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Falling for You
HEATHER MACALLISTER
Police spokeswoman Megan Esterbrook has a problem– she's a sucker for sexy reporter Barry Sutton. Whatever he wants, she gives him, regardless of the cost.But that's about to stop–now! And to keep strong, she's come up with a surefire "Barry aversion therapy"–index cards to remind her why she should stay away. Now all she has to do is remember to use them….



“You feel so good,” Barry murmured in Megan’s ear
He pulled her back farther into their hiding place behind the bushes, burying his face in the side of her neck.
“Oh, Barry,” she moaned.
Hello? A moan? Already? He’d barely touched her. Still, he did have that effect on women…. “Did you miss me?”
“I feel so alive! I’m breaking rules…and I like it!” Megan shivered against him. “The adrenaline—my heart is pounding and all my nerves are hyper aware. This is what you feel, too, isn’t it?”
“I get a zing, yeah.”
She turned in his arms, which caused a zing of a different kind. “This is so much more than a zing! I feel hot. So, so hot.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and planted a quick, hard kiss on his open mouth as she ran her hands over his chest. “Why didn’t you tell me it was like this?”
Barry was dealing with his own heat issues. “Who knew breaking the law would be such a turn-on?” he quipped.
And who could have guessed, Barry thought as he bent to kiss her, that the biggest turn-on would be breaking the law…with a cop!
Dear Reader,
I’ve always felt that a fail-proof way to test whether you want to spend the rest of your life with someone is to go on a long car trip together. Even better if you can borrow two children under the age of five to take with you. Inevitably, something will go wrong and that will be when you truly get to know the other person.
Under pressure, relationships can develop quickly in a short time—say 24 HOURS—which is the idea behind this new miniseries from Harlequin Temptation. And what’s more stressful than a wedding? How about a wedding with a missing groom? Find out where he is, and join three couples who find love in a day beginning with Falling for You in March, followed by Kiss & Run by Barbara Daly in April, and Jane Sullivan’s One Night in Texas in May.
Also watch for my next Harlequin Temptation novel, Never Say Never, in June 2005, and visit my Web site, www.HeatherMacAllister.com, for news about other upcoming books.
Best wishes,
Heather MacAllister

Books by Heather MacAllister
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
785—MOONLIGHTING
817—PERSONAL RELATIONS
864—TEMPTED IN TEXAS
892—SKIRTING THE ISSUE
928—MALE CALL
959—HOW TO BE THE PERFECT GIRLFRIEND
981—CAN’T BUY ME LOVE
Falling for You
Heather MacAllister


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To the Providence Bunco group with thanks for getting me out of the house

Contents
Chapter 1 (#u8921a8bc-ff88-511c-99c5-c452fd63c83e)
Chapter 2 (#ucc8ff529-ddfa-57ab-968f-0f2651a462b7)
Chapter 3 (#u7ab06d0d-fa88-526a-bb95-459a9f485bbe)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

1
FOR A GUY WHOSE PARENTS named him after the male lead in the seventies’ sobfest Love Story, Barrett Sutton was not at all romantic. He could be if the situation called for it, but he had a talent for avoiding those kinds of situations.
Unfortunately, weddings were exactly those kinds of situations and Barry currently couldn’t avoid them, not after being busted from crime reporter to the society section or “Lifestyle” section as the staff there liked to call it. Whatever they called it, it was now his job to report every little freaking detail about society weddings. And in Dallas, Texas, the society types had big, detail-filled weddings.
He hated it. Even worse, he was good at picking just which details to write about. Really good at it. And why not? He was a professional. A professional who’d grown up with sisters. However, if he didn’t start misspelling some names or messing with the bridal-gown descriptions, he would never get back to reporting crime for the Dallas Press.
But this wedding wasn’t the place to start misspelling anything. This wedding was the Shipley-Hargrove wedding. Yeah, the bride was party girl Sarah, better known as Sally, Shipley—and try saying that three times fast. The society reporters had gone into mourning. Their favorite photo-op princess was settling down. Even worse, over the course of the year-long engagement, her posse of party-girl friends was settling down, too. Skirts were longer, tops were opaque, men were sober and parent-approved. Apparently this was round two for Miss Shipley, who'd actually been jilted before. Nobody was taking chances this time.
Barry hadn’t been reporting society doings during the Sally heydays so there was considerable resentment when he’d drawn her wedding and the rehearsal assignment.
Yes, his life had sunk to this: professional jealousy over writing about lace, flowers and cake.
Hang the self-respect, he had to get his old job back before he lost all his contacts. It had taken him years to slide into a world where informants would trust him enough to talk. Now, instead of spending his nights buying rounds of the hard stuff in bars, he drank warm leftover champagne and tried to think up fresh ways to describe wedding cake and white dresses.
As he drove through Dallas, he gripped the steering wheel and allowed himself a moment of regret for the days of not so long ago, when a Saturday morning would find him finishing a story of murder and mayhem from the night before, and then heading home to sleep. Sure, some Friday wedding parties ran late, but stories about bacon-wrapped shrimp and “extravagantly massed nosegays of buff roses” didn’t have the same urgency, even if he did file them while wearing a tux.
Tonight’s Friday mayhem was nothing more than a bachelor party. But he would get back to reporting crime for the Press after this time-out in the penalty box. Usually reporters were honored for breaking a story. Barry’s only problem was breaking it before the police did. He’d made a lucky guess involving a congressman, but the Press was making an example of him—an example that had gone on way too long, in Barry’s opinion—but it was either suck it up, or quit.
The amount people spent on weddings was a crime in itself and in this case, the bride’s family was loaded. The groom’s, unknown. Barry could have some fun with that. He’d ask a few pointed questions and watch the spin over the groom’s background.
Yeah, whatever. He pulled up in front of good old St. Andrew’s. What was this, the twelfth wedding he’d been to here? And all in the daytime. From March until early June, the sun shone directly through the huge stained-glass windows. Apparently the architect had built it that way on purpose so that there could be some truly glorious Easter mornings. A number of brides chose daytime weddings to take advantage of the same effect.
Barry pulled into a parking place near the kitchen entrance. It made for a quick getaway if he needed one. Call it a holdover habit from his crime reporting days. Just because he’d been assigned to the society section—Lifestyle section—didn’t mean he couldn’t keep his skills sharp.
He turned off the ignition and swiped a stray pollen smear—pesky blooming trees—from the dash of his fully restored 1969 Ford Mustang Mach 1 351W. He needed wheels that blended in with the rich and famous. And since he couldn’t afford rich, he went for famous, or in this case a classic car. It was a good excuse to buy something he wanted to buy anyway. Auto therapy. After last fall’s public spanking, he’d needed a pick-me-up.
As Barry got out of his car, taking a moment to admire the blue finish gleaming in the midday light, a white Cadillac Escalade with custom peach, cream, and gold leather interior squealed into the parking spot next to his.
Paula Perry, wedding coordinator to the rich, exited the car.
He leaned over the top of his Mustang and made a show of checking his watch. “Rehearsal is scheduled for noon. Running late, are we?”
Her back to him, Paula dangled a pair of white satin pumps in the air. “Bride forgot her shoes. Can’t practice walking down the aisle without these.”
“Wouldn’t retrieving them be the maid of honor’s job?” he called, but Paula had already disappeared inside the church.
