3

      DAYS AGO, WHEN TRUDY began delving into Truman’s private life to enhance her article about the NYPD, she’d expected to discover secrets, but nothing like this. Crouching behind a bush in Bryant Park, she watched him leave the seventh sex toy shop this evening and head toward a triple-X marquee where a heavyset man with bulging biceps sat inside a smudgy glass booth, selling tickets. Most stores on the strip offered relatively tame sexy underwear and books, but one devoted itself to sinister zippered masks. Trudy shuddered, bringing up the camera slung around her neck and keeping Truman in the viewfinder as he changed his mind about the theatre and ducked into a dirty bookstore.

      Times Square was hardly the red-light district it once was, but a few blocks away, here in Bryant Park, behind the New York Public Library’s main branch, the streets remained dark and seedy. The night had turned too cool for the navy cardigan Trudy wore over a T-shirt and jeans, and the drizzle-dampened paper shopping bags that were brimming with purchases.

      Ignoring catcalls from park dwellers, she snapped another photo, glad the headlights on Forty-first Street obscured the camera flash, her heart hurting as she considered how these pictures could ruin Truman’s career. Maybe she should try talking to him. He had vices, yes. He was oversexed, yes. But didn’t that mean he needed help?

      So many here did. Over the past few nights, while tailing Truman, Trudy had interviewed people who called the park home, and she’d begun a heartbreaking, and she hoped, groundbreaking, story about their plight. As she listened, she could barely blink back tears, and most nights, she went home and wept. Sure, some people were hardened dopers, but others told stories of physical illness or emotional abuse, lost spouses, jobs and homes. The teens were the most gut-wrenching. Unwanted and without opportunities, they felt their lives were over before they’d begun. Given a chance, Trudy knew they’d get on their feet.

      Someone had to tell the public. As much as Trudy wanted to storm City Hall and demand intervention, it was her job to listen, care and write stories that mattered. Sure, she wanted the high profile leads—the lottery win, the Galapagos oil spill and the Glass Slipper—but it was people such as those she’d met in the park who truly motivated her.

      “There you are,” she murmured, her heart aching as Truman exited the book shop and darted toward the theater again. Despite her discovery of his double life, she couldn’t help but notice he looked even better in street clothes than in his uniform. Her eyes skimmed down the chest-molding white T-shirt he wore beneath a windbreaker, loose black jeans faded to gray and stylish black workboots.

      She tried not to think of all the hours he spent on corners talking to hookers. He didn’t solely frequent shops in this part of town, either, but also those around Grand Central Station. How had he wound up so lonely? Reduced to cruising?

      Trudy wanted to look away, but it was her job to stare the truth boldly in the face. She shoved the two shopping bags between her legs and hoped none of the drug dealers drifting through the unlit expanse of the park would steal them. Since most had come to know her name when she’d interviewed them, she doubted they would.

      “The NYPD’s poster boy,” she whispered, wishing Truman’s wasn’t the tragic story of a cop who’d crossed the line. She’d sensed he was more sexual than most men, but who could have guessed he spent every night here? It had cost a month’s salary, but Trudy had spent heavily in the shops he frequented, and although she’d never been inside such stores before, she’d hit pay dirt. When she spent money, clerks talked. After scrutinizing the plainclothes NYPD photo she’d used to identify Truman, they’d assured her he was a regular customer. Shivering against the damp air, she watched him stop under the lurid marquee to talk to two shady characters.

      By day he seemed so normal. After discovering his double life, Trudy had increased her interpersonal efforts during their drive-alongs, acting friendly and getting him to talk. He presented himself as all-American. As a sports fan who’d been a good student and active in school. He volunteered for the D.A.R.E. program, talking to youngsters about not using drugs, and he loved his parents and brothers, spending much of his recreational time with them. Before she discovered his secret life, Trudy had begun to consider…

      Sleeping with him? Trudy pushed away the thought. She had to concentrate on her job. By day, she prayed Truman would never suspect she was following him by night. Unfortunately, as she toured the city with him, she kept wanting to forget the lurid places she watched him visit when he was off the clock.

      The Truman she was coming to know by day had become as amiable as she. Unlike her father and brothers, he made her feel worthy of undivided attention. Her carefully erected guard had started to crumble. She’d found herself rediscovering a city both she and Truman loved, and she enjoyed seeing it through the sharp eyes of a native, one who gladly answered all her questions about police life.

      Snapping another picture, she wondered when the long hours had finally gotten to Truman, when he’d given up on girlfriends who couldn’t understand the stresses of his profession. Only aching loneliness could have forced him to this forbidden part of the city where he spent hours exhausting his physical needs. How desperate he must feel, Trudy thought, how hungry for sexual release.

      Strangely, she could identify. Oh, not with what Truman Steele had been reduced to, but with the edgy, pent-up need and loneliness that felt so empty it hurt. Some nights, alone in bed, the want of a partner gnawed at her soul. Cravings made her burn. Frustrated and unsatisfied, she tossed and turned. She’d never really felt a man’s greedy hands on her body, nor surrendered to the ultimate pleasure only a man could bring.

      Instead she’d ignored men for years, assuring herself there’d be time for that part of her life once she was established in the news world. Only then would she allow herself a lover. But she was almost established now, wasn’t she? And for the male body, she had the same curiosity that drove her at work….

      Heat flushed her face. Truman Steele was so potent, virile and male that, unbidden, her breath quickened. He needed a woman, and suddenly, it didn’t seem fair that he take his comfort from strangers. She’d begun thinking about him all the time. At home, she’d stare curiously at the photos she’d taken of him, or at the bare-chested photo of him in his patrol car. Shopping in these stores hadn’t helped. Amidst the tacky items, Trudy had discovered some that intrigued her, and the purchases had begun to fuel wild, hot fantasies….

      This morning, she’d given in to temptation. In the deli where she bought milk, she’d picked up batteries, blushing furiously as she paid, as if the clerk might read her mind and realize she planned to try one of the devices she’d bought. It was wicked. Probably perverse. But she just couldn’t help herself. Anytime she imagined wild, uncontrolled vibrations against her flesh, sensual pleasure burst through her…

      Tonight, while digging for information about Truman, she’d bought