Her Winning Ways Page 7

  SERGEANT MAX WOZINSKY

  “Don’t mind me,” he said. “I’m just the gofer around here. You go ahead with whatever the sergeant here is doing to earn his pay.” He gestured toward Bart.

  Bart pulled up a chair next to the other desk, a chair that was worn and torn, its leather seat repaired with duct tape.

  “Just sit here,” he said. He held the chair for her and she sat. His own chair was of the swivel variety and he spun it once before he dropped his big frame into it. “And don’t pay any attention to that guy over there,” Bart said airily. “We just keep him around to run errands for us.”

  “Yeah, he’s the cute one. I’m the guy that does all the real work around here.”

  Max Wozinsky looked to be about forty years old. Clearly, despite the difference in their ages, the two men were good friends.

  “I have your bag right here,” Bart said. He pulled at the bottom drawer. It didn’t open. He pulled again, with an irritation showing around his mouth. The drawer was old, sticky, and recalcitrant. It wouldn’t open. He struggled with it and Annie saw that he was embarrassed. It’s hard for a man to look cool, authoritative, and masterly when his own desk drawer is fighting him. What should have been a smooth move had turned awkward. She smiled to herself and kindly looked away. She studied the items on his desk. Beginning with the nameplate.

  SERGEANT BARTLETT HARDIN

  He continued to struggle with the drawer, and she continued to study the items on the desk: a clutch of papers in a metal letter tray waiting for his attention; an old Starbucks cup holding a bunch of pencils, mostly sharpened; a framed black-and-white snapshot of someone’s home—a pretty, clapboard two-story house, sun-dappled, with trees and shrubbery and a planting of flowers along the entrance pathway—and a big desk blotter that covered most of the surface of the desk with a couple of business cards stuck under its edges. She also noticed there were no pictures of kids or, possibly, a wife. Or girlfriend. She smiled again to herself.

  At last, the drawer gave in and slid meekly open. Bart glared at it and reached in for the bag.

  “Here it is,” he said. “The department provides all sorts of great equipment,” he added, with some irritation, “but just not to us here in this room. Sorry about that. I guess the city has bigger problems than the desks at Troop B headquarters. They’ve moved us around so much, we’re lucky to still have a mailing address.” He put the bag on the top of the blotter.

  Annie’s gesture indicated “no problem.”

  “No need to ID the contents. I saw your photo on the driver’s license. But I will ask you to examine the contents—see that nothing’s missing. You can do that while I get the report ready for you to sign.” He started a two-finger job of completing the report. “I had to examine the contents of your bag,” he said, “so I could locate you. To let you know it had been found.” He didn’t tell her that the more usual procedure would have been to just hold any lost property until someone came around to claim it. He didn’t tell her he’d gone out of his way to identify her. And he didn’t tell her that back there, during the demonstration, he’d had one quick look at her scared face and, as he’d lifted her out of the melee and felt her warm body against his arm, a current of strength ran up to his shoulder and down his spine. And he didn’t tell her that, when he’d had one more quick look, as he’d turned Lindy back to that crazy crowd, as he’d called after her, his mind’s eye took an indelible picture of her. He didn’t tell her she’d looked so pretty in her flowery dress, but so lost out there in the street—

  And while he filled in the required form, and spun his fantasies of rescue and his own nobility, Annie was thinking her own less elevated thoughts. Annie was making a more earthy observation of the man who was sitting there, pecking awkwardly at the keyboard.

  She decided “cute” was not quite the right word for Sergeant Hardin. The shoulders were a little too broad, and the arms and chest a little too muscular—evident even in the light blue shirt that was his summer uniform. His manner was altogether too self-confident and commanding to be called cute. And “cute” was definitely not the message of authority and skill that went with the uniform and its reminder of a trained and armed protective force. But still, there was something about the improbably curly flare of reddish hair—sandy, really—and the deep crinkles around the wickedly blue eyes, and the broad mouth and its happy, easy, even mischievous, grin.

