The Girl Most Likely To... Page 2

  Was this a body she’d willingly show to a man? That is, assuming she could find someone back home who was willing to engage in a little discreet “no-lasting-commitment-required” sex.

  Dana grinned at the thought. She was willing to bet that her breasts and bottom would be traveling south with gravity by the time she got lucky. Between her campaign to show Sandy Bend she’d become a reformed businesswoman and the way Mike had taken to shadowing her, the level of discretion she required didn’t exist in her hometown.

  She turned the shower’s lever and gave a delighted laugh at the jets of water that shot from multiple nozzles on the tiled wall. When the shower reached the proper temperature, Dana stepped inside and closed the glass door. The water massaged between her shoulders and across her back. For the first time in months, her stress eased. She tipped back her head so the jets could spray her scalp. Maybe this wasn’t better than sex, but it was a damn sight closer than carrot cake.

  CAL BREWER loosened his tie and stepped into the bar at the Almont Hotel. Too tired to do much more than locate an open bar stool, he settled in. He’d just finished three hours standing in for his dad at a retirement party rife with cigar smoke and bad jokes. Since he’d also recently taken over his dad’s role as police chief of Sandy Bend—well, interim police chief, in Cal’s case—he was beginning to feel as though he’d stepped into someone else’s life. Someone thirty years older who wasn’t having a helluva lot of fun.

  Right now it was a close call which Cal wanted more—a cold beer or ten hours of sleep. He’d been working gruesomely long hours and coping with a lot of political BS back home. He figured what the beer didn’t cure, the sleep would.

  While waiting for the bartender to finish up with a customer, Cal angled his bar stool so he wasn’t facing an endless array of expensive liquors and took a quick glance around. The bar and the twenty or so tables in the lounge area were full. In a large, windowed alcove overlooking the city, a band played jazzy music. Not his usual style, but not half-bad, either.

  The bartender, a slender redheaded woman in a white tuxedo shirt and black vest, settled a small bowl of salted nuts in front of him.

  Cal smiled. “Dinner.”

  “And would you like a drink with your meal?” she asked. She arched her brows and broadened her smile as she checked him out.

  “Whatever kind of Goose Island you have on tap,” he said, referring to one of the local brews.

  The bartender got down to business, and Cal leaned back and relaxed. He was glad he’d taken up Steve and Hallie on their offer of a hotel room for the night. Actually, it had been more Hallie than Steve who’d urged him to stay here. Cal had thought it was kind of weird of her to be so insistent, but, hey, this way he’d be fresh for the drive home tomorrow.

  Besides, he’d always gotten a kick out of the Almont. Being here was like stepping into an old black-and-white movie. For years, this had been his and Steve’s place to crash after partying their way down Rush Street. Not that Steve was a good candidate for a party weekend anymore.

  It was still strange to think that his best friend had married his baby sister last summer, but they seemed happy. Actually, delirious was more like it. Cal was torn between embarrassment and a surprising jab of envy at how openly loving they were.

  Envy didn’t equate with wanting a wife of his own, though. He liked women too much to settle down. The real killer of the scrutiny he was subject to since his promotion was the way it had begun to affect his social life. The other candidate for police chief, a sanctimonious old goat named Richard MacNee, had cranked up Sandy Bend’s gossip machine to full gear with references to Cal’s alleged “dissolute lifestyle.”

  Dissolute, hell. He never dated more than one woman at a time and he never lied to any of them. Could he help it if he’d happened to date a lot of women over the years? He’d liked each and every one of them, and he suspected old Dick MacNee had never liked another human being—of either gender.

  The MacNee and Brewer clans had never been friends. Years ago, when MacNee was serving a term as county sheriff, and Cal’s dad was police chief, allegations of corruption had reached Cal’s dad, who was ready to call in the state police to investigate. The phone call had never been made. MacNee had suddenly resigned and started a private security firm. His son, Richard Junior, now ran the family business, and MacNee seemed to be gunning for Cal. He didn’t like it, but there was nothing much he could do besides protect his back.

