She's Got the Look. Leslie Kelly
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Is that why you were in a disguise? Are you one of those detectives…guys who get a badge off the Internet then go out and spy on people?”
It was his turn to look shocked, even a little indignant. “No, of course not. It had nothing to do with you.”
“So what did it have to do with?”
He leaned in over the table, as well, until their faces were only a few inches apart, right above their cups. His coffee was hot, steamy and fragrant, recently freshened up. Her cup was still empty. She could have hit him just for that.
“I’m with the Savannah-Chatham PD’s Crime Investigation Unit. Didn’t Rosemary tell you why I was undercover? Didn’t you hear about your neighbor, the drug importer?”
A real undercover cop. And she had heard something about an arrest near her home. The relief flooding through her couldn’t be denied. “I’m sorry.” She tugged her ball cap off her head and tossed it onto the table, suddenly feeling a headache coming on. “I didn’t know for sure who you were.”
“So who did you think I was when we were talking a few minutes ago?”
She sighed, wondering what to say. About him, the list, his fifteen minutes of fame. Before she had to decide, he spoke again.
“It’s okay, I think I get it. Rosemary spun some kind of story to get you here, right?” He shook his head. “That woman sure loves to pull people’s strings, doesn’t she?”
Melody seized on the explanation. “Rosemary. Yes, of course.” Forcing a laugh, she added, “She is rather outrageous.”
“How do you know her?” he asked. Waiting for her to respond, he leaned back in his chair, kicking his legs out in front of him and crossing one foot over the other.
Those long legs. Those big feet. Which instantly had her trying to remember what they said about big feet.
Then he crossed his arms in front of his chest.
Those thick arms. Those big hands. Which also got her wondering about the whole big-hands, long-fingers thing.
God, she had to get out of here. Because now he was even more dangerous to her peace of mind than he’d been before, when she’d thought he was just the guy from her list.
Now he was the guy who’d helped her move into her new place. The one who’d risked his own undercover assignment, somehow seeing the desperation Melody had thought she’d been doing a pretty good job of hiding, and helped her when she was most in need.
He was gorgeous. He was sexy. He was a hero. And she was in way over her head.
Because even if she did something unthinkable, like go for it with a man she’d once named on a list, he wouldn’t be one she could do it with. Nick wasn’t the kind of man a woman could have and then forget. He was completely unforgettable; she knew that already after their two brief interactions. Which kind of defeated the purpose of the list, didn’t it? Joke or no joke.
“You still breathing over there?” he asked, a teasing look in his twinkling brown eyes.
Before she could respond, the waitress came over to their table. “He took the dregs, and said to get you a nice fresh pot,” the woman said, giving Melody an impersonal smile.
Oh, no. He’d done something kind again. Something thoughtful. She really needed him to stop doing that if she was going to be able to maintain any willpower at all around the man.
Once the waitress had filled her cup and left, Mel answered Nick’s question. “Rosemary and I met as kids. She and Paige, the woman who was helping me move in that day, were my best friends from fourth grade on.” She smiled, remembering how it had felt to have a normal kid life for the first time. “Then Tanya burst into our lives. A strong-willed, feisty black girl who had no idea the kind of crap that could go on in the genteel South. The three of us rallied around her because some of the stuck-up white kids in our private school were so rotten to her.”
“Rosemary wasn’t one of them?” He sounded skeptical.
“Rosemary’s spoiled and is from a rich Southern family, but she’s definitely not a racist.” Chuckling, she added, “The two of them love to harass each other. They’re a riot when the one-liners start flying—the pampered Southern belle and the tough, proud, African-American woman. They are a perfect foil to each other. I guess, when you think about it, all of us complemented one another pretty well, which is why we got along from day one.”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “So are you like Rosemary? A real-live Southern belle?”
“I was born in Florida. My mother and I moved here when I was ten and we rented a place in this area.”
She didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to know that they’d moved to Savannah precisely so her mother could play Southern belle. Or that the place they’d rented had been a gorgeous estate a few blocks from the river. Or that the money Melody had been making as the most popular kid on just about every TV commercial on the air and almost every kiddie show on PBS had paid for it.
That was all on a need-to-know basis. And this man didn’t need to know anything more than the three spots on Melody’s body that could give her an almost-instant orgasm.
In five-and-a-half years of marriage, Bill had found one of them. Sort of. But she’d bet this guy could zone in on all three in under five minutes if they ever got naked.
It’s not happening. The list was a joke!
“You’re not a native,” he said. “Me neither.”
“You’re not from Georgia?” she asked, surprised since that’s about all she’d ever known about her Time magazine hero.
“Yeah, but not here. I moved here after high school. I’m from the northwest part of the state, a place called Joyful.”
Joyful, Georgia. “Sounds quaint and sweet, like a picture-postcard small town.”
“It’s hell with white picket fences,” he replied matter-of-factly, indicating that subject was closed. “Now, come on, tell me. How’d Rosemary get you here?” he asked. “And why?”
Uh-uh. No way was she going into detail on either of those questions. “Doesn’t matter. She was obviously playing a joke on both of us, so I think I’ll get my check and go.”
His eyes narrowed. “Not so fast. I think it does matter. She got me here with some story about you knowing of a link between a murder in Atlanta and the death of a local restaurant owner.”
Though her heart skipped a beat, Melody managed to keep her expression serene. “Really? How strange.”
He stared for a moment, then slowly asked, “So you’re saying you don’t know anything about the death of Charles Pulowski in the kitchen of his own restaurant?”
She gaped. “Pulowski? His last name was Pulowski? And he owned a restaurant named Chez Jacques?”
“So you do know him.”
Shaking her head, she said, “No, but I’ve heard of him. I lived on his chocolate volcano cake during finals in college.”
He didn’t react at all. Some men would have made a comment about the cake not hurting her figure. Some women might have been fishing for such a comment. But he wasn’t such a man. And she wasn’t even going to think about whether she was such a woman.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Detective Walker murmured, his voice steady, that soft drawl low and warm but strictly business…as if he wasn’t the least bit distracted by any thoughts of her appearance.
This man was so different from most of the men she met. So completely the opposite of her ex-husband, whose smooth delivery back when they were dating had made his incessant compliments and comments about her looks seem almost charming, instead of piggish. Now she knew better.
Detective