  That face has done a lot of smiling, she thought. There is definitely something cute about that expression, as though maybe his grandfather was indeed a leprechaun.

  In the meantime, Bart had finished preparing the form for her to sign. “I’ll just read you the list and you check that it’s all there,” he said.

  The list. Oh, yes. The things in my bag!

  She was shaken out of her daydream.

  He took each item from the bag as he read from the list.

  “Contents as follows: One small pack Kleenex tissues.” He placed the tissues on the desk blotter, to be followed by each item in turn. “One small makeup case containing one lipstick and one mirror. Three nickels and one quarter. One stick Juicy Fruit chewing gum. One iPhone in pink case. One wallet, leather, tan, containing eighty-three dollars cash, one hotel room entry card, one Wells Fargo Bank credit card, one Wells Fargo debit card. Also one photo ID, Library Staff, University of Wyoming Department of Veterinary Studies.”

  He looked up at her. “You’re a librarian?”

  “Yes, in the veterinary department at the university.”

  “No kidding. I once knew a girl who wanted to be a librarian. Way back in high school.”

  She didn’t say anything. What was there to say?

  He went back to the inventory.

  “One Wyoming driver’s license number 670452-635.”

  Oh, Lord! Now he knows my age, my height, my weight. And that awful photo!

  “And also one color snapshot. Two boys.” He held the wallet open to display the boys’ picture. Without looking at her, he asked, “Are they yours?” He said it as casually as he could. As though it was the idlest question in the world.

  “Oh, no. They’re my sister’s boys. Brandon and Buckley. Bran’s eight and Buck’s just turned six.” She was mad for those boys and the picture held her affectionate attention for a moment. And that’s why she didn’t notice the relieved little smile that passed over Sergeant Hardin’s face.

  He leaned back in the chair, letting the official manner drop away. “Right,” he said. “And then there’s the last item in the bag—there’s a letter. From Lady Fair magazine. I see you won a contest. Sounds like a really big one. Congratulations. Is that what brought you to New York?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Have you ever been here before, Miss Cornell?”

  “No, this is my very first time. I’ve never been out of Wyoming.”

  He said nothing for a few moments, as though he had something on his mind.

  “My sister’s here with me,” she added. “It’s a first for her, too.”

  “Mmm hmmm.”

  He looked over the form, made sure all was in order, and hit “print.” Neither of them spoke while they waited for the old machine to crank out the paper.

  “So I guess that’s it, Miss Cornell. If you’ll just sign this form”—he handed the paper over to her—“and that’s all we’ll need. You’re free to leave.”

  But even as she signed the paper and handed it back to him, she felt that he paused, that there was more he wanted to say. She waited a moment, then slipped the bag over her shoulder and stood up.

  “Well, then—”

  “Actually, Miss Cornell, it’s much too far to walk back to your hotel, and the taxis don’t cruise much in this neighborhood.”

  “Maybe I could take the subway? I’ve heard so much about the New York subways. Or one of the buses across town.”

  His laugh was quick and easy.

  “No, I wouldn’t want you to take the subway, what with your being new h
ere in the city and not yet familiar with its ways. Too easy to get lost. Anyway, it’s a long walk to the nearest subway from here. Tell you what, ma’am.” He stood up, pushing the chair so that it rolled back on its casters. “I’m off duty in a few minutes. I’ll drive you back to your hotel. I don’t want you out wandering around this part of the city alone. Don’t want you getting yourself into any more trouble.” He came around the desk and stood close enough for her to look right into those blue eyes. “That way, I’ll know you got back to your hotel safely.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’ll just—”

  And there was that leprechaun grin again. “Please, ma’am. I’ll take you back to your hotel. See you get there safely.” He stood up and headed out of the office. “You just wait here. I’ll change and be right back.” And he was out the door before she could get out a single word of protest, leaving her standing there, openmouthed and contemplating the empty space he’d just left.

  Well! He sure is full of himself! Like I need to be ferried around like some fragile little creature.

  She turned to Max, who’d been watching them with a little smile on his face.

  “Is he always so bossy?”