  With perfect timing, the bartender settled a frosty-sided stein in front of Cal. He nodded his thanks. The beer went down cold and easy as he marked time by the number of songs the band played. Two instrumentals later, he motioned for a refill. The beer seemed to be taking the edge off the tension that had been his constant shadow since stepping in as interim police chief.

  The bartender settled mug number two in front of him. “Can I bring you anything else?”

  There was nothing overt in her question, but the gleam in her eyes sent a different message. While Cal was appreciative, he wasn’t interested.

  “All set for now.”

  The only thing left on his wish list was that long overdue sleep. His face hurt from the smile he’d kept plastered on during the party. He was lobbying hard to lose the word interim in front of “police chief,” which meant being at his best even when he was over two hundred miles from home. The old boys’ network ran deep in the law enforcement community. He always figured he’d have a few more years before his dad retired, but hell, this was his shot at being the big boss and he wasn’t going to screw up. Cal hungered for this job. As a Brewer, police work was in his blood. He’d sacrifice just about anything to be chief.

  Beer number three appeared after no more than a subtle lift of Cal’s brow. He gave a passing thought to food. He’d skipped breakfast this morning. Lunch had been about two bites of cold, limp pasta at the retirement party, and dinner was the handful of salted nuts in their fancy silver bowl sitting in front of him. He should eat, but it would take too much effort.

  As he drank, Cal eased into full relaxation mode. Yeah, he remembered this feeling and missed it, too. He knew that achieving it had more to do with being hundreds of miles away from Sandy Bend than it did with downing three beers. It still felt damned good. He intended to ride this wave until he crashed.

  After another song, the band’s vocalist announced they’d be taking a short break. The hum of conversation grew. It worked on Cal the same way the white noise inside airplanes did, making him feel disconnected from his surroundings. Then a new sound wrapped its way around him—feminine laughter so smooth and sultry that every man in the place who still possessed a pulse had to be sitting up and taking notice. Cal sure was.

  A smile of anticipation and something not quite so friendly worked its way across his face. Now he understood why his sister had been so hot to see him settled at the Almont.

  Cal knew that smoke-over-satin laughter. It was part of one sexy, smart-mouthed package named Dana Devine.

  2

  CAL PUSHED ASIDE his beer and again angled his stool toward the lounge. Twenty bucks said Dana was here with Hallie. And twenty more said they’d been waiting for him to show up. He checked out the tables for pairs of women, one blonde, the other sisterly and interfering, but no one suited the bill. Restlessly scanning the couples leaving the dance floor, he figured maybe Hallie had dragged Steve into her plot, but didn’t see him either. He swiveled in the opposite direction to check the exit, and then turned to look at the dancers again. He’d just about decided he’d imagined Dana’s laughter when he spotted her, then wondered how he could have missed her in the first place.

  Her green dress was incredible—all about sex, yet without exposing much skin at all. Then there was the way she walked, as if she owned the place and was jazzed to have everybody at her party. He just might forgive Hallie for this stunt. In fact, in his current Zen-like state of contentment, thanking Hallie seemed a possibility. He’d never dated Dana, but for good or
for bad, he’d always noticed her. Sandy Bend had its share of attractive women, but none so exotic, or with the potential to be as damned frustrating as Ms. Devine.

  Cal stood without realizing he’d planned to. As he considered his next move—should he wait for her come to him?—a silver-haired man stepped even with Dana and she smiled at him. Cal’s own smile wavered, then died.

  Okay, maybe he’d gotten ahead of himself, figuring he’d been set up by Hallie. Or maybe it had been wishful thinking on his part. He scowled as he considered exactly what part had been doing the thinking. And how very many weeks he’d been ignoring that part.

  Feeling like a kid who’d just had his favorite Christmas present taken away, he sat down and watched as Dana strolled from the dance floor. The guy she was with was old enough to be her father. Or grandfather. Except Cal knew this man was no blood relative. Not with that cocky male strut just because his hand rested at Dana’s waist.

