her and now reseated himself. “Why don’t you sit back down?”
“Because you’re attacking me. And because I’d rather be working on the mental hospitals, the lottery, or the Galapagos oil spill.”
Hardly wanting to contemplate the Galapagos Islands and the lottery, he gave Trudy another once-over. She was tougher than she looked, and he liked her dedication. Still, those eyes were made to soften. Already, he knew how the blue irises would temper to gray, how the sharp edges of the gaze would blur until her eyes turned as vaporous as smoke.
“Why are you staring at me?” she asked, point-blank.
Because he was crossing her off his list of potential brides. Trudy Busey was far too interesting, and he was looking for a woman who’d marry him, knowing she’d soon be divorced. Mulling over the five million dollars coming to him, he calculated the sum, minus what he’d pay in alimony. “Because I’m thinking about how to proceed,” he said. “You’re going to make me, this precinct and the streets of New York look great, right?”
“You say that as if I’m a sellout,” she said indignantly. “As if a reporter’s not really needed to write this story.”
He gentled his voice. “There’s some truth to that.”
“Let’s get one thing straight,” she shot back. “This assignment is my idea of hell.”
Before he could respond, he saw his mother enter the squad room, carrying a stack of flyers, probably asking for clothing donations for the homeless. As much as Truman loved the woman, she had a knack for showing up at the worst moments. He could almost hear her saying, “Ah, so you’ve found your bride!”
Which meant he had about three minutes to get rid of Trudy. Maybe five, seeing as his mother had stopped to talk to Capote and Dern, who’d been salivating around the watercooler ever since they’d been handed the Glass Slipper case, however temporarily.
“Before we go,” he said, “I’ve got a few things to take care of here.” Closing the file with his picture in it, he pushed it across the desk, toward Trudy. “My cruiser’s in the garage downstairs.”
“The one with the dice hanging over the rearview mirror?”
“Cute,” he said again. “Mind waiting? I’ll meet you there. Twenty minutes.”
“No problem.” She offered a curt nod. Sweeping the file off his desk, she turned, hugging it to her chest, and he whistled softly, watching her weave through the squad room. He’d been right about the legs. Long and shapely, they were encased in shimmering summer hose. The gentle twitch of her backside could