Barry slipped into the kitchen entrance just as a florist’s van pulled in. It was silver with a calla lily tastefully framing a discreetly worded Whitfield Floral.
Ooh, boy. This could be good. Whitfield meant understated and just this side of stodgy. Barry grinned to himself. The bride was trying to leave her inelegant past behind.
Maybe, just maybe, he thought as he made his way through the kitchen, the bride and her bridesmaids were going to wear Vera Wang. He oughta send fan mail to Vera Wang. Nobody highlighted boobs as tastefully as she did. Sexy-elegant. His favorite look.
Still grinning, he headed for the sanctuary. If Paula verified Vera Wang, then he was bribing the custodian to turn up the air-conditioning. Cold women and silk charmeuse. Another favorite look.
Barry stepped in the side entrance and checked out the bridesmaids. They stood in a clutch, watching as the bride put on her shoes. They all wore the uniform of the sexy, young, urban single with the exception of one who had a kind of country-cousin look going.
Ah, the pity bridesmaid. The one asked as a favor to someone. She had potential, though. He wouldn’t mind seeing her in a sexy bridesmaid’s dress.
As he walked toward the back, Barry looked up to the balcony for the photographer and saw a man in black slacks, turtleneck and silver hair tied in a ponytail. Adolph Gunnerson in his I’m-really-a-serious-artiste getup. Barry let out a low whistle. The man, himself, was setting up tripods. He must think he had a good chance for pictures in W or Town and Country.
He waved. “Hey, Adolph.” It never sounded right. Adolph wasn’t a casual “hey” sort of name.
“Barrett.”
Barry didn’t even know how the man had found out his given name. He rarely used it.
Leaning forward, Adolph gripped the railing. “I am the exclusive photographer and videographer for the Shipley wedding and associated events.”
“Congratulations. I’ve heard they tip well.”
Adolph glared down at him. “You will not need a press photographer. You will not need that.” He pointed to the digital camera in Barry’s pocket. “I will provide you with approved images for your paper.”
“You know, Adolph, in this country we have a little thing called freedom of the press.”
“Tell me again why you now report weddings?”
Adolph didn’t like him. Barry tried not to take it personally because Adolph didn’t like anybody. “Two o'clock deadline for the Sunday paper or we run with what I’ve shot.”
Talk about surly. The guy probably needed carbs. In Barry’s opinion, the world was a nicer place when people ate carbs. Carbs pillowed the hard edges.
He continued to the back where he could see activity in the narthex. The Whitfield florist and her assistants were assembling all sorts of white wrought-iron frames, ribbons, greenery and bows. The usual wedding glop. He pushed open the door. Might as well get the descriptions now.
“Barry Sutton, Dallas Press.” He flashed an oversize press card he’d made himself. People always responded better after having ID shoved at them.
“What flowers will you be using for the Shipley wedding?” As he spoke, he smoothly pocketed his ID and removed a small tape recorder. Sometimes he took notes, sometimes he didn’t. More often than not, he both recorded and took notes. There was a time when flowers wouldn’t have merited either.
“Ms. Shipley has selected a white-on-white floral theme. She will carry bridal roses, gardenia, tulips, stephanotis, and our signature miniature calla lilies in a clutch bouquet.”
“Very elegant.” He was beginning to recognize the favorite combos florists used. This couldn’t be good.
“We are always very elegant,” the florist murmured in her smooth voice, as though they both didn’t know that with enough money, the definition of elegant could be stretched tighter than spandex on a cheap hooker.
“Bridesmaids?”
“They’ll carry three calla lilies.”
“Class all the way.” Barry clicked off the recorder and winked at her.
He saw a theme here. The bride was, indeed, distancing herself from her wilder days. Was this the groom’s doing? Or had Mama and Papa—very nice folks; he’d met them—laid down the law? And if so, why now?
Which brought Barry back to the groom—who exactly was this guy? Ersatz royalty?
It was a mystery and Barry did love a mystery. He wanted to get his hands on a guest list. He knew there was one floating around. There always was at a wedding like this.
Usually, the security detail had a list to prevent crashers. Barry looked outside the church, saw the limos, but no large, serious-looking men with short necks and well-cut suits.
However, he did see Paula, the wedding coordinator, consulting with a slope-shouldered woman who looked both harried and important. A social secretary if he ever saw one.
Pasting on a third-degree smile—teeth showing with a hint of dimple—he approached her. “Hi there. You look like you’re in charge. I’m Barry Sutton with the Dallas Press.” He handed her a card. With some people, you got out the ID. With others, you gave them a business card.
“I know who you are.” She took his card anyway. “I’ll send you copy for your write-up.”
As she turned back to Paula, Barry touched her on the arm. If a third-degree smile didn’t work, physical contact usually did. “I write my own copy. I’m looking for a guest list.”
“That’s confidential.”
“Hmm.” Barry looked at her consideringly. “How can I put this…”
“Give him the guest list,” Paula interrupted. “The more important the guests, the more column inches his editor will reserve. Unless you aren’t interested in a premium write-up with mentions in the About Town and Fashion Sightings columns.”
The secretary fingered the papers in one of her folders. “I…”
“What?” Barry spoke and heard Paula echo him.
“I’m not certain that is our mission.”
What the— “I understand getting hitched is the ‘mission.’” Barry used finger quotes. She deserved it. “Coming up with a story is my ‘mission.’ With a guest list, I can make a few calls ahead of time. Without it, I see who shows up and wing it.” He took a step forward and lowered his voice. “By then, I’m close to my deadline. A little desperate for a good story. A little on the edge. Not discreet.” He shrugged. “And who knows what my photographer might happen to catch on film.”
The secretary paled and handed him a stapled packet of papers. “Here, but you must promise you won’t bother the guests. Particularly—” She broke off. “Just don’t bother them.”
“I won’t bother them. They all love me.” Barry scanned the columns. Good grief. A cast of thousands.
“Here, Barry.” Paula supplemented the list with one of her signature peach pieces of paper. “The official wedding schedule. Subject to change.”
Barry studied the timeline. “Rehearsal begins promptly at noon.” He looked at his watch, then made a note. “Guess it’s going to be impromptly.”
“We’re waiting on the matron of honor.” Paula gave him a tight-lipped smile. “She’s pregnant and isn’t feeling well at the moment.” She glanced through the sanctuary door at the milling bridesmaids and sucked air through her teeth. “And it appears the best man is running behind schedule.”
“No prob.” Barry widened his smile to reassure her that he wouldn’t write anything sarcastic because he knew Paula, and he liked her. She fed him information that was ninety-five percent correct, and she was fun after a couple of post-wedding martinis. Since she was married, he could flirt and she wouldn’t take him seriously. Which was good, because he never meant his flirting to be taken seriously.
Barry slipped into one of the back pews and surveyed the scene at the front of the church. The bridesmaids, minus the country cousin who didn’t seem to be there, all wore the urban style of short skirts and tiny belly shirts, along with the mother-of-pearl white high-heeled shoes they’d wear tomorrow. Very excellent fashion choices.
Barry allowed himself several moments to enjoy the sight, prayed for Vera Wang silk tomorrow, then scanned the guest list.
