Joan Pickart - Body of Evidence

“I went the next morning so I would have a clear picture of things in my mind. Now? I’m just retracing my steps, going over everything again with a fine-tooth comb. I want to walk through those rooms once more. I figured I’d better include you in on this, or you’d pitch a fit.”

“My, my, how can I pass up such a warm fuzzy invitation to accompany you, Mr. Stone? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“I’m sorry,” Evan said, then chuckled.

A funny little flutter whispered down Jennifer’s spine as she heard that oh-so-sexy sound.

“I didn’t phrase that very well, did I? Chalk it up to the fact that I’m so tired I’m punchy. But be honest, Jennifer, wouldn’t you have pitched a fit if I went there in the morning and told you about it later?”

Jennifer laughed in spite of herself. “Yes, I certainly would have. I’m supposed to be documenting your every little move, you know.”

“Believe me, I’m aware of that. Do you know where Gardner ’s apartment building is?”

“Yes, I have the address in my notes.”

“Okay. Eight o’clock tomorrow morning. I’ll meet you in the lobby of the building.” Evan paused a moment. “What are you wearing right now?”

“Pardon me?” Jennifer said, sitting up straighter.

“I’m sitting here having put in such a long day that I feel like I’ve been in this suit for three weeks. I just wondered what someone who is home, relaxing, probably about to go to bed…is wearing.”

Jennifer glanced down at her less-than-fashionable robe.

“Am I allowed to lie?”

“Nope.”

“Well, darn. After a sinfully long shower I donned my favorite robe which is older than dirt and looks like it was given to me by a bag lady who decided it was too decrepit to be seen in.”

“Sexy, huh?”

“To the max,” Jennifer said, smiling.

“What color is this fashion statement?”

“I don’t think this faded shade really has a name beyond blah.”

“Got it. Okay, nice long, soothing shower, security-blanket type comfy robe and… Hmm…you’re curled up in the corner of the sofa with a drink. Something warm on this chilly night. Coffee? Hot chocolate? No, tea, I think. Yes, you’re having a cup of tea, maybe one of those fancy flavored kind.”

“You’re amazing,” Jennifer said, smiling. “The tea is cinnamon. Caffeine-free. How did you know all that, Evan?”

“I’m not sure. I’m just picturing you in my mind and what I said fits. I guess I know you better than either of us realized. Where did you think I was when you asked me?”

“At the office.”

“Bingo. I rest my case. It’s rather interesting.”

“Disconcerting is closer to the mark. We really don’t know each other very well, but we just somehow knew… Definitely disconcerting.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think it’s kind of…nice. Very nice, in fact.” Evan paused. “Well, I guess I’ll call it day, or a night as the case may be, and head on home. It was nice…there’s that word again…chatting with you, sweet Jenny. Sleep well and I’ll meet up with you in the morning. Good night.”

“Good night, Evan,” Jennifer said softly.

She replaced the receiver, then smiled. “Very, very nice.”

Evan continued to hold the receiver until a shrill buzzing noise emanated from it, announcing it had been off the hook too long. He slid it onto the base, then leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers behind his head and stared up at the ceiling.

Sweet, sweet Jenny, he thought. All he had intended to do when he telephoned her was set up the meeting in the morning at the apartment building where Gardner had been killed.

But once he’d started talking to Jennifer he hadn’t wished to stop. The “what are you wearing” bit must have sounded corny as hell, but he’d sincerely wanted to know so he could complete the image of her in his mind’s eye. At least he hadn’t gone so far as to ask what she had on beneath the soft, old robe. That would have been really pushing it.

Evan glanced around, unable to see anything in the darkness beyond the circle of light cast by the lamp on his desk.

And there he sat, he mused, in a chilly office. He was attempting to begin the first draft of his opening statement to the jury for the Gardner trial.

He preferred to write his opening and closing arguments in longhand rather than on the computer, and his trash can was filled to overflowing with wadded-up sheets of paper, each holding a handful of words that he’d rejected the minute he’d written them.

“I’ve had it for today,” he said aloud, getting to his feet. “Drag it on home, Stone.”

Home, he thought, as he flicked off the lamp, then made his way cautiously toward the door in the inky darkness. Yeah, his expensive apartment was his home, he supposed, but it wasn’t homey the way Jennifer’s was. His was just there, a place to sleep, eat once in a while, shower, shave, change clothes. It wasn’t warm and inviting, didn’t wrap itself around him with comfort to ease his stress. It was just some walls, floors, ceilings that meant he didn’t have to sleep in his vehicle.

Maybe it took a woman to add that homey touch, he thought as he locked his office door. Maybe the average man wasn’t capable of doing such a thing. Or maybe it was just him who lacked that ability.

No, it was the fact that there weren’t enough hours in the day to accomplish everything he might wish to do.

First priority was his role of district attorney and the responsibilities that title produced. He was determined to be the very best D.A. he was capable of being, even if it meant he had little else in his life, such as turning his apartment into a homey haven, or being in a relationship with a special woman.

But what would it be like, he wondered, as he rode down in the elevator, to know that someone like Jennifer… No, if Jennifer herself was waiting for him to come through the door? Fresh from her shower, clad in her funky robe, a smile would light up her face, she’d rush into his arms which would make him forget instantly that he was weary to the bone. He’d kiss her for a long, heart-stopping time, then…

“Shut up, Stone,” he admonished himself, as he got into his vehicle in the parking garage. “Sleep, I need lots of sleep.”

But first thing tomorrow morning, he mused, as he merged into the traffic, he’d meet up with sweet Jenny Anderson. And that was very…well…nice.

Hours later Jennifer tossed back the blankets on the bed and reached for her robe.

She couldn’t stay in that bed a second longer, she thought, starting toward the bedroom door. She was doing nothing more than tossing and turning, and definitely not getting the sleep she needed. Hopefully a mug of hot milk would relax her and allow her to drift off into blissful slumber.

A short time later Jennifer was once again curled up in the corner of the sofa, her legs tucked next to her, the mug of steaming milk cradled in both hands. She blew on the hot liquid and took a sip.

Her insomnia was Evan Stone’s fault, she decided. He had telephoned her just before she went to bed and, therefore, she’d taken the image of him and the sound of his voice right along with her as she’d snuggled under the blankets. Definitely his fault. And she sounded like a grumpy three-year-old in need of a nap.

Her whatever-it-was with Evan was so complicated and confusing. She was attracted to him, which was putting it mildly, melted like soupy ice cream on a summer day when he took her into his arms and kissed her. He was inching his way into her heart, staking a claim that he wasn’t even interested in possessing.

Evan had referred to what they had shared three months ago on that fateful night as making love. Did he really feel that way about it, or was he just being polite and refraining from referring to it as one-night-stand sex, plain old tacky sex in its purest form?