From the Heart

challenges, Mr. Sladerman?”
    She was laughing, he noted. Or her eyes were. But he sensed very clearly that she laughed at herself. A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth as he struggled to study her objectively. Maybe she was innocent—maybe not. He didn’t have the same blind faith as the commissioner. But she was beautiful, and he was attracted. Slade decided the attraction was going to be difficult to work around.
    Letting out a long breath, he gazed around the room. Howmuch choice did he have? “I’m going to take pity on you, Miss Winslow . . . I have a fondness for books.”
    “So do I,” she began, then had to deal with another of his cool, direct looks. “Really,” she claimed with a laugh. “I’m just not neat. Do we have a deal, Mr. Sladerman?” Solemnly, she offered her hand.
    He glanced at it first. Soft and elegant, he thought, like her name and her voice. With a quick curse at fate for making the commissioner her godfather, Slade took her hand in his. “We have a deal, Miss Winslow.”
    Jessica slid from the table, keeping his hand in hers when he would have drawn away. Somehow she’d known it would be hard and strong. “How do you feel about stuffed pork chops?”
    They were tender and delicious. Slade ate three after his stomach remembered the lack of lunch. And, he thought after a slice of cheesecake, this case had some advantages over the one he’d just wrapped up. For two weeks he’d made do on cold coffee and stale sandwiches. And his partner hadn’t been as easy to look at as Jessica Winslow. She’d guided the conversation expertly during the meal and had ended by tucking her arm through his to lead him back to the parlor.
    “Have a seat,” she invited. “I’ll pour you a brandy.”
    As he started to cross the room the desk caught his eye. “That wasn’t here this morning.”
    “What?” With a decanter in her hand, she glanced over her shoulder. “Oh no, it just came this afternoon. Do you know anything about antiques?”
    “No.” He gave the desk a cursory study before taking a chair. “I’ll leave that to you, Miss Winslow.”
    “Jessica.” She poured a second brandy before crossing to him. “Do I call you James or Jim?”
    “Slade,” he told her as he took a snifter. “Even my mother stopped calling me Jim when I was ten.”
    “You have a mother?”
    The quick, unconscious surprise in her voice had him grinning. “Everybody’s entitled to one.”
    Feeling foolish, Jessica sat across from him. “You just seem to be capable of arranging the whole business without one.”
    Both sipped brandy, and their eyes met over the snifters. Jessica felt the moment freeze, out of time, out of place. Do minds touch? she thought numbly. Wasn’t she sensing at that moment the turbulent spin of his thoughts? Or were they hers? Brandy slipped, hot and strong down her throat, snapping her back. Talk, she ordered herself. Say something. “Do you have any other family?” she managed.
    Slade stared at her, wondering if he had imagined that instant of stunning intimacy. He’d never felt that with any woman before, any lover. It was ridiculous to imagine that he’d felt it with one he barely knew. “A sister,” he said at length. “She’s in college.”
    “A sister.” Jessica relaxed again and slipped out of her shoes. “That’s nice. I always wanted a brother or sister when I was growing up.”
    “Money can’t buy everything.” Slade shrugged with the words. Seeing the puzzled hurt on her face, he cursed himself. If she was getting to him already, what would it be like in a week?
    “You’re quick with clichés,” Jessica observed. “I suppose that’s because you’re a writer.” After another sip of brandy, she set the glass aside. “What do you write?”
    “Unpublished novels.”
    She laughed as she had in the library, drawing another smile from him. “It must be frustrating.”
    “Only daily,” he agreed.
    “Why do you do it?”
    “Why do you eat?”
    Jessica considered for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I suppose it’s like that, isn’t it? Have you always wanted to write?”
    He thought of his father, how he had bragged that his son would be the next Sladerman on the force. He thought of his teenage years, when he had written his stories in longhand in spiral notebooks late into the night. He thought of his father’s eyes the first time he had seen his son in uniform. And he thought of the first time he’d had a short story