The names weren’t in alphabetical order but were helpfully arranged by reception seating order. And in spite of what he’d told the secretary, Barry was very discreet. Otherwise, these people would never talk to him and he’d have to hang around parties to which he’d never be invited on his own. Which was exactly how he’d spent his childhood when he’d tagged along after his older sisters.
Most of the names on the seating chart were familiar to him. The Dallas old guard would be out in force tomorrow. Barry was struck by the number of the older generation who planned to attend. And then his attention was caught and held by one name—Donald Galloway. Congressman Donald Galloway.
Barry was instantly transported back to last fall and the investigation involving Representative Galloway. The same undercover investigation that Barry’s report had exposed and that had landed him on wedding detail. He hadn’t known Galloway was cooperating with the authorities. He hadn’t known publishing the story would blow a two-year investigation. If someone had just told him—but Barry had found evidence of bribery and blackmail and figured he’d stumbled onto a scandal. And he had, but he’d ended up in the middle of it, along with Megan Esterbrook, the police media spokeswoman. He’d made lucky guesses in his article and she’d been accused of revealing too much information.
Barry had few regrets in his life, but getting Megan into trouble was one of them.
Megan. Earnest and sincere Megan Esterbrook. The Megan Esterbrook who could make a Girl Scout look slutty. The Megan Esterbrook who’d watched him when she’d thought he didn’t know it. Who blushed, even as she grabbed for her gun. Potent combo, that. Barry stared off into the middle distance for an instant, then cleared his throat. He’d had thoughts about Megan—unprofessional thoughts he’d wanted to explore but the time never seemed to be right. And now she barely made eye contact with him.
Yeah, he felt bad about getting her into trouble, even though he’d just been doing his job. Megan was so heartfelt and so serious about everything while Barry had learned not to take anything seriously. Or not much, anyway. But her betrayed expression had stayed with him.
Right now, he was not going to think about Megan or her puppy-dog eyes. He was going to get back to business. Donald Galloway would be attending this wedding. Barry would not be chatting with him. Too bad, because he knew there was something behind the blackmail no matter what the official line was. Unfortunately, he had to play by the rules in order to reclaim his investigative-reporter status and the rules said hands off Galloway. Actually, the rules said Barry was to report society doings or never work in print journalism again. So that’s what he was going to do.
Barry went through the list and starred the guests who he wanted to approach for comments and who he wanted the society photographer to shoot.
And speaking of pictures, Barry noticed that the bridesmaids were restless. Now would be a good time for him to take a few candid shots of his own. Though he wasn’t the official photographer, the pictures helped him in writing up the gushy junk his editor wanted. Once he’d saved the day when the real photographer’s equipment had been stolen along with all the wedding pictures. If one of his photos was actually used, it meant more money in his pocket.
He recognized Mrs. Shipley speaking to her daughter. Ah. A lovely candid mother-and-daughter moment. Daughter, wearing a more demure outfit than her bridesmaids—the skirt was Prada and maybe the top, too—and the mother conservatively attired in St. John Knits.
Barry held his breath, took the photo, then exhaled. He recognized fashion designers now. No real man should be able to do that.
Barry snapped more pictures—gotta love digital cameras—then looked around for the groom’s family. Still none present, as far as Barry could see.
Paula and the secretary, both talking on cell phones, hurried down the center aisle. From the side entrance, the Whitfield florist began bringing in the now-assembled candelabra. Finally, some action.
Barry zoomed in on the face of the tough, serious-looking groom and a no-neck guy who looked like a bodyguard. Generally, the reactions of men as they’re confronted with wedding excess were always good for a laugh and blackmail-quality photos. But the expression of this groom and the man standing next to him was lethally cold—and aimed right at Barry.
Something told Barry to keep taking pictures even as the two men turned away.
And then someone told him to stop.
“Sir.”
The man without a neck thrust a hand over the lens. He’d moved fast for such a big guy. “You’ll have to come with me, sir. We are not allowing photographs.”
“Back off, fella, I’m the press.”
Barry carefully set his camera out of reach and dug for his press card—the real one. He had a feeling this guy knew the difference.
Mr. No Neck studied the ID card, then grinned, revealing gold-framed front teeth. “Lifestyle? You mean parties and clothes and girlie stuff?” And Barry had to endure The Look, the one that questioned his manhood.
“It’s a living.” He accompanied this with a category-one smile—the bland, I’m-just-doing-my-job kind.
No Neck spoke into his watch, or something that resembled a watch, as he pressed his ear. In the meantime, Barry palmed a blank photo disk, just in case.
“You can stay, but no pictures and give me the disk.” No Neck extended a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt.
“Aw, come on. Give me a break. The paper didn’t send a photographer with me.”
No Neck gestured to the balcony. “He’s the photographer.”
Barry hesitated just long enough to make it believable, fiddled with his camera and handed No Neck the empty disk he’d palmed earlier.
“Thank you, sir.” The man hulked down the aisle and stationed himself near the side entrance, hands in the classic fig-leaf stance.
Okay, this was getting interesting. That was more than annoyance he’d seen on the groom’s face. There was a reason he didn’t want to be photographed and there was a reason the groom and this guy had taken positions from which they could survey the entire sanctuary while leaving their backs protected.
Barry’s reporter’s instinct kicked in. He wanted to know those reasons.
While everyone milled around waiting for the missing matron of honor and cast anxious glances at the double doors behind him, Barry got on the Internet with his laptop to check out the groom’s background. He still had some active accounts at sites not publicly available, thanks to connections he’d made and kept.
Smiling to himself, Barry clicked through the information he found. According to what he read, Augustus Hargrove, he of the threatening stare and suspicious friend, had a background as pure as the driven snow. Not so much as a parking ticket showed up. Right. The guy had to have drifted somewhere. Barry knew his type and his type always had an excess of testosterone that leaked out in a bar fight or something similar.
The man was apparently a “security specialist” for pity’s sake. Everyone knew that was just code for ex-military or ex-secret agent. Really, once spies retired, what else could they do?
Hargrove Security Systems was a relatively new business, so what had Augustus Hargrove been up to before that?
The guy’s background had been whitewashed. Very nice job. The problem was that it was too nice. It didn’t fit a man who could look so threatening in a church.
Barry dug around some more. Any story he uncovered that was connected with this wedding was playing by the rules as far as he was concerned. The managing editor couldn’t expect him to just ignore a hunch, could he?
How had Little Miss Party Girl hooked up with the guy?
Barry started in on Sally Shipley’s movements for the past year, oblivious to when the wedding rehearsal began, coming up for air only when people passed him on their way out of the church.
Great. He’d pay for that later. But right now, he wanted to ask the groom some questions. So where was the groom? He hadn’t been with the bride and her friends as they’d passed by. Barry packed up his laptop and strode toward the front of the church.
He was supposed to be concentrating on the bride, her bridesmaids and this afternoon’s trip to the spa. Barry didn’t want to miss the trip to the spa. That’s where most of the society reporters went wrong. The gossip factor was incredible once women got together with mud, or whatever it was, on their faces. Although he would never admit it, Barry booked manicures for himself to gain entry. Usually just a nail buffing, but being around had paid off big-time more than once.
However, today, he was more interested in the groom. Too bad he couldn’t be in two places at the same time.
In the church foyer, he spotted a cluster of men listening to Paula give them some kind of instructions. Though Augustus Hargrove wasn’t among them, Barry edged toward the men. As soon as Paula turned her attention to the bridesmaids, Barry began his usual interview patter along with the ceremonial flashing of the ID.
