“Tell your dog to relax.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to put my hands on you, and I’m going to need them to drive after I do. I don’t want him biting one off at the wrist.”
“I don’t like to be touched.”
“You like sex. A kiss is somewhere between being touched and having sex. Aren’t you curious, Abigail?”
“A little.” She studied his face in that X-ray manner, then looked to the dog.“Ami,”she said, laying a hand lightly on Brooks’s arm. “Ami,Bert.”
Still, she stiffened when Brooks took her hand—her gun hand.
“Ami,”he murmured. “That one stuck with me. So let’s be friendly.”
He laid his other hand on her cheek, eased his way in. And she watched him. That ready, steady look in her eye just hit some chord in him. He kept it light, maybe a little over the friendly line, but light and soft. Lips meeting, eyes locked.
He pressed, just a bit more, body to body, until her hand came to his shoulder. Until it slid around to the back of his neck, up into his hair. Until her tongue teased his, and those watchful eyes went a deeper green.
As he stepped back, he released her hand. With a shake of his head, he picked up the pie. “You know I’m going to have to come back.”
“It’s a mistake.”
“For who?”
“For both of us.”
“Different points of view, remember.” He leaned in, quick—and this time friendly—touched his lips to hers. “I’llbe coming back. See you, Bert,” he added as he walked out and to his car.
Abigail closed the door, locked it before she heard his engine turn over. She let out a huff of breath, looked down at the dog.
“It’s a mistake,” she repeated.
10
Brooks spent most of hisday putting righteous fear in a trio of preadolescent shoplifters, dealing with a traffic accident—which primarily involved preventing the two drivers from coming to blows—handling the resulting paperwork, and listening to Sid Firehawk whine when Brooks finally cited him for the blown-out muffler.
To reward himself, he opted to make a quick run to the bakery for some fancy coffee and a snickerdoodle, but Alma stuck her head in his office. Rainbow peace signs the size of babies’ fists dangled from her ears.
“Grover called in. There’s a dispute over at Ozark Art.”
“What kind of dispute?”
“He just said things were getting a little hot, and asked for you to go by.”
“All right. I’ll walk over. I could stop at the bakery on the way back if you want anything.”
“Get away from me, Satan.”
“Just saying.” Brooks got up from his desk, grabbed his jacket.
“If a chocolate macadamia cookie and a skinny latte found their way onto my desk, it wouldn’t be my fault.”
“No one could blame you.” As Brooks headed out, he wondered why she’d put the skinny in a latte when she washaving a cookie. But that was one of the female mysteries he didn’t worry himself into a headache over.
He glanced at the sky as he walked. The temperatures refused to settle, shooting up, diving down and clashing in the middle as a welcome mat for tornados. But the sky held to a harmless faded denim.
He crossed over to Shop Street, pleased to see the Saturday-afternoon bustle of locals and tourists. He passed the gourmet market, thought of Abigail, and walked down another block to Ozark Art.