  Definitely not grandpop having a friendly visit. So this was salon business, maybe? Cal’s gaze narrowed as the man pulled out a seat for her at a round table where four other men already sat. Scratch business. None of them looked to be hair types—not that he’d ever seen hairstylists old enough to have tapped a pension fund dry. These guys looked plenty smooth, though. And plenty happy to have Dana Devine in their midst.

  Curious, Cal leaned closer. He tried to catch their conversation, which was a colossally stupid move since they were twenty-five feet away. He couldn’t hear anything but her laughter, a sound which wasn’t helping his attitude. He’d never been able to make her laugh. Except maybe at him.

  He turned to the bar and finished off his beer. The wise choice would be to pay his tab and pack it in for the night. The wise choice would be to ignore Dana, but he’d never been able to do that. Not since she’d returned to Sandy Bend married to Mike Henderson, the king of con men. And definitely not since she’d become single again.

  Dana was eight years younger than he, the same age as his sister, Hallie. But unlike Hallie, Dana had never really been a kid. She’d always had an old soul, as though she’d experienced life before. She’d also had a quick wit and a knack for finding trouble.

  By the time she was in high school, he’d been a member of the Sandy Bend police force—if six men could be considered a force. It hadn’t taken Cal long to figure out that if he found Dana on a hot summer night, he’d also find a beach party, underage drinking and couples taking advantage of the privacy of the tall grass on the rise of the dunes. Funny thing was, he couldn’t remember ever catching her with a drink or a guy. But she’d always been in the middle of the action.

  He turned to watch her again. Tonight was no exception. Dana Devine was center stage and loving it. She wore a wide smile and her eyes sparkled with pure mischief. Her admirers laughed at something she said.

  As he watched her, he tried to pin down the origin of the hot—almost impatient—anticipation coursing through him. Could it be he was feeling impulsive? Not possible. Good cops were never impulsive. Good cops were steady, reasoned thinkers. But right now he didn’t have to be a cop, he reminded himself. He could be Citizen Cal, far from the snooping eyes of Sandy Bend.

  A siren’s lure, Dana’s laughter drifted to him. A dance and some conversation, he was sure that was all it would take to break free from this obsession. Tomorrow, he could tell himself that beer and tiredness had made him do what he was about to do. Tomorrow, he’d think about how totally wrong it was to give in to this craving for just a taste of her. He watched as the men raised their glasses in a toast to Dana, and she gracefully accepted. It galled him, the way she was oblivious to his presence, while all he could think of was her.

  Cal signaled for his tab and settled up with the bartender, who did her best to ascertain whether he’d be back tomorrow night. At least someone appreciated him. That sense of underappreciation, of having been wronged in some mysterious way, impelled him toward Dana. The band was just returning for a set as he arrived at her table.

  “CHECKING OUT THE BIG CITY?”

  At the unexpected male voice, Dana—who’d been about to take another sip of the best apple martini in Chicago—slopped the chilly green liquid onto the tablecloth.

  Her hand shaking, she set down the glass and glossed over her surprise with a composed facade. She scooted around in the leather club chair. Not that she had to turn to know who stood just over her left shoulder. Dana had known this man most of her life, fantasized about him naked for half of it, but had only managed to get along with him on the odd day or two.

  The shock of seeing him was enough to make her heart pound a wild beat. “Hello, Cal. You’re looking—”

  Downright edible, as always?

  “—well,” she said aloud. “What are you doing here?”

  “Dance with me and we’ll talk about it.” He used the tone of voice she imagined he trotted out when he said, “Get in the back of the squad car.”

  Annoyed, she curved her lips into a sweet smile. “You make it sound so tempting.”

  “Dance with me…please.” His facial expression was closer to a baring of the teeth than anything cordial. This, unfortunately, was the way most of their conversations went.

  “Well, since you asked so nicely…” Gaze locked with his, Dana raised her fingertips to her mouth. Finger by finger, she flicked her tongue against the last sticky drops of apple martini. Cal’s ice-blue eyes darkened. Not with desire, Dana was sure, but with plain, old-fashioned anger. She grinned.

