LITMIR.BIZ

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here to see Nick Ryan.”

      She had the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. Cat eyes, he thought, large and cautious and full of female mystery, all framed by lashes as dark and lush as mink. High cheekbones and a full mouth were set into a face that was a little too pale, a little too serious. Freckles dusted her small nose. Her reddish-brown hair was tucked into an unruly bun at her nape. She looked like she’d driven for a long distance with the windows down.

      “You probably missed the No Soliciting sign posted on the door,” he offered, hoping to save both of them some time.

      “I’m not selling anything,” she said. “I have an appointment.”

      Nick stared at her, taking in the folder in her hand, the determination in her cool green eyes, and felt a sinking sensation in his gut. He didn’t embarrass easily, but the back of his neck heated. Suddenly, he found himself wanting to throttle Frank Rossi.

      “You’re Erin McNeal,” he said.

      She nodded. “I’m a little early.”

      “You’re a lot early.” He glanced at his watch. “Two hours to be exact.”

      “The drive didn’t take as long as I thought it would.” She strode forward, eyes level on his, hand extended.

      Rising, he rounded his desk. “I’m Nick Ryan.”

      She wasn’t what he’d expected the ex-detective to look like. He’d expected hard eyes that were tired from too many years of seeing too much. This woman was anything but hard. She was young and slender and way too…soft to be a cop.

      “Frank said to tell you hello,” she said.

      Frowning, Nick extended his hand, wondering if Frank was back in Chicago having a good laugh. But the moment her fingers closed around his, Nick’s concentration wavered. The force of her grip surprised him. It was a little too quick. A little too firm. He hadn’t expected to feel calluses on her palm. A weight lifter, too. How on earth could he have mistaken her for a solicitor? Soft or not, this woman had “cop” written all over her.

      “I brought my résumé,” she said.

      “Frank faxed me a copy.”

      Belatedly, he remembered he was still grasping her hand, and released it. Even though she wasn’t standing particularly close, he caught a whiff of her scent, some exotic spice tempered with the essence of clean hair and female. How could a woman with calluses on her palms and a cop’s eyes smell so good?

      Realizing he was staring, Nick gave himself a mental shake and looked at Hector, who had yet to close his mouth—or take his eyes off her. “This is Deputy Price.”

      Erin extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure, Deputy.”

      “Ma’am.” Hector jumped to his feet, wiped his palms on his uniform slacks and stuck out his hand.

      Nick was still struggling with the fact that Detective Erin McNeal wasn’t the hardened, cynical cop he’d expected, but a woman who smelled like heaven and looked like she’d just stepped off the set of some high-drama police TV show.

      She wasn’t beautiful in the classic sense. Her hair was too red to be brown, too brown to be truly red and struggling valiantly to break free of that bun. Her mouth was a tad full and too wide for his taste. He’d never cared for freckles, either. But she was attractive in an earthy, girl-next-door sort of way—the kind of girl who’d played with slingshots instead of dolls.

      She studied Nick. “Frank tells me you two are old friends.”

      He frowned, not liking the way she’d used the word old. Just because he felt a lot older than his thirty-eight years didn’t mean it was fact. “We go back a few years,” he said.

      All too aware that his deputy wasn’t the only one having a difficult time keeping his eyes off her, Nick cleared his throat. “Frank and I partnered up for a couple of years in Chicago.”

      “He speaks well of you,” she said.

      “Only when he needs a favor.”

      Her gaze sharpened, and he knew she was wondering if he’d just slighted her. Perceptive, too, he thought, and felt a glimmer of hope that she wouldn’t take this job, after all.

      “I’m really early,” she said. “If you’re in the middle of something, I don’t mind waiting.”

      Great, he’d been staring again. He was acting like a pimply-faced teenager who’d just come face-to-face with his favorite centerfold. Erin McNeal was a cop—and a bad one at that. He’d worked with plenty of female cops back in Chicago. This one shouldn’t be any different.

      Noticing that Hector’s eyes still hadn’t settled back in their sockets, Nick motioned toward his office. “We can talk in here, Ms. McNeal.”

      She started for the door with long, confident strides. He followed, refusing to let his eyes peruse what he instinctively knew was a nice derriere. He didn’t want to know that she was built just the way he liked. He’d just as soon not like anything at all about this woman.

      Once in his office, he slid behind his desk, then watched her take the chair opposite him. Her jacket gaped slightly when she crossed her legs, and he caught a glimpse of lace and the swell of her breasts beneath her blouse. Determined to keep his mind on the interview, he forced his gaze to the file in front of him. “Your credentials are impressive,” he said. “Frank gave you a favorable recommendation.”

      “Frank was a good commander.”

      “It’s probably no handicap that he’s also your uncle.” Nick looked down at the file, wondering if she realized Frank had told him about the shooting. “You scored high on your detective’s exam. You transferred out of tactical to become a detective after only two years. Says here ‘because you like to think.’ Your solve rate is high. Your marksmanship is outstanding.” He raised his eyes to hers. “Those are some pretty remarkable achievements considering there are over thirteen thousand sworn officers on the force.”

      Her gaze never left his. “I like being a cop.”

      Despite his resistance to her, the answer scored a point with him. Nick had a pretty good idea how many hurdles this woman had had to leap to reach detective status. He knew plenty of men who couldn’t match half her skills. He knew plenty of others who would do their utmost to hold her back just because she was the wrong sex. Yet she’d prevailed. Nick admired tenacity almost as much as he admired guts. He wondered if she was gutsy enough to bring up the subject neither of them wanted to discuss.

      “We don’t get much action here in Logan Falls,” he said. “A few juvenile delinquents. Domestic disputes. The Brass Rail Saloon got robbed last Friday, but that sort of thing is pretty unusual. Think you can handle that kind of excitement?”

      “If I can handle the South Side of Chicago, I’m sure I can handle anything that happens in Logan Falls.”

      He’d asked the question lightly, but she’d taken it as a personal challenge. An ego to boot, he thought. He studied the file, irritated with her for not being what he’d expected, annoyed with Frank for not warning him how good she was to look at—and downright ticked off at himself for noticing.

      “I see you’ve had a couple personnel problems,” he said.

      “They were relatively minor—”

      “It’s my responsibility to ask you about them.” He flipped to the next page. “You’ve been written up for insubordination.”

      Eyeing him warily, she shifted in her chair. “I didn’t like an assignment, and I let my lieutenant know about it.”

      “What was it about?”

      “Cases involving unpopular victims that were shoved aside in lieu of the more affluent ones. Prostitutes mostly, because nobody cared about them. I didn’t think that was fair.”

      Nick

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