eyes away. “Is he the one I spoke to before? I didn’t remember his name.”
“That’s right.”
She shifted in her seat, her sweater pulling against the swell of her breasts. Jack’s mouth went dry.
“Well,” she said, “as I mentioned on the phone this morning, what I would like is—”
“Ms. Archer, I should probably just jump in with the information we need from you.” The approach seemed prudent. Not only did he need the information, he needed to regain the sense of control he’d lost the second he’d laid eyes on Veronica Archer. “At this stage of the game, we want to keep as much confidential as possible. I’m sure you understand.”
Her teeth grazed her lower lip and her brow furrowed. “Well, yes, of course.” She frowned, then shook her head. “No. Actually, the truth is I don’t. I only want—”
“Please.” He pulled out an evidence bag holding a single page and passed it to her, fighting the urge to explain the entire case. Clearly, he was losing it. Not only did his fingers itch to touch her, but something about the woman made him want to open up, to tell her about everything—the anonymous letters and postcards, the frustration of not being able to get a break in the case.
Get a grip, Jack. He was probably just feeling awkward about foisting erotic literature on a woman. Not the kind of activity he tended to imagine in a professional setting. Hell, not the kind of activity he’d ever imagined at all. Though with Veronica Archer, he could imagine some interesting study-hall activity.
With a mental jerk, he yanked his mind back, annoyed that the mere proximity to a beautiful woman was driving him to distraction. Maybe Donovan was right. Maybe he’d been too long without a date.
“So?” She waved the bag, then dropped it on his table.
“Do you recognize it?”
“Sure. D. H. Lawrence. Lady Chatterley’s Lover.” She looked him straight in the eye, and he thought he saw anger brewing. An unwelcome change from earlier, and one he didn’t understand.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Is this really necessary?”
A hard edge definitely laced her voice, but he supposed that was understandable. She was an academic, probably not used to being second-guessed. But he needed to be sure she knew her stuff. “Yes. I think it is.”
“Chapter ten,” she said, her voice tight. “Connie and the gameskeeper. They’ve never been together, really don’t even know each other, but he tells her to lie down, and she does, and then he touches her...that way.”
She raised an eyebrow and Jack swallowed, feeling a little like a student who’d just failed a test.
“Why do you ask?” she said.
He avoided the question, instead passing her one postcard and then another, each of which she identified without even missing a beat. The lady knew her stuff. Donovan had certainly tracked down the best professor for the job.
But the cards were chump change. Even he and Donovan had eventually discovered the source of the pages and the artwork. Now it was time for the real test. He pushed the photocopy of the pillow note toward her. “What about this? Do you recognize it?”
“Detective...” She paused, frowning, then glanced first at his desktop and then at him. After a moment, she seemed to come to a decision. “I’ve tried my best to be polite, to be on my best behavior. But I’m not exactly in the mood for pop quizzes, okay?” She tucked her purse under her arm and pushed her chair back, glaring at him, her eyes cold, entirely lacking their earlier warmth. “Yes, my specialty’s erotica. But I don’t see why I have to play Jeopardy! simply to get the police department to do its job.”
Jack could practically feel the anger sparking off her like static electricity. He didn’t have a clue as to what had set her off, but he had an overwhelming urge to fix it. To make whatever was bothering her better. “Look, Ms. Archer, if there’s been some sort of misunderstanding—”
“Misunderstanding? Ignoring my case? Not returning my calls?” She waved a hand at the evidence he’d just shown her. “And now this...this...attitude about the fact that I study erotica.” She glared at him, green eyes flashing. “It just so happens that I have a significant number of rare books and manuscripts in that store, not to mention the fact that I live above it.”
She pulled her cardigan closed, the thin knit stretching tight against her breasts. He shouldn’t be noticing, but he couldn’t help it any more than he could help his body’s reaction. He tried not to stare. Getting caught ogling her at this particular moment probably wouldn’t win him any brownie points.
She swallowed. “I’m scared, Detective. Okay? And I don’t appreciate being taunted about my profession.”
Blinking furiously, she stood up. “I’ll call again later for answers,” she said. “And I suggest you have some if you don’t want me to speak to your supervisor.” With a defiant tilt of her chin, she turned and rushed out, heels clicking on the battered linoleum floor.
Jack was as confused as he’d ever been, and she was out the door and gone by the time his brain defrosted. Gears turned in his head, and coherent thoughts started to form from the random words she’d thrown out—her case, ignoring, scared, answers. With a groan, he let his head fall onto the metal desktop.
Veronica Archer wasn’t a professor, she was a victim.
Way to go, Jack. Arrest the perps and alienate the victims. Smooth move.
And she wasn’t just any victim, but one who owned a bookstore and specialized in erotic literature. Except for the problem that he’d managed to completely piss her off, she could probably help him with the Crawley case more than some generic lit professor from the halls of academia. Not to mention the fact that he just plain wanted to see her again.
Glancing up, he noticed a rumpled man in a seersucker suit talking with Carla. The literature professor, he presumed. An image of chestnut curls, emerald eyes and a kissable mouth flashed in his mind. Features held together by a fiery personality he wouldn’t at all mind working with.
Instead, he got Professor Nerdsly.
“Detective Parker,” Carla called, “this gentleman is here to see you.”
Jack waved, letting her know he’d be right there.
“Oh, and Jack? That woman, she said to tell you it came from The Boudoir.”
* * *
“That was fast.” Joan looked up from the computer as Ronnie stalked into the store, the little bell announcing her arrival. She held up a box. “This came for you. From your secret admirer, I’m guessing.”
Ronnie half smiled as she took the box, her hideous mood lifting just a little. She pulled the top off to reveal a package of Hershey’s Kisses, with a little note in stenciled calligraphy— Sweets for the sweet.
Joan looked over her shoulder. “Aw. How sweet,” she said drolly. “I say there’s gotta be something wrong with him if he won’t show his face.”
“Don’t be mean,” she said to Joan. “Whoever’s sending them is probably just shy.” For about two months now, she’d been receiving anonymous little gifts every week or so. Each contained a message, a bit clichéd, but nice.
She looked more closely at the box. “Mail?”
“Nope. It was sitting outside the door. One of the customers brought it in.”
With a shake of her head, Ronnie sighed, wondering if she’d ever figure out who her admirer was. Her guess was Tommy, the shy young man who’d attended each and every one of the free lectures on erotica the store sponsored on alternate weeks.
If that was the case, though, Ronnie almost hoped he stayed anonymous. Tommy seemed like a sweet kid, in a college freshman