“Barry Sutton, Dallas Press. Do you have time to answer a few questions?” He spoke to the group at large and waited for someone to answer him.
Someone did. “Tee time is in a half hour, man.”
“This won’t take long.” Barry took down their names and learned that they were all related to the bride. “And where is the groom?” Barry kept his smile casual and friendly.
“Gus is out front.”
Okay. Paula began herding everyone outside, so Barry followed. Two stretch limos waited next to the curb. Barry knew one of the drivers, but not the other. Quickly introducing himself, he made a note of the new guy’s name while the bridal party headed toward the white limo and the groom’s party piled into the black stretch Lincoln Navigator—an SUV on steroids.
And behind that was an unmarked white van, prickling with antenna. Augustus stood next to it and as Barry watched, a man who might have been Gus’s twin in the cold, remote department emerged.
“Oh, man, is he in trouble now,” said someone from inside the limo.
Still watching the groom and the other man, Barry bent down. “Who’s that?”
“Derek. He’s the best man.”
Okay. Now things were cooking. Barry straightened and intended to approach the two men, but their body language stopped him. The groom was not happy—understandable, but the best man wasn’t looking any too thrilled, either.
And that van. Barry swallowed a snicker. Why didn’t they just paint a big sign on the side that said Surveillance Van? Anybody who watched any cop show on TV would know what the best man was driving.
That was one tense conversation going on beside the van. Barry took a couple of steps back and tried to melt into the giggling bridesmaids who were taking pictures of themselves by their limo, but kept an eye on the men.
Shaking his head, Gus strode toward the Navigator limo.
“Hey!” The best man—Derek—grabbed his arm and Gus promptly shook it off. “A few hours max.”
“I’m getting married,” Gus called back.
“Not until tomorrow,” Derek said.
Their eyes locked.
Barry tried to extricate himself from the bridesmaids, but they’d asked him to take a group photo. It took a few seconds, but in that time, Derek must have convinced Gus to do whatever it was he wanted him to do because when Barry handed back the camera and looked toward the other limo, the two men were walking together toward the pin-cushion van.
Barry made a note of the license-plate number, then watched as the best man and the groom got into the van and the limos pulled away without them.
The groomsmen were headed to the Water Oaks Country Club for an afternoon of golf. The van was following their limo, but Barry didn’t know if Gus and Derek were going to the country club or not. He suspected not.
The white limo pulled away and Barry stared after it, torn. According to Paula’s schedule, the girls were going to spend the afternoon at the Alabaster Day Spa. Another top-notch place, a favorite of old Dallas society. He got on his cell phone and wheedled a nail-buffing appointment in an hour and a half with a nail-tech intern, and counted himself lucky to get it. He should have called a lot earlier and would have done so if the groom situation hadn’t distracted him.
Well, he had an hour and a half to wait. For a nanosecond, Barry wrestled between following his reporter’s intuition and doing the job he was supposed to be doing, before getting into his own car and gently rolling out of the parking lot. Burning rubber was for teenagers.
It didn’t take him long to catch up with the limo and the van. Barry rode along for a couple of blocks, almost convinced that they were all going to the golf course and Gus was riding with Derek just to have a private conversation when the van suddenly turned onto a side street. No signal, no nothing. Barry was caught off guard. That turn was something else. Barry had a split second to continue following the limo, or deliberately follow the van. It wasn’t as though he were driving a nondescript car, so they’d know he was behind them, but the two men couldn’t know he suspected them of…well, something.
Before he could decide what to do, his hands, all by themselves, turned the wheel of his car. He was following the groom.
And he did a bang-up job, considering they went faster and faster and red lights became more suggestions than actual rules. This wasn’t good. Barry didn’t like traffic tickets. And he didn’t want to antagonize the cops, since they’d proven to be a good source of material in the past and he was still trying to mend fences there. And yet, as the speedometer inched past the speed limit—then galloped past it—he kept up with the van.
Ah, the adrenaline rush of a breaking story. He missed this.
And then the van pulled a maneuver straight out of the Action Movie Stunt Guide for Beginners. Maybe Intermediates. It ran up onto the median, pulled a U-turn against a red light and entered traffic on the other side.
There was no way Barry was taking his car over the curb. He couldn’t believe the van had made it. Swiveling around, he watched the van slip through a strip-center parking lot and down a service alley behind the stores until honking cars alerted him that the light had changed. By the time Barry managed to get his car over to the other side of the street, he’d lost the van.
Lost the van. Lost a big, solid white van that gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. Man, was he rusty.
Barry parked his car. Okay, now what? There was something going on. He knew it. And he wanted to find out what. Needed to find out what.
He’d been a good boy and had taken his punishment for months, which was how long it had been since he’d sunk his teeth into a story meatier than caterers jacking up prices when it was too late to book anyone else.
He stared at the van’s license-plate number and tapped his notebook. What was with the best man? No one seemed to know him—they barely knew the groom. Barry checked the wedding info he’d been given for a last name. There it was. Best Man: Derek Stafford.
It would be interesting to find out about those two, and it was his job to write about the wedding party. Details, his new editor was constantly carping.
So she wanted details. Barry checked his Palm. Who in the police department could run the license plate for him? Stephanie? No. They’d dated and it had ended badly. Didn’t it always? Gina? Maybe. Barry had maintained his contacts as best he could, but even he had to admit that the atmosphere in the police department was chilly these days.
His last story had been an incredible piece of detective work. It had just been published too early, that’s all. But nobody held a grudge like a cop.
Barry mentally sussed out the Dallas squad room, eliminating the men—he’d taken enough guff from them over the society reporting—and settled on Megan. There had always been an unacknowledged something between them. The question of who was going to acknowledge it first and when added a nice zing to their dealings.
Barry had to admit that he missed seeing Megan at briefings more than he missed the briefings. In the cynical world of journalism, she’d been a beacon of honesty. She’d made him believe when he hadn’t wanted to. How corny was that?
Way too corny. He had to push the zing aside and snap out of it. The point was that Megan was his best bet to run the plate. He sent her a quick e-mail.

2
MEGAN ESTERBROOK STARED at her computer screen. The nerve! Her squeak of outrage alerted Gina, a fellow policewoman whose desk faced hers.
In answer to Gina’s arched eyebrow, Megan opened and closed her mouth inarticulately, then pointed a finger at her computer monitor.
“What?”
Megan stared at the return e-mail address and felt her hands sweat and her heart pound. How intensely annoying. Not trusting herself to speak, she jabbed her finger at the computer screen again.
From where she sat, Gina couldn’t see Megan’s screen. After walking around the desks, she stood next to Megan’s chair. “Barry.”
“Yes!” Megan hissed. “He e-mailed me!”
“So I see.”
Gina apparently failed to understand the depth of Barry’s perfidy.
“How can Barry Sutton just expect me to ignore the fact that he’s the reason I’ve been banished to a desk for months?”
“Hit the delete key. Problem solved.”
Yes, that would be the logical thing to do. Megan could pretend she never got it. E-mails went astray all the time. And yet just the appearance of Barry’s name made her heart pound harder than it ever did with her police work. Maybe that’s because she was trained for police work. Nothing had trained her for Barry.
