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  It had been a long day, and the throbbing behind her temples was intensifying. “Can we—”

  “Let me buy you a coffee,” he interrupted. She was about to refuse, but before she had a chance, he added, “official police business.”

  It must’ve been loud enough for Deborah to hear. With a satisfied smirk, she tossed her long blond hair over one shoulder and walked back to the office area.

  “All right. Give me a minute to get my things.” And take an aspirin.

  Chelsea went to her desk and pulled her handbag from the bottom drawer. She took the painkiller first. With the drawer still open, she noticed the high-heeled pumps she’d worn to the gallery’s gala. Headache be damned, she took off her more practical shoes and slipped on the pumps. Using the small mirror she kept in her desk, she touched up her lipstick. Sam might want to talk police business, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t look her best.

  By the time she spritzed on some perfume, her headache was fading.

  * * *

  THE FIRST THING Sam noticed when Chelsea walked out of the back was that she looked...taller. He slid his gaze down and saw the shoes. Unless he was mistaken, they were the same shoes she’d worn the night of the exhibit, but they worked even better with the skirt she wore today.

  Caught in the act, he realized when he looked up and saw Chelsea’s amused smile. “Ready to go?” he asked, proud of how smoothly he managed to recover from his lapse of professionalism. He helped her with her coat and walked her to his vehicle, having agreed that he’d drive her back to the gallery to get her car when they were done. “How was your day?” he asked as he pulled away from the curb.

  She leaned back against the headrest. “Don’t ask. One of the worst.”

  He thought of Joel Sinclair and how unpleasant he’d seemed and glanced at her. “Boyfriend trouble?”

  “What?”

  “Sorry. Too personal.” And where the heck did that come from?

  “Oh, no. It’s not that at all. Just something...unusual happened at work today.”

  He glanced at her again. She had her eyes closed and seemed unwilling to elaborate.

  He drove into The Coffee Shoppe’s parking lot and took a spot close to the entrance, and let her precede him into the café

  They both had coffee and Chelsea ordered an enormous cinnamon bun.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked him after swallowing a generous bite.

  He watched her tear off another sizable portion. “Where do you put all that food?” he asked.

  “I get plenty of exercise walking around at work, and I try to do yoga a couple of times a week,” she explained. “Fortunately, I’m also blessed with a high metabolism,” she added with a flash of even white teeth. “But you said this was official police business. Do you know who’s responsible for the robbery at All That Glitters and Shines?”

  “I did say it’s police business,” he replied, although he’d nearly forgotten, enjoying her company as much as he was. “It’s about the robbery, although regrettably we haven’t caught the responsible person yet.”

  Chelsea had been about to put another bite of the pastry in her mouth but paused. “Does it usually take this long with a robbery of this sort?”

  “Generally not. The longer it takes, the lower the odds that we’ll be able to catch the perpetrator. This case is somewhat out of the norm. And that’s part of the problem.” He preferred not to tell her outright what he was considering, for two reasons. He didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily; she looked troubled enough as it was. Also, if he was going to share his theory with anyone, it should be the curator or owner of the gallery. His purpose in meeting with Chelsea was to get her take on whether there’d been anything out of the ordinary that could indicate the gallery might be a target.

  Or so he told himself.

  “What’s unusual about it?” Chelsea probed. “Is it that Mr. Rochester was hurt? There aren’t many incidents like that in Camden Falls. Not that I’ve heard of, anyway.”

  “You’re correct. We don’t see a lot of crime like the jewelry store break-in. Generally, that makes my job a lot easier,” he said with a smile. “But since it did happen, we don’t want to see a recurrence. Catching the perpetrator will not only keep him or her from a repeat performance, but it’ll also act as a deterrent to other potential thieves.”

  “Sounds like a plan. How can I help?”

  Her hands were wrapped around her mug, and her smile was warm and inquisitive. She looked so appealing, he had to force himself to remember what he’d been about to say. “Uh, Willowbrook Avenue is home to most of Camden Falls’s retail stores, the most likely targets for a thief. I couldn’t help noticing,” he said, smiling again, “that you seem to be aware of what goes on in the neighborhood and don’t mind getting involved, if the need arises. I don’t mean that as a criticism,” he added quickly, when he saw her eyes narrow. “I was wondering if you’d seen anything suspicious in the area, either before or after the robbery.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Not that I recall. The store owners and employees along that stretch of Willowbrook all know each other and we’re a close-knit group. We tend to look out for each other. If anyone had seen anything, I would’ve found out.”

  “Have you seen or heard of anyone unfamiliar or someone who seemed out of place visiting the gallery or any of the other stores?”

  She took a sip of her coffee but kept her eyes steady on his. Finally, she shook her head. “You’re asking me because you don’t think the robbery at All That Glitters and Shines was an isolated incident. You think the gallery or one of the other businesses on Willowbrook might be targeted.”

  It wasn’t posed as a question. Her agile mind impressed him. “We haven’t discounted the possibility. We’ve arranged for extra patrols along Willowbrook for the time being. Just in case.”

