From the Heart

way she walked by him, he knew she was aware of it. Slade turned the screw savagely. “Betsy complained that the handle was loose,” he muttered.
    “Jack of all trades,” she said lightly. “Drink? I’m fixing martinis.”
    He started to refuse, then made the mistake of looking over at her. Her back was naked and slim and smooth. The silk shifted enticingly as she reached for a bottle of vermouth. Desire was as breathtaking as a punch in the solar plexus.
    “Scotch,” he snapped.
    She smiled over her shoulder. “Rocks?”
    “Straight up.”
    “Drink like a man, do you, Slade?” Oh, she’d get through that damned indifference, Jessica vowed. And enjoy every minute of it. After pouring him three fingers, she brought the glass to him. He slipped the screwdriver into the back pocket of his jeans and rose. Keeping his eyes on hers, Slade took a long, slow sip of Scotch.
    “Dress like a woman, do you, Jess?”
    Determined to rattle him, she turned a circle. “Like it?”
    “Did you wear it to stir up Adams’ juices or mine?” he countered.
    With a provocative smile, she turned away to finish the martinis. “Do you think women always dress to stir men up?”
    “Don’t they?”
    “Normally I dress for myself.” After pouring a drink, she turned back to regard him over the rim. “Tonight I thought I’d test a theory.”
    He went to her. The challenge in her eyes and his own ego made it imperative, just as she had anticipated. “What theory?”
    Jessica met his angry gaze without faltering. “Do you have any weaknesses, Slade? Any Achilles’ heel?”
    Deliberately he set down his own glass, then took hers. He felt her stiffen, though she didn’t back away. His fingers circled her neck, coaxing her lips to within an inch of his. She felt the warm rush of his breath on her skin.
    “You could regret finding out, Jess. I won’t treat you like a lady.”
    She tossed her head back. Though her heart was hammering, she met his eyes with an angry dare. “Who asked you to?”
    His fingers tightened; her lashes lowered. The doorbell rang. Slade picked up his drink and downed the rest of it. “Your date,” he said shortly, then stalked out of the room.
     
    Slade pulled his car to a halt a short distance away from the restaurant, switched off the engine, pulled out a cigarette, then waited. Michael’s Daimler was just being parked by the valet. Slade would have been more comfortable if he could have slipped inside to keep a closer eye on Jessica, but that was too risky.
    He saw the car pull up behind him. Tension pricked at the back of his neck as the driver climbed out to approach his car. Slade slipped a hand inside his jacket and gripped the butt of his gun. A badge was pressed against the window glass. Slade relaxed as the man rounded the hood to enter by the passenger side.
    “Sladerman.” Agent Brewster gave a quick nod of greeting. “You follow the lady, I follow the man. Commissioner Dodson told you I’d be in touch?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Greenhart’s looking after Ryce. Not a lot of action there; the guy’s been laid up for more than a week. You’ve got nothing yet, I take it.”
    “Nothing” Slade shifted to a more comfortable position. “I spent the day at her shop Saturday, helped her uncart a new shipment. If there was anything in it, I’d swear she didn’t know it. I had my hands all over everything in that place. She’s too damn casual to be hiding anything.”
    “Maybe.” With a weighty sigh, Brewster pulled out a worn black pipe and began to pack it. “If that fancy little shop’s the dump site, at least one of ’em’s hiding something . . . maybe all three. Seems Ryce is like baby brother. As for Adams . . .” Brewster struck a match and sucked on his pipe. Slade said nothing. “Well, the lady’s got the justice’s name behind her and a lot of political pressure to keep her name clear, but if she’s involved, it’s going to hit the fan.”
    “She’s not,” he heard himself say, then flipped his cigarette out the window.
    “You’re in the majority,” Brewster commented easily. “Even if she’s as pure as a mother’s heart, she’s in a hell of a spot right now. Pressure’s building, Sladerman. The lid’s going to blow real soon, and when it does, it’s going to get ugly. Winslow might find herself right in the middle. Dodson seems to think you’re good enough to keep her out of the way when it goes down.”
    “I’ll take care of her,” Slade