“Megan?” Gina prompted. “We’ve talked about this.”
“I know.”
“Deep breaths.”
“I know.”
“Now hit delete.”
She made it sound so easy. “I—”
Gina leaned over, her finger headed for Megan’s delete key. Megan grabbed her wrist.
“Megan!”
“I know he’s only e-mailing me because he wants something.” And not because he’d suddenly developed a grand passion for her, she didn’t say aloud. And from Gina’s expression, Megan figured she didn’t have to.
“And you know what happens when Barry asks for favors?”
“I give them to him. And bad things happen,” Megan recited in a monotone.
“Very good. Delete the e-mail.”
Megan stared at Barry’s name. “How can he make me feel guilty when he’s the one asking for a favor?”
“Because that’s what he does.” Gina spoke in slow, measured tones—her “talk them off the ledge” voice. “He is an expert. He’s like a legit con man. You’ve studied them. You know how they read and manipulate people.”
Megan nodded, her eyes never leaving the “Barry Sutton” on the e-mail. “You know he has different smiles?”
“Most of us—”
“Not like Barry. I know he’s practiced them and cataloged them. I’ve watched him watching other people. Then he’ll paste a smile on his face and approach them. You see, he always smiles first. He decides how he’s going to appear. He can make himself have dimples, or not. He regulates how much of his teeth he shows. It’s never spontaneous. And once you respond to him, that’s the smile you always get. You know what mine is?”
Gina carefully shook her head. Her eyes had widened slightly, as though she thought she was dealing with a crazy person. Maybe she was.
Megan continued anyway. “I get the single-dimple smile with the slightly lowered brow. A pseudo-private smile, as though there’s something between us that no one else knows about. Then, after I helplessly blab everything he wants to know, he takes one side of his mouth down a notch and flashes the other dimple. And then he winks. I hate winking. Hate it. But he’s always turned away by then. Once I told not to wink at me and he just gave me a double-dimpled smile and said he knew I loved it.”
Gina stared at her. “Have you been practicing your Barry aversion therapy?”
“Sort of.” It just made Megan think of him more.
“Now would be a good time.”
She was really lucky Gina was being so patient with her. Megan felt so gullible and so stupid and so silly and so weak when it came to Barry. But Gina said everyone had weaknesses. She, herself, couldn’t speak in public. Appearing on camera the way Megan had—before her reassignment—made Gina freeze up. Megan had seen Gina in action, or nonaction, so she knew it was true. It was Gina, who had studied psychology, who’d helped her devise the Barry aversion therapy.
Megan slid open her desk drawer and withdrew a set of lined index cards. On each was written one of Barry’s transgressions.
“Read one aloud,” Gina instructed.
Megan drew a breath. “He smiles at me even though he knows it makes my face go all red.”
“What is it with you and the smiling?”
“People will think there’s something going on between us!” Megan defended herself.
“Oh, please. Get over yourself and give me that card.” Gina took it and tore it up. “There are plenty of other more serious consequences to dealing with Barry, and you know it.” She pointed to the stack of cards. “Write another one—write that his requests for special treatment disrupt your peace of mind and affect your work.”
“They don’t affect my work!”
“Have we not just spent ten minutes obsessing over Barry?”
“It’s not obsessing.”
Gina nodded toward the computer. “Delete the e-mail.”
Megan swallowed. “I…should read it first.”
Gina leveled her stern policewoman’s stare at Megan. “Deep breath. Read the next card.”
Megan inhaled and exhaled. “Barry called me in the middle of the night—”
“At your unlisted home number.”
Megan hoped that Gina wouldn’t ask how Barry got her unlisted home number. “He knew I would be asleep,” she continued, “and took advantage of my grogginess to trick me into giving him the mayor’s meeting schedule, which then confirmed that the mayor was meeting with out-of-state candidates for the new assistant police chief.” An echo of the anger she’d felt then calmed her pounding heart now. Hey, this aversion-therapy stuff might work.
“It was a dirty trick, but it was very clever,” Gina commented.
“I still should have been prepared.”
“He woke you up at one-thirty in the morning! On purpose!”
“He had a deadline.”
“You are not defending him.”
Megan stared at the card. She was defending him, drat it all. “Okay. You’re right. Thanks, Gina. I can handle things now.”
“You’re deleting the e-mail?”
“I’m going to write a refusal before I open and read it.”
“Megan—”
“Gina.” Megan stiffened her spine. “I have no business deleting e-mails unread. If I do, then he is affecting my work. I have to be able to deal with him when I’m department spokeswoman again. This is good practice.”
Gina gave her a look with just a touch of pity in it, then headed back to her own desk.
Pity, huh? Megan brought her fingers to the keyboard, mentally composing a polite, yet firm, very firm, refusal, when another e-mail from Barry popped up with the subject line Need urgent favor.
The sinking feeling she tried to ignore told her that she’d been hoping the first e-mail might be a let’s-get-together-for-coffee e-mail. Which would be a prelude to a dinner or a movie or a night of wild monkey sex.
No!
She did not think that way ever. Certainly not about Barry. Okay, she would not think that way about Barry ever again. Gritting her teeth, Megan tried to type a scathing reply to the as-yet unread message, but her hands had been sweating and SDeR B Atty was all she managed to type.
Oh, fine. Sighing, she opened the e-mails and discovered that he wanted her to run a license-plate number for him. He was interested in a name and whether that name dinged any police bells.
Although cops had been known to do so, accessing the Law Enforcement Information Network outside the performance of official duties was totally against the rules and Megan wasn’t in a position to break any rules. She typed back a naked No and hit Send, feeling strongly virtuous.
The feeling lasted for a couple of seconds before she realized she’d made a tactical error.
“Oh, no.”
“What?” Gina asked.
“I shouldn’t have answered him.”
“You answered him?”
“I said, ‘No.’” Megan’s e-mail was already chiming. “But now he knows I’m here.”
“What did he want?”
“For me to run a plate.”
Shaking her head, Gina pointedly looked at her monitor. “I didn’t hear that.”
“It’s okay that you heard it. I’m not going to do it.”
Gina didn’t meet her eyes.
“I’m not!” Megan had to raise her voice over the sound of the e-mail chime. She turned off the sound.
She tried very hard to concentrate on her very important work—yes, the world would be a better place once she finished inventorying the True Blue pencils that the community relations department passed out to school kids. She was about to make a huge decision: The navy-night color was no longer manufactured so Megan had been given the responsibility of choosing a new color for their next order. It was important. It was. Every time elementary school students used their pencils, they’d think of the police. The blue—and yes, it would stay blue—color had to be strong, but not intimidating. She had a call into the Dallas Cowboys organization to find out what their shade of blue was called so the police didn’t duplicate it. But the police had gold lettering and the Cowboys had silver, so Megan thought that was enough of a difference if their only choice was the Cowboys’ blue—well, the point was, she was busy making important decisions here. She had no time to pay attention to Barry and his incessant e-mails.
They were coming at the rate of one a minute now. What a jerk.
And then three minutes went by without one and Megan was lured into looking at them and their identical subject lines: I’m sorry. Please?
Megan slumped. Honestly, for all the mental energy she’d expended, she should just—No. This was a test and if she gave in now, she would never be able to take a stand against him again.
A thought occurred to her and she grabbed for her phone and activated the instant voice mail. He’d be calling any minute.