  Chelsea nodded. “Thank you. There wasn’t much of value stolen from All That Glitters and Shines, was there?”

  “No.”

  “But there was a great deal of damage. I can’t imagine Mr. and Mrs. Rochester having enemies. So, I don’t think it was targeting them.” Sam assumed she was looking for confirmation or denial. Careful to give her neither, he was again struck by how bright she was. He was starting to respect her intelligence as much as her courage, kindness and humor.

  “It wasn’t strictly vandalism, though,” she continued. “There are easier, less risky ways to accomplish that than breaking into the store. What was the motivation, then?”

  “Interesting line of reasoning,” he said. “You’ve taken courses in criminology?” he teased.

  Her delighted smile caused a twinge—like extreme hunger—in his gut.

  “No, but I love reading crime novels.” Her expression turned serious. “I can put two plus two together well enough to know that if you considered it a routine robbery, we wouldn’t be here having coffee.”

  The thought of them doing just that, but for personal reasons, ran through his mind. “Maybe I used it as an excuse to get you here.”

  She rolled her eyes, but not before she smiled at him again—flirtatiously this time. “I understand you can’t tell me more,” she said, “but I honestly don’t know what I can say that would help. Believe me, I want the person who hurt Mr. Rochester caught.” The intensity in her voice underscored her words.

  “You care about him,” he said, stating the obvious.

  She raised her hands. “Of course I care about Mr. Rochester. And Mrs. Rochester, who’s been worried sick about her husband. They’re a sweet couple. The way they are with each other, you’d think they were in the honeymoon phase of their relationship. They’ve been married more than forty-five years.”

  He mentally added romantic to the list of her attributes. And the list was getting long. She had intelligence, warmth and compassion. She had
a spirit of fun that he readily admitted he was lacking but admired. And, needless to say, he loved the way she looked.

  But she had a boyfriend and he had to stay focused on the case. “Another question, if you don’t mind. Is there anything more you can tell me about Adam Rochester or his mother?”

  “Not really.” She stared down at the table. “I told you everything I know the other night.”

  He’d been watching her intently—couldn’t take his eyes off her. So he’d noticed that the warmth fizzled out as she talked about the nephew. “You don’t like him.”

  She raised startled eyes to meet his. “What makes you say that?”

  “I’m a detective, remember. Well-honed observation skills,” he responded, trying to put her at ease again and lighten the mood. It had the desired effect, making her smile again. “So, why is that?” he asked.

  She seemed to consider his question for a moment. “I don’t dislike Adam. We’ve just never...connected.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “Since I started working at the gallery. Nearly five years ago now.”

  “That’s a long time not to connect with someone.”

  “Perhaps,” she acknowledged. “But I don’t think connecting is a function of time. We’re too different.”

  Soon after, Sam ran out of questions, and he needed to take Chelsea back to the gallery. He dropped her off there and said good-night.

  But he found himself thinking about her as he drove home.

  He was drawn to her in a way he couldn’t remember being drawn to anyone else...other than Katherine. He’d been tempted to ask Chelsea about her relationship with Joel again, but he didn’t want to cross the line from business to personal. Her reaction to his impromptu question in the car had told him she was sensitive about it.

  Didn’t it just figure that when he finally met a woman he could be interested in, it was during an investigation and she was in a relationship. Even if those obstacles didn’t exist, he recalled her comment about not connecting with Adam Sinclair because they were too different.

  Weren’t they too different? Sam wondered grudgingly as he let himself into his apartment. Not from his perspective. And her comment about connecting not being a function of time? His own reaction to her had been almost immediate, so he had to agree.

  It was only when he closed the door behind him that he realized he’d neglected to ask her what she’d meant about this being one of her worst days.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  VERY GENTLEMANLY, CHELSEA mused, how Sam had walked her to her car at the gallery and waited until she’d pulled out of the parking lot. It was a thoughtful gesture.

  Although Detective Sam Eldridge was about as far from what she considered her “type” as she could imagine, he intrigued her. He was undeniably attractive, but it was more than that. She found his personality appealing, so steady and solid—and her complete opposite.

  Wouldn’t it be fun to throw him off his game? Get him to be a little more spontaneous?

  And she was known for her spontaneity!

  There was no ring on his finger—she’d checked—and she was sure he’d be the kind of man to wear one if he was married. She went into her apartment, hung up her coat and scooped Mindy into her arms as she headed to the kitchen. She placed the purring cat on a kitchen chair and searched through her handbag for the business card Sam had given her.

  Samuel D. Eldridge.

  The name suited him. She wondered what the D stood for but wasn’t surprised to see the use of his middle initial. He just seemed to be the type. Stuffy was the wrong word. Proper was more like it.

  Mindy meowed and Chelsea scratched her behind the ears.

  Sam looked like someone who could use some fun in his life, she decided.

  It was less than a half an hour since he’d dropped her off. Chances were that he’d be home or wherever he’d been going.

  She tapped the card against her fingers and grinned.

