Dying To Play. Debra Webb
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she should be concerned about his ability to back her up in the field.
Maybe she should be more worried about her life in his presence than her honor.
The doorbell sounded again. Sally whined and looked up at her with a question in her big brown eyes. Elaine glanced at the report lying on the table. What had Henshaw forgotten?
She opened the door and said, “Decide you want that drink after all?”
“Is that an invitation?”
Elaine stared into the piercing blue eyes of Trace Callahan. Amusement twinkled there. Warmth spread through her before she could stop it.
“What’re you doing here?” Her tone was every bit as sharp as she’d meant it to be, but her vision was another matter. She couldn’t stop her eyes from studying his too-handsome face. Five-o’clock shadow darkened his jaw, adding another layer of texture to the already interesting terrain. He licked his lips causing a little infuriating hitch in her breathing.
Then he gave tit for tat. His gaze traveled down the length of her, abruptly driving home the way she was dressed. Damn. She stiffened when that evaluating gaze settled back on hers.
“It’s late, I know,” he said in that sensual drawl.
No way could she miss the male approval in those searing bedroom eyes. “That doesn’t answer my question.” He had an infuriating habit of answering a question with a question or with a remark that skirted the actual answer.
“I wanted to talk to you…off the record.” He adopted what he obviously thought was a hopeful look. It didn’t quite hit the mark.
She exhaled noisily, impatiently. He was her partner. “If you really feel it’s necessary.”
“I do.” His expression turned too serious, too somber.
“All right.” She opened the door wider and he stepped inside. As usual, his presence diminished the space, made her want to back away. Sally growled low and menacingly. Callahan didn’t appear put off by the threat.
“It’s all right, girl.” Elaine stroked the dog’s head and said to her unexpected and definitely unwelcome visitor, “Pour yourself something to drink and have a seat.” She gestured to her living room. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
He nodded once, then followed her instructions, that deliberate walk making her pulse react. She shook her head. Damn, she didn’t need this.
In her bedroom, she cursed herself for the fool she was as she quickly dragged on a pair of jeans. She refused the impulse to glance at her reflection as she left the room. She didn’t care how she looked, other than being dressed. This wasn’t a social visit. She definitely was not trying to impress him.
“Come on, girl,” she muttered to Sally who tagged along after her. “Let’s see what this little tête-à-tête is all about.”
Still standing when she returned, he offered her a tumbler containing the only hard liquor she had in the house, bourbon. She kept it around for her brothers. The decanter and four tumblers sat in a silver tray on the antique sideboard she’d inherited from her maternal grandmother. Again, Callahan perused her body from head to toe as if he felt the need to analyze her from the outside in. Elaine felt immensely better with Sally sitting at her feet.
“Thank you,” she said politely as she reached for the drink. She could use one about now, but didn’t have the guts to pay the price. Wine was one thing, eighty proof was entirely another. Her stomach couldn’t handle it. Unavoidably her fingers brushed his as she accepted the glass. A zing of electricity zapped her. She almost flinched. The only thing worse was that he didn’t seem to notice any of it. Maybe she was the only one suffering from confused, overactive hormones.
He sipped the Jack Daniels unnaturally slowly. His rigid posture, the tightness of his fingers on the glass all screamed of labored restraint. Or maybe it was her imagination. She was definitely looking for weakness.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” he said finally, his voice low, his tone devoid of inflection.
Elaine resisted the urge to laugh out loud. “That would be a vast understatement, Agent Callahan.”
He stared at the glass in his hand but didn’t take another drink. He swallowed, hard, the movement of muscle beneath bronzed skin oddly distracting. She looked away.
“We need to clear the air. Keep this professional.”
Anger pinged her. “Are you accusing me of being unprofessional?” she demanded, and instantly wished she could take back the words. This promotion had made her too damned edgy. She went on attack instantly when anyone questioned her job performance.
He blinked, then frowned. “No.” He lifted one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “It’s just that you argue my every suggestion and you seem to resent my mere presence in a room. We’ll never accomplish anything that way.”
She set her glass down on the nearest table and forced a calm voice. “Don’t expect me to go along with all your suggestions,” she warned. “I call it like I see it. As far as your presence, my chief ordered me to work with you, and I will. Any resentment I feel will not affect the investigation.”
He placed his glass next to hers, though the gesture was clearly forced. “All I’m saying is that I don’t want you to overreact to the Bureau’s involvement in this case. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”
“I’m a professional,” she said coolly. “This has nothing to do with the Bureau’s involvement. I make my assessments based on what I discover for myself, but I don’t trust until it’s earned. I’ll continue to question your suggestions until I either see it your way or I trust your judgment. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”
He almost smiled but didn’t quite follow through with the effort. It amused him when she used his own statements against him. Well, maybe amused wasn’t the right word.
“I guess that’s all I can expect,” he relented.
“I’m glad we’re in agreement.” With Sally on her heels, she walked across the room and paused at the doorway leading to the hall. “We both need some sleep. We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow. I, for one, intend to stay focused on this investigation. So, if there’s nothing else…”
He didn’t move. He didn’t even speak for one long moment. He had more to say, she could see it in his expression, in the determined set of those broad shoulders. The sensual ache from the music was the only sound during the tense standoff.
“You’ve already made up your mind about me.”
The accusation wasn’t spoken in an accusing manner, not openly, anyway. His tone remained low, tightly controlled. But she knew what he was thinking. He wouldn’t have said it otherwise.
“Are you going to tell me that you didn’t get your partner killed?” she suggested. “Because that’s all I’ve been told about you and that was secondhand.” It was only fair to give him a chance to refute what she’d heard. He was her partner, for the time being.
He walked toward her, his steps measured, controlled, just like his voice. When he stopped next to her, he looked straight into her eyes. “You expect me to justify what I did do or deny what I didn’t as told by the media?”
There he went, answering her question with a question. “That would be a start.”
Fury ignited in those blue depths. The blast made her want to step back, but she held her ground. He reined in the outburst right before her eyes. The effort it took visible.
When he’d exiled all emotion from his expression, he said, “A real cop would do more than just talk about making her own assessments based on fact rather than hearsay.”
Clenching