After six months of icy-cold darkness, upstate New York was panting for some sign that winter’s back had finally been broken—and this beautiful lunch hour was not to be squandered.
Ostensibly, she was taking a break so she could clear her head before she saw Veck again. Her strides, however, had a purpose and direction she refused to look too closely at.
The Galleria Mall was yet another downtown revitalization project, but unlike so many attempts, it had actually succeeded. Anchored by a Macy’s and a shiny new Barnes and Noble bookstore, the four-block stretch of 1920s office buildings had been closed to everything but foot traffic, given an attractive, unifying face-lift, and become the locus of high-noon retail therapy for thousands of cubicons like Reilly.
Except unlike a lot of her cohorts, this was the first time she’d ever walked the stretch of Bath & Body Works, and Talbots, and the Gap. . . .
When she stopped in front of the next store in line, she blinked in the pink glare that came through all the glass.
Oh, no. Nope. This was not her—
A woman came out with two big bags swinging from her hands, and a smile as wide as a freeway on her face.
“Sale!” she said to Reilly. “Yay!”
Her voice was so high it was like she was breathing out helium. Although maybe that was because it looked like she was wearing a bustier under her coat.
Reilly shook her head. Sale or no sale, this was not her kind of—
Annnnnnd somehow she was in the store.
Holy. Crap. She’d never seen so much underwear in one place in her whole damn life.
Victoria’s Secret was not for the faint of heart . . . or the big of butt, she feared, wondering exactly how long it had been since she’d hit the gym.
High school. No . . . maybe it was elementary.
Boy, all the lace was intimidating. As were the pictures of the Photoshop’d models who had been blown up to beyond life-size.
And to make matters worse, the place was packed with women who were not Reilly’s demographic. These were all chippies in their early twenties, snatching up thongs and demi-cups and peekaboo somethings or another. Even the slouchy, sweatpantsy stuff looked like it was meant to be stripped off by the teeth of some quarterback—
“Hi, can I help you?”
Reilly winced. “Ah . . .”
The saleswoman was a gorgeous African-American who probably looked good in every single thing that hung on the little hangers or was folded on the tables, and in comparison, Reilly felt like a pasty, freckled stretch of please-let’s-do-this-with-the-lights-off.
“I’m good, thanks—”
“We’re having a sale.”
“Yeah, I saw someone come out of here with a couple of bags.” Which, considering how small everything was, meant the chick had bought five hundred, maybe six hundred sets of stuff.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?”
Reilly was about to shake her head no, when her mouth opened of its own volition. “I want to feel like a woman, instead of a police officer. I’m just . . . really frickin’ tired of myself and my job right now. Do you know what I mean?”
Oh, shit, what was she saying?
And P.S., this had nothing to do with Brittany, spelled Britnae.
The saleswoman smiled. “I do. And you’ve come to the right place.”
Reilly glanced at a tiger-print teddy and wasn’t so sure about that. “I don’t think I’ve ever bought lingerie before—nothing I own matches, and I think a couple of my bras are from the Civil War. Maybe the Revolutionary.”
“Well, I’m Ralonda.” She put out her hand. “And I can take care of you.”
“Reilly. I mean . . . Sophia.” As they shook, she muttered, “Do you have a pysch degree, by any chance?”
“As a matter of fact, that’s what I’m going to school for over at SUNY Caldwell.”
“God, you are perfect.”
“Hardly.” Ralonda smiled again, flashing beautiful white teeth. “Let’s get you measured and I’ll bring you some things.”
One hour and six hundred seventy-two dollars and forty-three cents later, Reilly left with three bags full of things. As she headed out the door, her chin was up and she found herself smiling at two girls who were peering in through the windows.
“They’re having a sale,” she said to them. “Better get in there. And ask for Ralonda—she’s the best.”
As they scurried inside, Reilly marched back to the station house feeling curiously light in her shoes. Then again, maybe the slightly padded cherry red bra with matching red panties she’d put on and kept on had antigravity properties, lifting not just her cleavage, but her entire body.
Made you wonder what the astronauts had on under their suits.
As a horrific image of Buzz Aldrin in a set of hot pink itty-bitties lit up her mind, it dawned on her that walking into HQ with her VS bags and a bounce in her step didn’t exactly send the right message—especially given that she was partnering with Veck for the next month.
Sneaking around the side of the station house, she made it to her car and stashed the contraband in her trunk, as opposed to the backseat.
This time, as she went in through the back and passed by the guard in the lobby, she was painfully aware of herself, wondering whether anyone knew what she had on under her clothes. Nobody paid her any unusual attention, though, which suggested that among the numerous talents of the various members of the force, it appeared as if X-ray vision was not one of them.
First stop was her office. Quick check of voice mail and e-mail. Then it was grab a pad and head for Homicide. And what do you know, her growing confidence in the concealing properties of cotton and wool took it on the chin as she opened the door into the department.
Everyone looked up, including Veck.
Right. Now she knew why folks hated those dreams where they walked naked into a room full of people. She’d never had a nightmare like that before, and as she put her pad up to the front of her breasts, she wasn’t in a big hurry to hop on that learning curve.
But then people just waved and helloed, and she nodded and helloed back while heading over to Veck. The cubicle next to him was empty of everything but a computer and a phone, and as she sat down, she kept her yellow-and-lined right where it was.
Veck eased back in his chair in a way that made his chest look huge against his white button-down. “All settled back in your office?”
“Yes. What are we working on today?”
He nodded to his computer screen. “I’ve found something to pass the time with. I was waiting for you to come over—thought we’d go do some recon in the field, and double-check some witnesses.”
“Good. What’s the case.”
“I’ll tell you about it on the way across town. Mind if we take your car? I’ve only got my bike.”
“Ah . . .” Surely there could be no reason for him to look in her trunk. “Sure. Yeah. That’s fine.”
“Thanks, Officer. Or should I call you ‘Detective’ for the next four weeks?”
As they stood up together and she found herself eye-to-pectoral with him, she knew it was time to kick her inner Britnae to the curb. “Reilly is fine.”
For a moment, his lids dropped low, and she could have sworn that he muttered under his breath something like, She sure is.
But no doubt it was her new underwear making her hear things.
“Wait a minute—that is not a homicide cold case.”
As they came up to a red light, Veck got nailed with a hard stare from his new partner . . . and that was an incredible turn-on.
Shifting in his seat, and praying that the arousal he’d abruptly popped would deflate before they reached their destination, he made it his business to keep his voice level and completely groan-free. Although, for fuck’s sake, if this was an indication of what the next four weeks were going to be like?
He was in trouble.