Hidden Riches

him—“smells like a cop . . .”
    “How would you know what a cop smells like?”
    She angled her chin. “Gun oil and sweat. Come to think of it, you even taste like a cop.”
    “How’s that?”
    “I don’t know.” Very deliberately she dropped her gaze to his mouth, then lifted it slowly. “Tough, authoritative, just a little bit mean.”
    “I can be meaner.” He edged closer so that she was trapped between him and the file cabinet.
    “I figured that. Did I tell you that I’ve always had this problem with authority? Goes all the way back to my elementary-school days when I bucked Miss Teesworthy over quiet time.”
    He pressed her back. “You didn’t mention it.” No gun oil and sweat here, he realized. It seemed the whole room smelled like Dora, that hot, spicy scent that made a man’s mouth water.
    “I do,” she continued. “That’s one of the reasons I started my own business. I hate taking orders.”
    “You’re lousy at taking them. I told you to stay put.”
    “I had this driving need to stay close to the man with the gun.” She lifted her hand, rubbed her thumb over the cut on his cheek. “You scared me.”
    “You didn’t get scared until it was over.”
    “No, I was scared all along. Were you?”
    “No. I love having people shoot at me.”
    “Then this is probably just a reaction we’re having.” She slid her arms around his neck, found the fit to her liking. “You know, from the shock.”
    “I told you to back off.”
    “So push me away.” Her lips curved. “I dare you.”
    They were still curved when his mouth came down. She expected him to be rough, and she was ready for it. His body slammed hers back into the file cabinet. The handles dug into her back, but she was too busy gasping with pleasure to notice the discomfort.
    He knew it was a mistake. Even as he steeped himselfwith her, he knew. Somehow she’d already dug a hook into his mind he’d been unable to shake loose. Now she was trembling against him, making soft little sounds of shocked arousal deep in her throat. And she tasted—God she tasted every bit as hot and sweet as she smelled.
    It had been so long, so very long since he’d allowed himself to tumble into that dark, soft oblivion of woman.
    He drew back, wanting to clear his head, but she fisted both of her hands in his hair and pulled him against her. “More,” she murmured as her mouth ravaged his. “I always want more.”
    With him she could have more. She knew it. With him there would be no vague sense of the incomplete. She could feast and be filled, and still have more.
    For one wild moment he considered taking her there, on the floor of the cramped, dusty storeroom with gun smoke still fading from the air. Perhaps he would have, perhaps he would have had no choice, but he was still sane enough to hear the rattle at the door upstairs, and the spit of gravel under tires outside.
    “The troops are here.” He took Dora by the shoulders and set her firmly aside. She saw in his eyes what he would continue to deny. He was a cop again. “Why don’t you go put on some coffee, Conroy? It doesn’t look like you’re going to make your parties after all.”
    She stared up the stairs, keeping her back to him when she spoke. “And that’s it?”
    “Yeah.” He wished violently for the cigarettes he’d left upstairs. “That’s it.”

CHAPTER
SEVEN
    D ora had brandy. Jed drank coffee. Cop, she thought nastily. After all, they didn’t drink on duty—at least on TV. Wanting to ignore him as completely as he was ignoring her, she curled herself onto the couch and studied the cheerful lights of her Christmas tree.
    She liked Jed’s pal, though. Lieutenant Brent Chapman, with his wrinkled slacks, stained tie and easy grin. He’d come in smelling of sausage and cinnamon, his heavy horn-rims magnifying mild brown eyes. His manner was so reassuring that Dora found herself making coffee and setting out cookies as though she were entertaining unexpected guests rather than being involved in a police investigation of shots fired.
    Brent’s questions were slow and thoughtful and very nearly relaxing.
    No, there was nothing missing as far as she could tell.
    No, there was nothing in the files of any monetary value.
    Yes, the shop had been crowded the past couple of weeks, but no, she couldn’t remember anyone acting suspicious or asking unusual questions.
    Enemies? This brought on a quick laugh. No, not unless you counted Marjorie