a bell from a long time ago, and I think it may stem from the time I arrested Lydet back in my rookie days.”
Juliet regarded him with something that looked suspiciously close to admiration. “Your job must be terribly exciting.”
“When I’m doing real police work instead of babysitting, maybe,” he said caustically.
She absorbed the snub without comment and turned to face the front, where she was silent for several moments. Then she twisted around to face him again. “I’m trying to picture you with a sister, but I can’t quite visualize it.”
He expelled a sharp exhalation of laughter. “No? Well, picture this: I’ve got three of ’em.” He kept his eyes on the traffic but was aware of her gaze roaming his features.
“God, how wonderful,” he heard her murmur in a voice so soft she had to be talking to herself. Then she shifted slightly and said, “I was an only child.”
He felt a funny little clutch in his stomach at her wistful tone and jerked himself erect. Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. She wasn’t suckin’ him in that way. He was waaay too savvy to fall for the sympathy bid. And where the hell had this sudden chatty streak come from, anyway? He turned his head and gave her a quick, insolent once-over. “Poor little rich girl. I’m sure daddy bought you a truckload of toys to fill the void.”
He refused to feel guilty when she stared at him with stunned shock, as if he’d just backhanded her upside one of those elegant cheekbones. He nevertheless expelled the breath he’d been holding when her expression turned cool and remote.
“Actually, Father wasn’t around much,” she said with quiet dignity and turned her back on him to look out the side window.
Ah, fuck. Well, tough, he didn’t care. He—did—not—care.
Juliet stared blindly at the scenery streaking past while she repudiated the hurt, shoving it down, enclosing it within the bleak little closet that she’d built years ago, deep in the recesses of her mind, to store the slights and disappointments of a father who rarely had time for her.
It was probably no more than she deserved, anyway, for giving in to the seductive craving for a little excitement in her life. She had too much to do in too little time as it was, and she knew Beau Dupree was trouble—but she’d allowed him to drag her out of the middle of a meeting anyway, without a single protest and with no more excuse than an itch of recklessness and the weak justification that Celeste Haynes had been late for their meeting and therefore deserved to have it cut short. Sucking in her ill-conceived burst of friendly curiosity, she took refuge behind a more familiar wall of reserve.
The interior of the car was like an oven. The wind, moisture-laden and heavy with scents, blew through the open window, tugging at her hair,pressing against her lungs, and the sun-faded tropical colors of crazed and peeling paint flashed exotic impressions as the car roared past the ancient buildings that sported them.
She didn’t feel reserved—that was the problem. A kernel of resentful rebelliousness had lodged itself deep inside of her and the very lushness of the environment seemed to feed it, the way it fed and encouraged ferns to grow in the unlikeliest cracks in the sidewalks and stairs of this town. That same lushness provoked a sensuality and lassitude that made merely keeping her posture erect a burden, never mind clinging to all her stiff mores and manners. They seemed to require much more effort down here, perhaps more than they were worth.
Then she and Beau were once again back in the Quarter, with its music and noise and blatantly sexual overtones. Only this time there were crowds of people thronging the sidewalks and horse-drawn carriages slowing their passage up traffic-choked streets.
Beau found a place to park and, as usual, without so much as a by-your-leave, hauled her bodily from the car and immediately set off with her trailing an arm’s length behind. Like last
J. S. Cooper, Helen Cooper