Barbara Dunlop - Out of Order

“Is she formally under arrest?” asked Dallas.

“Of course—”

“Think hard.” Dallas stared at the arresting officer. “Did you arrest her? Or just bring her in for questioning? Do you have a warrant? Did you follow due process to the letter?”

The officer’s gaze slid to the sergeant. “Sarge?”

Dallas stared at the sergeant with a you-don’t-want-to-mess-with-a-high-priced-attorney-this-close-to-quitting-time expression on his face.

“Kick her loose,” said the sergeant.

“What about me?” the man beside her sputtered. “If her arrest was bogus, then mine—”

“You wanna share a cell with Buba Junuh?” asked the sergeant, waving his pencil in the direction of the man’s nose. “You just keep talking.”

The man swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing once as he suddenly became fascinated by the scarred, wood countertop.

“Make sure your client doesn’t leave town,” the sergeant warned Dallas.

“No problem,” Dallas quickly replied.

As soon as Shelby’s cuffs were off, he hustled her toward the door. He was getting out while the getting was good. He wasn’t about to give the officers time to reconsider and end up stuck in a dingy interview room for the next four hours.

He had things to do, places to go.

“Thanks.” Shelby gasped, struggling to keep up with his long strides.

They burst through the door into a spring evening and some comparatively fresh air. Dallas breathed a sigh of relief.

Finally. His duty was done. Another couple of hours at the office and he could grab dinner at Sebastian’s on the way home and let life get back to normal.

The damp pavement glowed under the streetlights as the commuter crowd spilled from the El Station onto the street. A couple of middle-aged men in business suits gave Shelby speculative looks.

Dallas tossed them a don’t-even-think-about-it glare. “You got cab fare home?” he asked her.

She rubbed her arms against the growing chill. “Of course I’ve got…oh, no…” She stopped short. “My purse!”

Dallas stared down another passerby. This one looked like a construction worker, with a navy work shirt and a black lunchbox. Didn’t this woman know not to wander the streets of Chicago in a miniskirt?

“I left my purse at the Game-O-Rama,” said Shelby.

“So, have the taxi stop and get it.”

“They locked it up. I don’t have a key. Gerry has the key.”

Dallas tipped his head back, stared at the streetlamp and swallowed a few cusswords. Why him?

His dad might have taken on every stray south of Jackson Park with a decent sob story, but Dallas definitely wasn’t his father. He’d never be that naive.

With no other choice, he shrugged out of his suit jacket and dropped it around Shelby’s shoulders. “Don’t talk to anyone until I get back.”

She nodded, glancing around the damp, darkening street.

The male pedestrians lurked in the shadows like a pack of jackals, and Dallas could almost feel his father’s genetic code springing to life inside him.

He tamped down the silly urge to keep her close. They’d made it out of there by the legal skin of their teeth. There was no way he was taking her back inside.

Shoot.

Damn.

He let out a chopped sigh. Forget the key to the Game-O-Rama. “I’ll get us a cab.”

DALLAS SLAMMED THE DOOR behind her and strode around to the driver’s side, while Shelby swore she’d never complain about taxis again. It was so much nicer in here than in the police car—a cushioned seat, handles on the inside of the doors, a window that opened, and no lurking aroma of vomit, sweat or urine.

She glanced at her watch, wishing she’d thought about her purse on the way out of the Game-O-Rama. Who knew when she’d get it back? Not that she could have managed to grab her purse with the cuffs on. And not that the young cop was likely to have helped her.

The opposite door opened and Dallas slid inside—six feet two, gray eyes, short, dark hair and a set to his jawline that said he’d rather be cleaning his oven than escorting her home.

Had she thanked him? Should she thank him? It wasn’t like his help had come cheap. And she was already planning to dip into her meager savings to pay half of Allison’s rent at the end of the month.

She guessed she could kiss that new pair of Bjorn shoes in Holstead’s window goodbye. Along with the matching leather purse. It was a great sale, too.

She sighed inwardly. “How much do I owe you?”

“Forget it,” said Dallas, slamming his own door.

“What do you mean, forget it? That was ten minutes’ work. I figure it’s fifty bucks, easy.”

He turned and stared at her from beneath slanted brows. She got the feeling his clients didn’t usually try to press money on him.

“What’s your address?” he asked.

Shelby glanced at her watch again. Five-fifteen. Allison would have left for Balley’s by now, and Shelby’s apartment key was in her purse with the rest of her worldly goods. Too bad Flower-Fresh closed at five. Or was that five-thirty?

She leaned forward to talk to the driver through the open, Plexiglas barrier between the seats. “Can you take me to Black and Wheeler?”

“Allison lives on Rupert,” said Dallas.

“Flower-Fresh is on the corner,” she explained to the cabbie. “I need to pick something up.”

Dallas sat back in his seat. “You’re picking up your dry cleaning?”

“I sure hope so.”

The cab lurched forward.

“Let me get this straight,” said Dallas. “You just got arrested, narrowly avoided a stay in the lockup, you have no purse, no money. I’m assuming you’ve lost your job, and the first thing you need to do is pick up your dry cleaning?”

Shelby didn’t get the connection. She blinked at him. “Yeah.” She knew her credit card number. Hopefully that would be enough to spring the dress.

His forehead furrowed, he stared at her as if she was a bug under a microscope.

“I’m meeting Allison at Balley’s,” Shelby elaborated, gesturing to her wrinkled skirt and dusty tank top. “It’s not like I can show up like this.”

Dallas was silent for a full minute. “Right.”

“You mind waiting?” she asked. “I could walk to Balley’s from Flower-Fresh, but it’s nearly a mile.”

“Of course I’ll wait.”

Shelby smiled. “Thanks. And thanks for getting me out of jail.”

“You weren’t in jail.”

“Don’t you mean ‘you’re welcome’?”

He didn’t smile at her joke. “Of course.”

“I can pay you for your time,” she felt compelled to offer. She didn’t want him to think she was a charity case. Even if she nearly was.

His lips pursed as though he’d just sucked a lime. “You’re Greg’s fiancée’s roommate—”

She grinned irreverently. “Which means we’re practically cousins?”

She wasn’t sure, but she thought he might have growled at that.

“Flower-Fresh on your right,” said the cabbie.

Shelby peered hopefully out the window, but she was disappointed with what she saw. The sign was turned off and the front window was dark. But wait, somebody was on the sidewalk locking the front door. If she hurried…

She ripped off her seat belt and flung open her door before the cab had a chance to roll to a stop.

“Christ,” Dallas bit out, reaching for her.

But she was quick enough to elude his hand.

She dashed between two parked cars and up onto the curb. “I need my dress,” she called to the short, gray-haired woman with a set of keys in her hand.

“We’re closed,” said the woman, adjusting a plastic rain hat as she turned to walk away.

“You don’t understand,” said Shelby, following. “I need my dress.”