  “I guess he does seem that way.”

  “He didn’t even wait for me to say yes or no.”

  “He’s a pretty take-charge kind of guy.”

  “And I suppose that’s a good thing, in a policeman?”

  “Yes, it is, ma’am. And Bart Hardin comes by it naturally.”

  “Oh? That sounds like there’s a story there.”

  “Yes, there is. But I’ll let him tell you himself. I have a feeling he’s going to get around to it.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, you’re going to be here for a few days, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, like I said, I think he’ll have a chance to tell you about it.”

  He turned back to his work and Annie didn’t want to interrupt him.

  Bart was back in about fifteen minutes, in jeans, jacket, and biker boots. He’d also managed to take the fastest shave on record, but Annie couldn’t have known that—unless she’d caught a whiff of the aftershave.

  He handed her a motorcycle helmet.

  “Here. Put this on.”

  “But—I thought—”

  No car?

  “You’ll be safe with me, Miss Cornell.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

  “You’ll be okay,” Max said from across the room. “The sergeant’s a good driver.”

  “Yes, I am a good driver,” Bart said. “And I don’t want you wandering around alone, Miss Cornell. I’ll get you back to your hotel safely.”

  Was he being condescending? Or just gentlemanly? Should she tell him she was capable of getting herself back to her hotel without an escort? Or just say thank you and accept the ride?

  “Well. Thank you. I guess.”

  “Go on,” he said. “Put it on.” He was pointing to the helmet.

  “Oh. Right.”

  And they worked so hard on my hair. Now it’ll be a mess.

  He was holding the door for her.

  Don’t make a fuss, Annie. He’s being generous, driving you back to the hotel. Just put on the damn helmet and say thank you.

  “Thanks for the ride. It really is very kind of you.”

  “No problem, Miss Cornell. Public relations is an important part of our work, and I’m happy to give a ride to a visitor from the wild west, someone who might get lost or get herself into trouble here in the big city.” He turned to Max and winked. He made no effort to hide the wink. “I wouldn’t want that to happen to you again, Miss Cornell.”

  “Oh, please.” She could hear the sarcasm in her tone. “And I wish you would just call me Annie.”

  He gave her a big smile, as though he’d just received a wonderful gift.

  “You got it, Annie.”

  He followed her out into the big reception area. But just before he left the office, as he passed through the door, he turned and flashed a huge grin at Max who, with an approving smile in return, lifted two fingers to his eyebrow and snapped them away in a quick salute.

  Chapter Nine

  Getting Closer

  Monday Late Afternoon

  She’d have figured him for a big Harley, or maybe even a fancy Ducati, something show-offy and macho—something predictably self-important. So she was surprised to see the bright blue Yamaha FZ1 that was waiting for them among all the parked vehicles—a good, serviceable machine with not a shred of show-off about it. And probably bought used, too, by the look of it.

  Who’d have thought?

  She hung her bag across her body, made sure the helmet was secure—

  “Hop on,” he said.

  —she climbed onto the bike behind him—

  “Hang on,” he said.

  —and she wrapped her arms around his body.

  “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go!”

  Back home in Laramie, lots of folks had motorcycles. Men and women. Old and young. Annie had been riding around, hanging on, ever since she could remember. She’d owned a bike herself for a few years, until she got her Jeep. Many times she’d climbed on behind a boy, and always she’d put her arms around him to hold on while they rode from here to wherever. But never, never had she had this experience. Never before had the contact, body to body, connected like a flow of current running between them, like a gently electrified synergy , this warm suffusion—a physical reality that spread through her chest, and down her arms and along her spine.

  She was so startled, she needed to take one long, slow breath to let the extraordinary sensation settle throughout her body.

  This was so unexpected. His body felt so comfortable against hers. As though they matched perfectly, as though the rhythm of the blood flowing through their two bodies, her front against his back, was in perfect sync. She could have closed her eyes and dreamed herself all the way across the city, back to her hotel, clinging to this suddenly magical man, but she felt too alive to close her eyes and she wanted to miss no moment of this remarkable experience. So with eyes wide open she hung on as he wheeled out onto Twelfth Avenue and headed for 42nd Street.

