Sandra Brown - Ricochet

It still hurt. He flexed and contracted his fingers now in an attempt to ease the throbbing ache.

After that burst of temper, he’d gulped a two-liter bottle of water while standing in a cold shower, which had reduced his sweating and deflated his hopeful but disappointed dick. Then he’d called DeeDee as promised.

She had arrived at his town house at the appointed time, bringing with her a selection of breakfast muffins and two cups of carry-out coffee, because, as she said, “Yours sucks.”

She had a plan mapped out for the day. Grouchily, he had reminded her that he was the senior member of the team, the mentor. “You’re the men tee.”

“You want to pull rank, fine. What do you think we should do?”

“I think we should confront the judge with what we learned last night. I’m anxious to see his reaction.”

“That’s what I just said.”

“That’s why I agreed to let you be my partner. You’re smart.” Rummaging in the carry-out sack, he frowned. “Didn’t you get any blueberry?”

He kept up the familiar, squabbling repartee on purpose, because all the while they were in the town house, he’d been afraid that DeeDee would sense that Elise had been there. The moment he’d admitted his partner through the front door, he’d expected her to stop in her tracks and say, “Has Elise Laird been here?” Because to him, the essence of her was that powerful and pervasive. He could feel it, smell it, taste it.

Halfway through his second muffin, he suggested that DeeDee call the Silver Tide Country Club.

“How come?”

“It’s Saturday. I have a hunch the judge is playing golf.”

DeeDee’s call to the club confirmed what Elise had told him. DeeDee was informed that the judge was playing his second round. Their plan was to be waiting for him when he finished, catch him relaxed and unaware, spring on him what they’d learned last night, and gauge his reaction.

They’d been waiting now for more than half an hour. Duncan was about to order another lemonade for lack of anything better to do when the bartender approached them. “The front desk just called, said to tell y’all Judge Laird is having lunch on the terrace.”

He pointed them through a pair of French doors at one end of the bar that opened onto a loggia. At least that’s what the bartender called the open-air walkway enshrouded by leafy wisteria vine. “It’ll lead you straight to the dining terrace.”

“I hope it’s shaded,” Duncan muttered.

The tables set up on the terrace were indeed shaded by white umbrellas as large as parachutes, trimmed in braided cotton fringe. Each table had a pot of vibrant pink geraniums in its center. The judge was seated at one, a cloth napkin folded over his linen trousers, a glass of what looked like scotch at his place setting.

He stood up as they approached. They’d been notified that he was on the terrace, but he’d also been notified that the detectives had been waiting on him in the bar. He wasn’t surprised to see them, but he didn’t appear to be particularly perturbed either.

Of course, he had an audience. Duncan was aware of curious glances cast at them by other diners as the judge shook hands with him and DeeDee in turn and offered them seats at the table.

“I’m about to have lunch. I hope you’ll join me.”

“No, thank you,” DeeDee said. “We had a late breakfast.”

“A drink at least.” He signaled a waiter, who hastened over. DeeDee ordered a Diet Coke. Duncan switched to iced tea.

“How was your game? Games?” DeeDee amended herself, giving the judge her best smile. The women around her were in sun-dresses and halter tops, showing off well-tended tans and pedicured toenails. If she was self-conscious of her dark, tailored suit and sensible walking shoes, she gave no outward sign of it. Duncan admired her for that.

The judge modestly admitted to an eighty on the first round, an eighty-four on the second. While she was commending him, he noticed Duncan whisking a bead of sweat off his forehead.

“I realize it’s warm out here, Detective Hatcher.” He smiled apologetically. “I defer to my wife, who sometimes gets cold in air-conditioning. She prefers the terrace to the sixty-degree thermostat inside.”

Duncan was about to point out the obvious-that his wife wasn’t there-when he experienced a sinking sensation in his gut that coincided with the judge’s brightening smile. “There she is now.”

He stood up, tossed his napkin onto the table, and went to meet Elise as she followed a hostess toward the table. Cato Laird embraced her. She removed her sunglasses to return his hug, and over her husband’s shoulder she spotted Duncan, standing beside his chair at the table, not even realizing that he’d stood up.

Her eyes widened fractionally, but they shifted away from him so quickly that he thought he might have imagined it. As soon as the judge released her, she replaced her dark glasses.

She was dressed in dazzling white, as though to color-coordinate herself with the umbrellas. It was a simple, sleeveless blouse and a loose skirt. The outfit was tasteful. Correct. Unrevealing.

So why did his mind immediately venture to what was underneath?

He felt like he’d just sustained a kick in the balls. For the second time that morning, the unexpected appearance of Elise Laird had left him feeling untethered, which was an alien emotion for him.

Up till now, his involvements with women were dependent on his mood, his level of interest, and time available. The women’s interest was usually guaranteed. He never took undue advantage of his appeal, and had even managed to remain friendly with most of his former girlfriends. On the rare occasion that his interest wasn’t reciprocated, he took it in stride and didn’t look back. No woman had ever broken his heart.

He’d proposed marriage only once: to a childhood friend with whom he remained very close. The catalyst had been the celebration of his thirty-fifth birthday. He pointed out to his friend that they weren’t getting any younger, that both of them had remained single for a reason, and that maybe the reason was that they should be married to each other. He took her “Are you nuts?” as a no, and came to realize what she already knew. They loved each other dearly, but they weren’t in love.

He’d had more women than some men. Much fewer than others. But never a principal in an investigation. And never a married woman. Elise Laird was both. Which made this uncommonly strong attraction to her not only unfortunate but absolutely forbidden.

Tell that to his tingling sensors.

The judge escorted her to the table and held her chair. He sat down and replaced his napkin in his lap, then secured his wife’s hand, holding it clasped between both of his. “I called Elise and asked if she would like to join me for lunch. I thought it would be good for her to get out.” He smiled at her affectionately.

“Obviously I thought so, too. Thank you for the invitation.” She returned his smile, then looked across the pot of geraniums at DeeDee. “Hello, Detective Bowen.”

“We hate to bust in on your lunch date, Mrs. Laird. But I suppose it’s just as well you’re here, too. We were about to tell the judge about the latest development.”

Elise turned quickly to Duncan. “What development?”

“Something that came up last night.” As he said the words, he realized he was assuring her that he hadn’t told DeeDee about her visit to his town house. Her evident relief didn’t make him feel any better about it.

The waiter arrived with his and DeeDee’s drinks, along with a lemonade for Elise. It was like the one he’d had at the bar, except that hers was served with a strawberry as big as an apple impaled on a clear plastic skewer.