  Inclining her head to her new friends around the table, who were grinning themselves, she said, “Gentlemen, if you don’t mind?”

  They assured her they didn’t, and she stood. She was no shrimp at five foot eight—plus a few inches of heels. Still, Cal seemed to loom over her. Dana edged past him and bought herself some breathing space.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  She nodded. Why did Cal Brewer always seem to sound annoyed when he spoke to her? She couldn’t recall doing anything especially rotten to him, except mock him when he’d been a rookie cop and she’d been walking adolescent attitude and Goth makeup. Maybe that was it, those months when she’d trailed after him as his own little shadow of doom in white face, midnight-purple hair and black lipstick. But that was years ago, and really, had been nothing more than a way to pass a boring Sandy Bend summer. He must be over it by now. She glanced up at his set jaw and impassive expression.

  And they said women could hold a grudge.

  When they reached the dance floor, Cal drew her easily into his grasp. For some reason, Dana’s feet weren’t working quite the way she intended them to. She stepped on his foot once, gave a hasty apology and tried to pay better attention to the music. Instead, her mind wandered to this T-shirt she’d seen in a gift shop back in Sandy Bend.

  The shirt in question had read, One Martini, Two Martini, Three Martini…Floor.

  At the time, she’d thought it was cute, but since she’d never tasted the drink, she hadn’t fully appreciated the humor. Suffice it to say, with two-and-a-half cocktail glasses of the green apple variety warming her blood, the shirt’s warning had taken on true depth of meaning. She felt loose-jointed and just the smallest bit reckless.

  She’d never been this close to Cal. Even at Hallie and Steve’s wedding, when Cal had been best man and she’d been maid of honor, she’d managed to escape to the bathroom immediately before they’d been called to dance together. Later, Hallie had accused her of being a chicken. Dana preferred to think of it as being skilled in self-preservation.

  She’d been right to flee then and if she had any sense at all, she’d be running now. Cal made her too aware of the emptiness howling inside her. An emptiness that she suspected even five martinis couldn’t numb. Cal’s navy blue blazer felt smooth under her palm. Good quality wool, even if its conservative cut smacked a bit too much of Sandy Bend’s Westshore Country Club for her taste.

  She thought she caught the faint scent of cigar clinging to him. Like father, l
ike son, she supposed. The closest Bud Brewer had come to running a nonsmoking police station was sticking his lit cigars into an ashtray in the bottom drawer of his desk. During her reckless days, she’d spent plenty of time on the opposite side of that desk receiving a lecture while watching grayish curls of smoke drift upward from the semi-closed drawer.

  Like father, like son. That was another reason Cal rattled her. She wasn’t the same girl who’d gotten into her share and someone else’s of trouble, but she was still allergic to authority figures. Even those who were tall and muscled and could slow-dance their way into most women’s hearts. Perhaps even hers.

  Trying to distract herself, Dana hummed along to the pianist’s ballad about lost opportunities and empty nights. Funny how the guy could make it sound so appealing, when the reality stank.

  Cal cleared his throat, then spoke. “You’ve got an incredible voice.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Really sexy.”

  She smiled. “So I’ve been told.”

  After a moment, he added, “So, do you, ah, know those men you’re sitting with?”

  She shrugged. The motion was just enough to make her brush briefly against the hard wall of his chest. She pulled in a sharp breath and eased back a fraction. How could someone so emotionally distant create such a jolt?

  “I know them now,” she said. “They went to pharmacy school together in the early sixties, and have a reunion in Chicago each year.”

  He drew her closer. Dana knew she could wriggle away until there was once again a safe distance between them. She also knew she lacked the willpower to do it. The heat this man threw off was better than that fantasy of a shower in her hotel room. Her eyes slipped closed as she allowed herself to think about Cal, herself and nothing but steamy mist between them. Her hunger grew as she imagined the feel of his broad hands sliding across her slick, wet skin to grip her bottom as he lifted her, and—