  Grabbing the phone, she dialed his cell number.

  “Eldridge here,” was the brusque response.

  “Owens here,” she said, mimicking him.

  “Is everything okay? Did I forget something?” He sounded confused. Point for her!

  “Yes and no.”

  “Did you think of anything else that might help the case?”

  She was tempted to laugh, his reaction seemed so in character, but she didn’t think he’d appreciate it. “No, and before we play twenty questions, here’s one for you. Are you busy after work tomorrow?”

  His pause told her she’d surprised him. She could all but hear him ask “why?” “I don’t have any plans.”

  This was it. She’d either get what she wanted...or embarrass herself. But, hey, what was life without risk? “I thought we could have a drink together.”

  “A drink?” No question she’d surprised him.

  “Yes. You know. Share conversation over an adult beverage.”

  “But don’t you...”

  “Don’t I what?”

  “What about you and Sinclair?”

  “What does Mrs. Sinclair have to do with this?”

  “Not Nadine Sinclair. I meant Joel Sinclair.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not following you.”

  “Aren’t you seeing Joel?”

  Now he’d surprised her. “No. What made you think...” Before she’d finished the question, she recalled Joel’s strange behavior the night of the gala. “Oh, no! You misread things. Joel and I dated for a while, but that ended almost four months ago.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just—”

  “That I was asking you out, and you didn’t want to tread on anyone’s toes.” That was something else she could admire about him. A core of decency she’d sensed even when she’d first met him. The way he’d obviously cared about Mr. Rochester. Letting her comfort him, although it had been clear to her that it was contrary to police procedure.

  “That sums it up.”

  “Can I assume you aren’t seeing anyone, either?” She was being direct, even for her, but she might as well get it out there while they were on the subject.

  She heard a choked laugh. “It’s safe to say I’m not.”

  “Well, then?”

  “Well, then what? Oh... Sorry, I’m not used to being asked out by beautiful women. Yes, I’d like to have a drink with you.”

  She smiled.

  “But there’s a condition.”

  Her smile wavered. “A condition?”

  “That I buy.”

  A lot of guys—in her experience, anyway—expected the woman to pay her own way. Joel had been one of them. While she liked to think of herself as being on equal terms with any man she dated, she didn’t have an issue if that man wanted to hold a door open for her or, as in this case, treat her. “I can accept that condition.”

  “Glad to hear it. Do you have a place in mind?”

  “How about Sorley’s on Eden Avenue?”

  “Sounds good. What time?”

  * * *

  THEY’D AGREED TO meet at five thirty, allowing each of them to finish work and drive the short distance to Sorley’s. After the initial shock had worn off, Sam had to admit he’d liked the fact that Chelsea had taken the initiative to ask him out. It had also cleared up his misconception about her and Joel Sinclair.

  Sinclair had intentionally misled him. Yeah, Sinclair and Chelsea might’ve started dating two and a half years ago, but he’d neglected to mention that they hadn’t been involved for nearly four months.

  Sam had been pleased to discover from Chelsea that there was no longer a personal relationship between her and Sinclair, although he wasn’t entirely sure that Sinclair would dismiss it as readily as Chelsea
had.

  He’d have to exercise some caution there.

  At work, Sam made a point of wrapping things up on time for a change. In the station’s locker room, he took off his tie and stuck it in his pocket. He washed his face, cleaned his teeth and ran a brush through his hair.

  As he pulled up in front of Sorley’s fifteen minutes later, he saw Chelsea’s car. One more thing to like about her. She was punctual. If things went well, maybe he’d be able to talk her into having dinner with him.

  One step at a time, he cautioned himself, as he walked into Sorley’s.

  She was sitting in a booth, facing the door, and noticed him right away. Smiling, she waved to him, and he felt that strange sensation in his gut again.

  Shortly after he sat down, a waitress came to take their order.

  “Thanks again for getting together with me,” she said after they had their drinks.

  “Thanks for inviting me. But I have to ask—why did you?”

  She shrugged. “I’d like to get to know you.”

  He was about to ask why again but held back. “Okay. What would you like to know?”

  She laughed. “Just like that?”

  “Yeah. Just like that.”

  She pursed her lips, appearing thoughtful, and he couldn’t stop staring at her, she looked so darn pretty.

  “Oh, I know! What does your middle initial, D, stand for?”

  Now he laughed. “That’s it? That’s what you want to know about me?”

  Her grin was big and bright. “It’s a start. I wondered when I saw it on your business card.”

  “It’s Dorian.”

  He hadn’t thought her smile could’ve been any sunnier, but he’d been wrong.

  “Dorian? As in The Picture of Dorian Gray?”

  “The movie, right?”

  She nodded. “And the book. By Oscar Wilde.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose so.”

  She touched the top of his hand with hers. “See, you do have a connection—tenuous as it might be—to the art world!”

  “I don’t have a picture of myself at home that ages instead of me, if that’s what you mean. Speaking of art, how did you first get interested in it?” he asked, wanting to get off the topic of his unusual middle name.