him for not calling.
The cuckoo clock in the family room downstairs of her 1920s, whitewashed home chirped eight times. Not meaning to, Audrey counted every one, and then knew what time it was. A piece of information she’d purposely been denying herself.
It was just that, last night, she and Ryan had crossed into new territory. Hadn’t they?
That of friends, trusted friends. Or something. It wasn’t as though they were kids, playing the dating game. They were mature adults. Getting to know each other. Sharing a moment in time.
A phone call would have been nice. That was all.
HE WAS STILL working the eleven-to-seven shift. Not because he had to—no, Ryan Mercedes had all the right contacts in all the right places, whether he wanted them or not. He was on the night shift for one reason only.
A selfish reason.
Working nights allowed him to keep his distance from everyone in his life. Having to sleep when family gatherings happened, when an old school mate suggested going out for beers, anytime he was issued an invitation that got a little bit too close, he could always bow out with the excuse that he was working.
The night shift let him operate in a different world. A world where everyone slept—except those few who were working as well, or those who took advantage of others’ sleep to commit crimes against them.
The downside was, when he came off shift Monday morning, he was completely exhausted and wired at the same time. He’d been awake all day Sunday having dinner with his birth parents—he hadn’t seen two-month-old Marcus Ryan in over a week, and his biological cousin, Jordon, a fatherless young man Ryan had met the previous summer who seemed to gravitate to him, had been visiting from Cleveland. Then he’d visited his adoptive parents to watch the Reds game on television with his dad.
He hadn’t been to bed since Saturday night. And that session hadn’t contained his most restful sleep with the continuous interruptions of vivid dreams of a certain lady in the bed with him.
He’d never had a woman in his bed at the condo. Never had a woman in his bed, period.
So why was one suddenly appearing there, uninvited?
He wanted to think she was unwanted, but his body wouldn’t let him go quite that far.
He settled for…uninvited.
And still, nearly thirty-six hours after she’d left his apartment, he was thinking about her.
He was on shift again that night, Ryan reminded himself as he drove slowly through the streets of Westerville, cell phone in hand. Two kids were waiting for the school bus on the corner of Cleveland Avenue and Homeacres Drive. Usually there were three. The shorter girl was missing.
Ryan made a mental note to take the same route home tomorrow. And the next day. If the girl was still missing by the end of the week, he’d stop and ask about her.
In the meantime, he had to sleep. And sleep well. He couldn’t do his job on adrenaline alone. His instincts wouldn’t be as sharp. Lives could be at risk.
He had to get some rest.
“Hello?”
Her number was on speed dial only because a couple of her clients were under his investigation.
“Audrey? Is this a bad time? Did I wake you?”
Seven-thirty in the morning was early to some people.
“Of course not. I’ve been up a couple of hours.”
Well, then… “Are you at work? With someone? Should I call another time?”
“No, Ryan.” She chuckled. “This time is fine. I don’t have to be in court until ten-thirty this morning, and my breakfast meeting canceled.”
Canceled. She was free for breakfast. Unexpectedly. The thought of asking her to meet him somewhere for a quick bite sent alarm signals up his spine. Where was the harm in two friends having breakfast?
They both had to eat.
“So what’s up?” she asked, bringing to his attention the length of time he’d let lapse while he blubbered over the idea of asking her out to eat.
Shifting in his seat, adjusting the pistol digging into his thigh beneath the brown tweed sports jacket he wore, Ryan thought about the case he’d been working on for most of the night.
Focused on the life he’d chosen to live.
The juvenile who’d beaten his stepfather to a pulp, claiming that it was self-defense. He’d claimed some other pretty horrendous things, too.
Reviewing four hours of witness testimony, tapes, doctors’ reports and police records had netted Ryan no more than they already had.
“The prosecutor’s going to charge Markovich.”
“No way.” He heard the drop in her voice and felt as if he’d failed not only the fifteen-year-old boy whom he’d believed, but Audrey, too.
“The kid’s testimony has too many holes,” he said. “He contradicts himself on four separate occasions.”
“But there’s a doctor’s report that proves he was molested.”
“At some point in his life. Not necessarily by his stepfather.”
“He nearly killed the man, Ryan. A fifteen-year-old kid, especially one as sensitive as Scott, doesn’t suddenly get violent unless something pretty vile is going to happen to him.”
“I know.” He was missing something. He just didn’t know what. “But it’s not my job to be the lawyer,” he reminded himself as much as her. “I check out the facts, make the arrests, collect the evidence, then I’m done.”
“You aren’t, though, are you?” The soft question surprised him.
And then it didn’t. He’d called her, hadn’t he?
“No,” he admitted. “The kid’s lying about something, but not about why he unhinged on his stepfather, I’m sure of it. Unless I can find out what else is going on, the kid’s going back to detention. Maybe for a long, long time.”
“They aren’t charging him as an adult, are they?”
Ryan wasn’t sure. But he’d heard a rumor that they might. He let his silence answer for him.
And because he’d called to escape the sometimes hell of his job, he asked another question that had been plaguing him on and off for more than a week.
“Why do you relate so much to The Mirror Has Two Faces?”
The woman was gorgeous. Not only the classic beauty of long blonde hair, long legs, great figure and big brown eyes, but also the sensitivity that shone through those eyes, especially in one so young, the job she’d chosen to do when, with her law degree, she could be making a mint, made her irresistible.
As a friend only, of course.
“I don’t know.”
It was one of those “I don’t know”s. The kind that really meant, “I don’t want to tell you.”
“I think you do.”
“Maybe.”
“So tell me.”
Another long pause.
“I told you why I like Bruce Almighty.”
“Because you have power envy.”
The more commonly used p-word in that phrase sprang immediately to mind, and Ryan was grateful that Audrey couldn’t read his thoughts.
Glad, too, that they were on the phone and not where she could see the reaction hearing her voice was having on that p part of his anatomy.
Turning,