All A Man Can Do. Virginia Kantra
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Bud Sweet was in the lobby. With his broad red face and thick white hair, he looked like St. Nick’s suspicious cousin. His gut strained over his gun belt. Not for the first time this week, Jarek wondered if he would have to requisition new uniforms for his out-of-shape department or order them all into training.
There was a woman with Sweet, dark haired, young and exotic looking in a red sweater and a fitted black blazer. Nothing wrong with her shape at all.
“Lieutenant,” Jarek said quietly. With only a week as their boss, he was careful to give his department veterans their due.
Sweet nodded acknowledgment. “Someone here to see you, Chief.”
The woman turned, revealing a wide, red, full-lipped mouth and Sicilian gold eyes. The blazer hung open. Well. Wow. Hello. From this angle, the sweater looked even better.
She offered her hand, her golden eyes amused and aware. “Teresa DeLucca. But you can call me Tess.”
He shook her hand briefly—hers was warm and firm, with deep red nails to match the sweater—and then thrust his own deep in his pockets. Look, don’t touch, veteran Joe Arbuzzi used to tell him when he was still a wet-behind-the-ears detective at a crime scene.
“What can we do for you, Miss DeLucca?”
“I want to buy you breakfast,” she said.
Breakfast? Like, what two people ate the morning after the night before?
Holy St. Mike. He was a seasoned veteran of the streets. A casualty of divorce court. He knew better than to drool over Miss Call-Me-Tess DeLucca like he was off duty and she was a doughnut.
It was the sweater, he told himself. He’d always been a sucker for…red.
“She’s a reporter,” Sweet said.
A reporter. Jarek’s mental barriers rattled down like the grill over a jewelry store window. He had a cop’s natural aversion for the press. Even when they wore red.
“What do you want?” he asked again.
Sweet grinned. “Well, her brother’s not in lock-up, and the bars don’t close for another thirteen hours, so she can’t be here to bail her mama out. She must want you.”
Jarek frowned. Surely Sweet was joking? He had to be joking.
But Teresa DeLucca’s smile flattened. “Only for breakfast,” she said.
Jarek shook his head. “Sorry. I’ve eaten.”
“Coffee, then? The stuff here’s terrible.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Come here often, Miss DeLucca?”
“Tess,” she corrected. “And, no, not lately. Although I had my first ride in a police cruiser when I was fourteen.”
Okay, he was interested. He gestured toward the hallway behind him. “I can offer you coffee in my office.”
Her manicured nails toyed with the shoulder strap of her purse. Did he make her nervous? Or was it police stations? I had my first ride in a police cruiser when I was fourteen.
“What about the café?” she countered. “I’m buying.”
She was a puzzle, with her confident eyes and uncertain mouth. Jarek had never been able to resist a puzzle. It was one of the things that made him so good at his job.
He shrugged. “Fine. You want to come back for your car?”
Her smile relaxed some. She had a tiny overlap in her front teeth that was very attractive. “I’ll drive, thanks.”
“You’ll follow me?”
Those golden eyes danced. “To the ends of the earth,” she said solemnly.
He resisted the urge to smile back. Until he knew what she wanted, he couldn’t afford to get chummy.
“All right,” he said.
Bud Sweet pursed his round, red mouth. “Leaving kind of soon, aren’t you, Chief?”
Jarek nodded. “I’ll be back in thirty. Page me if you need me.”
“We’ll manage,” Sweet said.
Their eyes clashed briefly. Sweet’s fell first.
“Great,” Jarek said, careful not to push his point. “Thanks.”
Tess DeLucca followed him out of the building, her high-heeled boots making a bold sound on the concrete walk. “I get the impression your second in command doesn’t like you much.”
Well, there was a scoop, Jarek thought.
“Really,” he said noncommittally.
She unlocked her car door and then tossed back her dark hair to look at him. “Did you know he was in line for the chief of police position? Until the search committee decided you were the best man for the job.”
“I’d heard something like that,” Jarek admitted. It made the lieutenant’s antagonism easier to bear. Sweet considered Jarek an interloper. An outsider.
Jarek shrugged mentally. Hell, Sweet was right.
“I’d watch my back if I were you,” Tess DeLucca said. “Your lieutenant knows how to hold a grudge.”
Jarek frowned, but her face expressed nothing but intelligent interest and a sort of wry commiseration. He muffled another inconvenient spark of attraction. He appreciated her concern, if that’s what it was. He admired her frankness. But there was no way he was discussing the deficiencies and jealousies of the officers under his command with a civilian. A reporter, for crying out loud.
“I’ll keep it in mind,” he murmured, and ushered her into her car.
Tess watched the new chief of police hand his plastic-sleeved menu back to their waitress.
“Grapefruit,” he ordered. “And coffee.”
“No doughnuts?” Tess drawled.
Denko’s eyes narrowed. His face was dark, full of lines and shadows. His eyes should have been dark, too. But they were unexpectedly pale, clear and cool as the lake in March. Tess resisted the urge to rub her arms briskly.
“You want doughnuts?” he asked.
“No. I’ll have the pancakes,” she told the waitress. She turned back to Denko. “I just thought you might.”
He nodded to the waitress—Noreen, her plastic name tag read—and said, “Thanks. That’ll be all, then. So.” He laced his fingers together; rested them on his paper place mat. All of his gestures were exact and deliberate, Tess noticed. “Do you always draw conclusions about people you’ve just met?”
She shrugged. “I get impressions. It helps, in my line of work.”
“And I strike you as a man who likes doughnuts.” His voice was bland. His shoulders were broad. And his stomach, beneath his starched shirt front, wasn’t anywhere near the edge of the table. Whatever the new chief’s reasons for leaving Chicago, he obviously hadn’t spent the past ten years eating doughnuts behind a desk.
She felt caught out by her stereotyping and struggled to make a recovery. “Maybe not,” she said. “You impress me as a man in control of himself and his waistline. You’re—what?—thirty-eight? Thirty-nine?”
“Forty.”
Just out of her age range and way out of her league. She looked at his hands, clasped on the table in front of him. His fingers were long and blunt-tipped, the nails neatly trimmed but otherwise neglected. “You’re not married now, but you were once. Maybe more than once. You’re straight. You don’t smoke, you drink beer, you vote Democrat and think Republican. How am I doing?”
He waited while their waitress, a straw-haired blonde in wilted polyester,