She wouldn’t be able to keep her voice mail set that way for long, but Barry wasn’t stupid. He’d get the message and leave her alone.
She waited, then went back online to search the Internet for pencils.
She had three solid minutes to compare pencil colors and quantity prices before her e-mail icon flashed. The subject line read You’re not answering your phone.
Megan sighed.
“You could block his e-mails,” Gina suggested.
“I hate myself,” Megan muttered. “He just…just…”
“Pushes all your buttons?”
“Oh, it’s worse than that. I have special buttons just for him.”
Chuckling, Gina leaned down and when she straightened, she handed Megan a handful of change across their desks. “I could use a Dr Pepper right now. You could, too.”
“Yes. Dr Pepper. Sugar. Caffeine.” Megan stood. “I’m on it.”
“Why, thank you, Megan.” Gina grinned and pointed to her dimples.
Megan’s e-mail chimed.
“I thought you turned that off.”
“It turns on after you access it.”
“Oh, Megan.”
“I’m going now.”
“Good idea.”
Megan used the walk to the break room to clear her mind of Barry Sutton and his e-mails. The squad room was packed with officers and detectives. Why did he pick on her?
Because she was a soft touch, Megan thought, answering her own question. She had no business being a soft touch. She was a police officer. She was competent and in control.
Megan shoved quarters into the soda machine and took a restorative swallow as soon as she opened the can. Okay. Technically, Barry was harassing her. Therefore, she would send him an e-mail explaining exactly what the consequences were if he didn’t cease and desist because if she received one more e-mail, she was turning him in. Strong. Competent. No nonsense.
When she got back to her desk, there were fifty-seven e-mails clogging her in-box and they were now arriving every few seconds.
Megan sent her cease-and-desist e-mail and then waited.
They stopped.
“Quitter,” she muttered, almost disappointed. Twenty minutes later, Barry strode across the squad room.
BARRY DID NOT HAVE time for this, but apparently Megan was the type to hold a grudge and would require a little face-to-face intervention.
Frankly, he was surprised. Usually, getting Megan to cooperate was a no-brainer. She was refreshingly eager to please, so honest she squeaked, and had both freckles and breasts. Barry had figured out that she liked the freckles and didn’t know what to do with the breasts. She was the type of woman who felt they got in the way. And he supposed they did. They sure spoiled the line of her uniform. And he meant that in a good way.
She was sun-kissed cute, the type of girl a guy would ask to fill in on a Saturday softball game. Barry didn’t play softball, but he could appreciate her type. He’d decided her type was the adolescent pal who suddenly developed a sexy little body that she ignored and none of her guy pals could. The way to her heart was to ignore her womanly charms and treat her like a kid sister—somebody else’s kid sister. See, that kind of subtlety was the key to Barry’s success. If he treated her like his kid sister, then the male-female thing was not there. Somebody else’s kid sister, and the male-female thing could be there. It was that whiff of possibility that he put into the smile he reserved just for her.
Yeah, Barry thought he had her pegged and yet she wouldn’t answer her phone or her e-mails. He figured maybe he hadn’t groveled enough. For a straight arrow like Megan, being reprimanded had clearly cut deep. He should have acknowledged that.
That was a mistake on his part. He’d apologized repeatedly in the e-mails, and he also had back when he’d heard she’d been reassigned, but he should have made more of an effort. Flowers, or something. Except she wasn’t the flowers sort. Anyway, he’d been too preoccupied with his own situation to give it much thought. Now he knew he should have followed up with her so that he could have salvaged their professional relationship.
Barry learned from his mistakes. He wouldn’t make that one again.
Megan always spoke the truth. She was the best thing to ever happen to the Dallas police force—but she was dangerous to the media. Yes, she absolutely spoke the truth—as she knew it—and Barry suspected it was just a matter of time before someone exploited her.
Megan was too honorable to see dishonor in someone else. Some people might call that naïveté, but Barry admired her faith in her fellow human beings, even as he knew that he’d have exploited her long before now.
He wasn’t proud of that. Just realistic.
So when Megan didn’t respond to his e-mail entreaties, he knew this whole mess had changed her. He profoundly regretted that—and was surprised he hadn’t caught it on his previous trips back to the squad room.
Well, he was here to make things right, now.
And to get that plate run.
He scanned the room and discovered that the setup hadn’t changed since the last time he’d made the rounds here. He acknowledged the faces he recognized, acutely aware that his reception might best be described as “cool” and turned his attention toward Megan.
He caught a glare from what’s-her-name—Gina, the Italian who never smiled at him—and nodded at her before focusing on Megan. Slowly, he smiled their special smile.
MEGAN HAD BEEN half expecting him, but that still didn’t lessen Barry’s impact on her psyche. She gave up trying to ignore him and just propped her chin in her hand and watched him sail around the islands of clustered desks in the squad-room sea. He was headed for her. The smile clinched it, if she’d had any doubt.
She might as well enjoy the view.
It wasn’t that Barry was stunningly handsome, it was that he was interestingly handsome. His nose was on the large side, as noses went, but it fit his face, due to his strong jaw. There was watchful intelligence in his eyes and Megan doubted she’d ever seen a genuine, uncalculated emotion in them.
She allowed herself a tiny exhale. This crush she had on Barry was so annoying. She was to the point of wanting to throw herself at him and let him use her until he tired of her, which was extremely unhealthy. She wouldn’t do it in a million years. But she wanted to, which was bad enough.
And her crush had obviously distracted her to the point that she’d let slip some crucial piece of information last fall. She had gone over and over what she’d said to him during that fateful press conference. That part had been taped. But afterward, reporters had approached her and, because Megan knew they were doing their jobs and because she didn’t have anything to hide, she’d informally answered a few questions.
To be honest, she’d known Barry would be one of the reporters to approach her. He always tried for the extra bit of information. It was a pathetic way to be closer to him but her pathetic heart craved it because for some unknown pathetic reason, he brightened her pathetic life. Pathetic, that’s what it was. Utterly pathetic. Like the way she was watching him right now. Pathetic. He was watching her, too, and knew the effect he had on her. She’d seen that particular smile often enough that she could see behind it sometimes. Right now, satisfaction was behind it. He thought he had her. And maybe he did.
For pity’s sake, the man even looked good in fluorescent light! She didn’t have a chance. She was Custer at Little Big Horn, Napoleon at Waterloo, the Titanic kissing an iceberg.
He wore his standard uniform of sports jacket and tie, which should have looked out of place in these days of casual attire but didn’t. He covered the casual aspect with a perfectly fitted pair of jeans.
Without breaking eye contact, Megan slid open her desk drawer, keeping her note cards at the ready. She didn’t actually have to read them, but it was a good idea to have them in sight.
“Hey, Megan.” He approached, his aura brightening the drabness of her desk area.
“Barry.”
Hands in his pockets, he tilted his head to one side and gave her the other half of her smile—and she hadn’t even done what he wanted yet. This was a first. She waited, and yes, here was the lowered head with the just-between-us look. The wink was next. She hoped he wouldn’t wink at her. It was so fake. So contrived. People didn’t wink in real life. Well, other than gangsters winking at little girls in white-lace dresses just after giving them ice-cream cones. Or old men and really, really young women who were blond and really, really stacked. Or cowboys. Cowboys winked, come to think of it.
