He's Still The One. Cheryl Kushner
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his index finger along his chin. Yep, she could see that the all-too-sexy cleft was still there. Along with the little scar from a baseball thrown awry. He rocked back on his heels, smiled. “That’s what all crooks say.”
Oh, and that smile, bracketed by dimples that still sent shivers down her spine. The little stubble across his jaw didn’t hurt, either. The man sizzled sex. Zoe steeled herself. No weakness. Especially not in front of the man she’d once considered her best friend—the man who’d broken her heart even if he hadn’t realized it at the time. Hadn’t she promised herself she wasn’t ever, ever going to be taken in by his smile again?
She wouldn’t think about what her hair must look like, or that a decent burial—not dry cleaning—likely would be the fate of her designer denim overalls. Forget about making a fashion statement. She was wet, tired, hungry and late for her dress fitting for her sister Kate’s wedding.
And from the uncompromising coplike look on Ryan’s face, she also was in big trouble. She still couldn’t understand why she was the only person arrested at the senior citizen’s rally. All she’d been doing was her job, interviewing the protesters, thinking she might have a good story for Wake Up, America.
“Shouldn’t you be catching criminals in Philadelphia?” She winced at the petulance in her voice.
“I’ve discovered that the more interesting—” he paused and threw her a pointed look “—criminals visit Southern Ohio.”
“I’m not a—”
“Save it for the judge. I’ve read the police report. Resisting arrest. Punching an officer…”
“He tripped and fell.”
“Then you wrestled with him in the mud.”
“He handcuffed me.”
“Before the both of you landed flat on your faces in the fishpond. Rumor has it that’s going to be the front-page color picture in tomorrow’s Riverbend Tribune.”
She took a deep breath to steady herself, trying not to imagine how much damage a photo like that could do to her TV career. And took another deep breath because seeing Ryan had shook her to the core. “As usual, you’ve got your facts wrong.”
“So, enlighten me Ms. New York City TV star.”
“I would rather eat snails.”
“There’s a new French restaurant in town.” He paused. “Want me to check and see if they have take-out?”
Her stomach rolled. She couldn’t stand the slimy things. And he knew it. “No,” she said faintly. Then she steeled her voice. “But thank you.”
“Guess it’s pretty hard to look and sound haughty when you’re dressed in mud.” Ryan smothered a grin, but barely. Oh, if she only had these handcuffs off she’d wipe that silly, sexy grin right off his face!
Patience had never been her strong suit. She closed her eyes, mentally counted to ten. “If you’re not going to help me, go away.” And opened them when she heard his full-bodied laugh.
With a shrug, he started to do as she asked. Then he paused, turned, and cocked a brow in her direction. “Nah.” He shook his head and walked away.
“I know my rights,” Zoe shouted after him. “I want my phone call. And my lawyer. I want to talk with the person who’s in charge here!”
“That person—” Ryan turned to face her “—would be me.”
She stared at him, trying hard not to let him know he’d caught her off guard. Again. But inside she was reeling. Ryan O’Connor was in charge of the Riverbend Police Department? The last she’d heard—not that she’d been paying attention to any gossip about Ryan—he’d received some commendation for heroism and was headed for the top-cop spot in Philadelphia.
So what was he doing back in Riverbend? It wasn’t as though she cared…or did she?
She had to let him know she meant business. She held out her cuffed hands. “You have no grounds to arrest me. I didn’t break any laws. I want these off, and I mean now.”
“Actually, I do have grounds. You disturbed the peace. Something, I recall, you’re very good at. The key’s at the bottom of the pond,” he said with an exaggerated patience that didn’t fool her. She just knew he was enjoying her predicament. “My deputies are searching for it.”
“And you’re not guarding the master key?”
“They tell me it was lost the day the jail opened. That would be…let me think…some twenty-five years ago.”
She tried to keep calm. “What about a locksmith?”
He shrugged. “Closed. It’s Friday, after five o’clock. Riverbend isn’t New York City. We don’t do 24/7.” With a smile that indicated he was anything but apologetic, he disappeared around the corner.
“Wait! Where do you think you’re going?” She awkwardly raked the bars with her handcuffs. The resulting noise sent shivers through her teeth. “We’re not finished here. You can’t just walk away. Ryan! Get back here!”
She was sure she heard him chuckle. Otherwise, she got no response. Not that she expected one. Great. She was being held hostage in her hometown jail, and it appeared her jailer was none other than the last man on earth she’d ever ask for help.
It had been ten long years since she’d seen him. But she’d never been able to erase him from her thoughts. Now—suddenly, unexpectedly—he plops back into her already complicated life and for just a moment, a brief ridiculous moment, she felt tempted to ask him the one burning question left unanswered for the past decade.
She considered it a miracle he hadn’t listened when she demanded that he get back here. Lord only knows what she would have said and how he would have responded.
Zoe gazed around the eight-by-twelve-foot cell. About as much room as her upper West Side studio apartment. And with about as much warmth. The single cot with its regulation flat pillow and scratchy gray blanket screamed uncomfortable. The tiny-screened window barely allowed in a stream of sunlight, let alone any fresh air.
“And let’s not forget the fashionable iron bars on the windows and doors,” Zoe muttered as she paced the cell once, then paced it again before flopping down on the cot.
She turned her face into the pillow and tried not to worry about how she felt as much a prisoner in her outrageously expensive apartment as she did here. She wasn’t going to think about New York now. Or her job as on-air columnist at Wake Up, America that she loved, but which was slowly beginning to eat away at her heart and soul. Not that she’d ever admit that to any of her colleagues or friends. She found it hard enough to admit to herself.
They all thought she had the perfect life. They celebrated her most recent success last month with a party at the hottest club in the city when she was promoted from mere entertainment reporter to the coveted weekly morning spot on Wake Up, America. People she hadn’t heard from in years had called or e-mailed when they’d read about that party in the “Sunday Styles” section of the New York Times. She’d been thrilled when her mother had sent her the front page Riverbend Tribune article on her promotion, with the less-than-original headline Local Girl Makes Good.
She had achieved the goal she’d set when she’d graduated from college six years ago. She worked and lived in Manhattan. She had plenty of twenty-something friends and acquaintances. And because of her work she was considered a celebrity of sorts.
But she couldn’t put out of her mind how New York City’s tabloids had referred to her last week when the network announced she would be hosting a two-hour nighttime entertainment special in addition to her appearances on Wake Up: Ms. Perky Goes Prime Time. The phrase still distressed her. Whoever called her perky hadn’t been paying close attention to her recent Wake Up segments.
She wasn’t just promoting glitz, glamour and celebrity faces.