  It’s funny how that is—a man who’d only minutes ago seemed so officious, with his irritating air of macho posturing and unquestioning command, now felt appealingly manly and all warm and desirable in her arms. With the speed, and her needing to hang on securely, there was an unmistakable thrill, an intimacy, a definite connection, body to body, that was much more sensual than she’d expected. Maybe more sensual than he had any right to make her feel.

  Is this why guys buy motorcycles?

  All the way along 42nd Street, whipping through traffic and zipping past buses and vans and taxis, surrounded by the city’s racket, the sounds of horns and sirens and diesel engines clacking away around them, she heard nothing, as though it had all receded into a fuzzy, warm blanket of friendly activity. He was taking them through it all and she was happy to just be there, contentedly hanging on, enjoying the really nice feel of him in her arms.

  It would have been fine with her if the ride lasted longer, but there she was, too soon, in front of her hotel, and she had to get off. So she did. And he did, too.

  She was unwilling to look at him directly, unwilling to reveal what she’d experienced. But she needed to force herself to face him as she unstrapped the helmet and handed it to him.

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  He was looking at her funny. Intently. Searching into her eyes, as though he’d find there an answer to a question he wasn’t ready to ask.

  “Call me Bart,” he said, taking the helmet, but still giving her that deep look. “Call me Bart. Forget the sergeant stuff.”

  “Okay. Bart.”

  Then, as though he was waking up, he said, “Listen. You haven’t had dinner. I’m going to take you to a place just up the street here—makes great soup. And sandwiches. And Irish shepherd’s pie. Best
in the city.”

  Suddenly, there he was again—Bossy Cop, Know-It-All, Take-Charge-Macho-Man, ready to run her life. Not even consulting her first. Went and spoiled all that nice warm and fuzzy feeling.

  Still. She’d had nothing since those tiny corn muffins and the pasta salad, she argued to herself. And the carrot sticks. Hours ago. And an unplanned dinner would be a nice addition to the twists this day was taking, wouldn’t it?

  “I’ll have to run upstairs and tell my sister.”

  “You do that. I’ll wait for you here. Tell her we won’t be late,” he called after her as she disappeared into the lobby.

  “Run upstairs” meant, of course, another heart-thumping elevator ride up forty-four floors. But she was getting used to it, and she took the moment to check the mirror and see the damage the helmet and the ride had done to her hair.

  Oh, Lord! After all Damien’s good work. He’d shoot me if he saw this.

  She raked her hands through her hair—and was then surprised to see the magic of a first-rate cut: the wild tangle settled right into place; nothing more than a light touch with a brush would be needed.

  “Go ahead, honey,” Liz said. “I’ve been out sightseeing all day and I’ve had enough excitement. I’ll have room service bring me a hamburger and I’ll just veg out here. A quiet evening alone—oh, God!—when was the last time I had a quiet evening alone? Someone to bring my dinner, and the TV all to myself.” She folded herself up on the sofa and looked as comfy as a cat. “Go. Go. Have a good time. Take your cell phone. Don’t get into any more trouble.”

  “No trouble,” Annie called over her shoulder. “How can I get into any trouble? I have police protection.”

  Chapter Ten

  A. J. Keenan’s

  Monday Evening

  The tables at A. J. Keenan’s were thick wood slabs, rough-hewn, and varnished to a high gloss, and the seats, too, in the booths, were solid and comfy. The lighting was gentle—a large antique chandelier above all and a small candle at each table—and the bar was far enough from the diners that the soccer on the TV was not intrusive. The decor was Irish and friendly—masses of old photos on the walls, and posters including notices of age-old political rallies and theatrical performances of plays by Synge and O’Casey; small cabinets and shelves on all the walls all full of knick-knacks and figurines, wood carvings and homey teacups and teapots, an arched brick fireplace at one wall and an antique pendulum clock mounted on another. And against the wall of their booth, a few fresh flowers in a glass.