But Barry was none of those things and, therefore, not entitled to wink.
Megan should look away—specifically toward the drawer with the note cards.
Since she couldn’t look away, she should at least say something. Anything. Anything to head off the wink. But what was there to say?
Barry winked.
“Don’t do that,” Megan burst out crossly.
“Don’t do what?”
“Wink.”
“You like the wink.”
“No! I don’t!”
“Sure you do.”
“No, really. I hate winking. It makes you look smarmy.”
He gazed at her, looking fake-affronted. “Smarmy? As I understand the definition of smarmy, I am not smarmy. I am anti-smarm.”
“Then don’t wink.”
He leaned forward, just a little bit, but most definitely crossing the invisible bubble of her personal space. “It’s okay that you like it.”
Megan gritted her teeth, drawing on all her public-appearance experience. “I do not like it. It makes me feel patronized. Belittled. Suckered.”
Barry’s face went blank. Honestly, he looked like a living computer reprogramming itself. She must have convinced him and now he was updating her file. Megan Esterbrook—delete wink.
He gave her a considering look and plucked a rolling office chair from a nearby empty computer station, twirled it around and straddled it, crossing his hands along the back and resting his chin on top.
They were now eye to eye and his were blue and crinkled at the corners when he smiled. He was studying her. Analyzing her and figuring out his next approach. Look at him—not even bothering to hide what he was doing.
Megan tried to keep her expression blank, but she could feel her face heating up and knew it was a lost cause. At least could she try to hide the fact that she had this enormous thing for him? No, apparently not. Honestly, this crush of hers qualified as a disability.
“Why are you just now telling me you didn’t like the wink?”
“I told you before. You didn’t hear me.”
“You could have told me again.”
“You never stuck around. It was smile, wink and poof.” She snapped her fingers. “You were gone.”
“Next time I’ll wait before poofing.”
A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, but she was determined not to give in. “Why are you here, Barry?”
But she knew. Might as well get this over with.
“I’m here in a public-service capacity. Your e-mail is down.”
“Yes. Someone spammed my in-box.”
He was still trying to read her and she was afraid he would read more than she wanted him to.
His face wasn’t exactly blank anymore. It had softened. Gentled. It looked honest, or as honest as she suspected Barry ever got. Not that he was dishonest, as far as she knew, but he didn’t reveal anything of himself. Right now, he was focused completely on her.
How often did that happen—a man focusing completely on a woman? On her? Who cared enough to make the effort to please her, never mind what for?
She wanted to melt. Actually, she quite possibly could already be melting—when was the last time she’d felt her toes? She just wanted to fling herself at him, and kiss him senseless. Since she’d knock over the chair in the process, she’d probably have a better chance of rendering herself senseless.
Megan knew Barry would never approach her in a sexual way. There were women far more approachable than she. Women who knew how to look like sexy women, not women who wore jogging bras under police uniforms.
If she didn’t stop thinking of him this way, she’d explode. Lust was explosive, wasn’t it?
Maybe they’d all find out pretty quick.
“You’re still mad at me.” He hadn’t changed expressions.
“What? Oh. I’m not mad at you as much as I’m mad at myself.”
“Don’t be. I’m not mad at myself. I did my job.”
Megan exhaled. “I didn’t do mine.”
“Yeah, you did. I had a couple of lucky guesses.”
“It was more than luck.”
“Luck and experience.” And he gave her a wry smile—one corner of his mouth twisted and then he pressed his lips together. It was uncalculated. A genuine Barry expression. Wow.
And it got to her. She was going to have to sit on her hands or she would grab him and kiss that mouth.
“Run the plate for me?” Still the wry smile.
Damn it! He’d seen how she’d responded. Oh, great. That was going to be her new smile, she guessed, unless she put a stop to it right now.
“No.”
“Please?” His voice was husky. Intimate. Dangerous.
“Hey. We’re not allowed to access the program just on a whim. I could get into serious trouble here and I don’t have to remind you that I’m already in serious trouble. I spent six months on desk detail. Even now, I’m only being sent to schools and giving safety lectures to neighborhood groups. I—”
“I’m covering the Shipley-Hargrove wedding. The groom is not where he should be.”
Megan straightened. This was serious. A civilian was reporting a crime and she’d—
“Stop the panic.” Barry grimaced. “I’m working on a hunch. The groom didn’t like being photographed and then he takes off with the best man who was driving a standard-issue surveillance van. I have the plate number. I just wondered if he’s okay.”
“Are you talking…kidnapped?”
“I don’t know what I’m talking. This is a big-deal wedding with some big-deal guests.” Barry reached into his jacket breast pocket. “Here’s the wedding guest list. If I can’t know names, just tell me if the name from the plate is on the guest list.”
There was a loud clearing of a throat. Gina raised her eyebrows.
Megan had forgotten about Gina. She’d forgotten about everybody. Except Barry.
“Is this man bothering you?” Gina asked.
“Give me a break, Gina,” Barry murmured.
Gina leveled a look at Megan and opened and closed her desk drawer.
Right. Megan turned to him. “If you feel a crime has been committed, then you should report it to—”
“No way.” Barry stood. “You’re the officer I’ve approached.”
“But it’s not my duty—”
“Don’t you guys have to follow the Hippocratic oath?”
“That’s doctors, and stop interrupting me.”
Barry sat back down and wheeled his chair next to hers. Leaning forward, he spoke in a voice so soft that Megan had to lean in close just to hear him. Not exactly a hardship.
“Megan, I’m a desperate man. It’s been seven months since I’ve been allowed to cover hard news. I’ve been stuck in lace-covered, sugarcoated, rose-scented hell. I think there’s hard news here and I don’t want the story going to anyone else.”
Megan opened and closed her mouth.
“I’ll let you know everything I find out. You’ll be the spokeswoman again. Let me make it up to you, Megan. Let me make it right.”
The man could charm bark from a tree. The thought of representing the Dallas police once again made Megan’s mouth water.
“Just a name.” She turned away so she wouldn’t know if triumph flashed in those blue eyes or not.
He was entitled.
After a few moments, she had information. “The van’s registered to a Sterling International.”
“Never heard of them. Got an address?”
“A PO box.”
Barry took out his notebook. “There’s gotta be a street address for deliveries.”
Megan punched a couple of buttons. Info was pretty skimpy on Sterling International. “No street addy that I can find at this level.” She waited because she knew Barry was going to—
“Then go to the next level,” he ordered impatiently.
“Megan—” Warning sounded in Gina’s voice.
“Everybody just calm down.” Megan took a breath and released it. “I’ve already been to the next level. Nada. I’m not authorized to go any farther, so I’ve Googled it. Wanna see?”
Barry rolled his chair right next to hers. He still wore the same light cottony sea-breezy scent and whether it was from the soap he used or a fragrance he applied, Megan knew it was chosen to be on the pleasant side of neutral.
Or maybe it was just fabric softener.
“Scroll.”
Megan scrolled. Barry whistled and pointed. “Click that one.”
Megan clicked. A garishly dark-colored over-the-top warning page appeared on her monitor.
“Click past that.”
“Now wait a minute—it says my computer will be traced and the police will flag it.”
“You are the police.”
“All the more reason—”
“Come on, Megan.” He barely whispered it.
His breath teased the hairs on her neck. She shivered and clicked, then leaned back and let Barry take control of the computer mouse. “That’s one of those conspiracy theory Web sites.”
“Hmm.” He was clicking faster than Megan could read.
“You know, Sterling isn’t that unusual a name. You probably have the wrong one.”
“Maybe.” Barry sat back and checked his watch. “Well, this is all very fascinating, but I want to check out Sterling International in person and see if I can find the groom. Since we don’t have a street address, I’m going to go to the post office where this box is located and check out the area.”
Megan closed her eyes. She should just wave him away. But she didn’t. “Hang on and let me try something.”
She could feel Gina staring at her, but didn’t glance up.
And then she could feel Barry looking at her. Not watching her screen, but looking at her. She didn’t glance up for him, either.
Megan had to search several commercial property lists before she found what she was looking for, but she finally did get an address for Sterling International.
She wrote it down on one of the True Blue for You notepads she gave out when she spoke at schools. “Try this. It’s from census archives. It might not be any good, but at least it’s something.”
“Thanks, sweet cheeks.” And he kissed her. Right on the cheek.
Megan stopped breathing so she could fully experience the brief encounter with Barry’s lips. There wasn’t a lot to experience.
Barry, already on his feet, bestowed her one-dimpled smile on her and Megan braced herself.
So did Barry. With an amused shake of his head, he stood, waiting for a response.
Megan reluctantly waggled her fingers at him and he responded with a two-fingered salute before striding through the squad room.
It was probably going to be their new routine. Megan sighed and noticed Gina watching her.
“Oh, be quiet,” she muttered.
“Did I say anything?” Eyebrows raised, Gina continued typing.
Megan stared at the index cards in her open drawer and sighed. She was hopeless. Utterly hopeless. Rather than banging her head on her desk, Megan withdrew a blank card and wrote, “Give in.” If nothing else worked, she might as well keep her options open.

3
STERLING INTERNATIONAL was located in an office building that required Barry to hand over ID to a security guard who photographed it before Barry was allowed to enter the elevator.
The dark oak door with the heavy brass lettering—very expensive-looking—was locked. Sure it was a Friday afternoon, but it was still business hours. Someone should be manning the phones, unless the sole proprietor was out driving a white van somewhere. Barry knocked, not really expecting a response, and he didn’t get one.
He looked up and down the hall at the entrances to the other three businesses. Their doors had glass in them. The one on the opposite side of the hall was all glass and surrounded by glass walls. Glass was very friendly. The receptionist looked equally friendly. Barry entered the reception area and smiled a full-out aren’t-you-a-sexy-little-number smile. He was careful dispensing that kind of smile, what with all the prickly women taking offense at everything these days, but she melted like butter on hot biscuits. Truly gratifying. After Megan, Barry’s self-confidence needed bolstering.
Megan hating the wink had seriously jarred his inner Zen. He’d carefully remembered to wink after every encounter and had never got a negative vibe until now. He’d misread her at some point and hadn’t realized because he’d never tried to read her again. He’d become complacent and unobservant and too dependent on the underlying zing. Not good.
But now he, thanks to Tiffani-with-an-i, knew that the Sterling International folks kept to themselves—when they were there at all. Nobody knew much about them, and Tiffani, who had a clear view of the hallway, never noticed much traffic going in and out.
Sounded like a company fronting for something else. Barry still could be making a lot out of nothing, but he didn’t think so.
Back in his car, Barry sat in the parking lot and opened his laptop, thinking again that wireless Internet was the greatest invention ever, or at least since the cell phone. A little poking around in Derek Stafford’s background revealed nothing. Placeholder stuff. In fact, this background was very similar to the groom’s. It was a government whitewash background.
Cool. This was a heck of a lot more interesting than getting the flower girl’s name spelled correctly. Anyway, all the little girls had bizarre names these days. When he had a little girl, he was naming her Elizabeth. The name was ancient, had a great history and could be twisted into anything the girl wished. Liz, Beth, Betty, Liza, Lizzie, Isabel, Eliza, Betsy, Ellie. Every girl should be named Elizabeth.
Megan was probably a form of Elizabeth, because he was thinking that was a good name, too.
Focus. Barry usually didn’t have to corral his wandering attention. Weddings had corrupted him. Swimming in estrogen soup had affected his brain. That had to be it.
So. He needed more information because all his reporter antennae were on alert. Something was going on. Guys like Gus and Derek didn’t do fancy weddings for marrying purposes. They were low-key guys.
And how about little Sally? Was staid and elegant her style? Not from what Barry knew. So what was up? Was this a faux wedding? Had Sally finally gone over the edge, been caught, and this was a plea bargain? The government wanted to use her society standing and fake a wedding to cover something else?
Barry loved this kind of stuff. He could kiss Sally himself. He got out the guest list again. Glittering. All the jewels of Dallas society—and there was the congressman right in the middle of it all. Yeah, yeah, he was a friend of the bride’s family—and it didn’t hurt that the wedding was in his constituency, either. Galloway would never turn down positive press.
And another clue—where were the friends and family of the groom? And how would a woman like Sally meet Gus, anyway? And why would he be attracted to her? Sure she was a looker, but c’mon. This was Dallas. Lots o’ lookers in Dallas.
Barry shook his head. He really needed to be with the bride and ask questions. The chatter at the spa was probably loaded.
And yet, he had a feeling the story was with the groom, wherever he was. Maybe by now, he was at the country club and if Barry didn’t check out Water Oaks, the trail would grow cold.
It was just after two-thirty and his nail buffing was at three. Golf…spa. Golf…spa…
Megan. Oh, yeah. Megan would help him out. He’d ditch the wink and she wouldn’t be able to resist him. Smiling to himself, he e-mailed her a thank-you for the information. And then he offered her a little treat.
MEGAN STARED AT HER E-MAIL, mouth agape. Barry thanking her was weird enough, but a manicure? How had he come up with that? She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. There had to be a trick here, but she couldn’t figure it out.
“Gina? What kind of man gives a woman a manicure as a thank-you gift?”
“Lots of guys—”
“I’m talking unmarried men. Men in noncommitted relationships or even no relationships.”
Gina gave her a “you’re kidding” look, then seemed to understand. “Oh, you mean girlie men, right?”
“Ya think Barry’s a girlie man?”
Gina goggled at her. “Barry’s giving you a manicure? Just when you think you’ve heard everything.”
“Well, he’s not offering to do it himself.”
“But still…can you imagine one of the guys around here giving you a thank-you manicure?”
No, she couldn’t. “Then it’s not just me. It’s kind of a weird thing.”
“Unless…” Gina stretched to see around her monitor. “Let’s see those nails, girlfriend.”
Megan held up her hands with their short, no-nonsense nails. They looked fine to her.
And apparently to Gina. “You got me.” Gina shrugged. “Whatever it is, Barry wants something.”
“For sure. Maybe he’s investigating slave labor or spa health-code violations and needs somebody to test them.”
“Nail Fungus,” Gina intoned. “Society’s Secret Shame.”
Megan laughed and typed back an e-mail. “I’m asking him where,” she told Gina.
He responded instantly. “Omigosh, it’s at the Alabaster Spa.”
“Wow.” Gina looked impressed. “He must want something big.”
“Or maybe it’s nothing more than a thank-you the way he says it is.”

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