Page 31 of K-9 in Pursuit

“I like the way you think. I have to admit, I’m too inward focused much of the time to be that in tune with others.” She crunched a potato chip.

“I’m a preacher’s kid. We’re raised to ‘do unto others.’ At least, I was.”

She gaped at him, another chip halfway to her mouth. “A preacher’s kid. Really? What was that like?”

“Pretty much what you’d expect—Mom and Dad and three kids, our life revolved around church activities. And sports—I played Little League baseball and high school basketball. My brother was a football and basketball star, and my sister ran track.”

“It sounds wonderful. My mom left when I was five. Dad married Darinda a few years later and they had Sharee right away.”

“How was that, growing up with a stepmother?”

“Darinda wasn’t unkind, but she naturally focused on Sharee more. Their personalities were alike—outgoing and dramatic. Darinda is an amateur actress and she really wanted Sharee to follow in her footsteps, so there were a lot of beauty pageants and dance classes and school drama productions. But Sharee wasn’t as driven as her mother. She didn’t like learning lines or routines or putting in that much effort. She complained about anything that wasn’t what she saw as fun.”

“What about your father?”

“He’s a great guy. But once Darinda came along, she was the one really in charge. She focused most of her attention on Sharee, and Dad kind of followed her lead. Most of the time, anyway. And I was a quiet kid. I didn’t ask for much. I made it easy for them to forget I was even there.”

He winced, then tried to cover up his dismay by taking a big drink of iced tea. But Chloe hadn’t missed his expression. “I’m sorry. That sounded pathetic,” she said. “I didn’t have a horrible childhood, by any means. And since my parents weren’t watching me that closely, I could do what I wanted. I had my own interests and my own friends, and they took up most of my time. I graduated from high school a semester early and went straight to beauty school. I even persuaded my dad to turn over my college fund, which paid to help me set up this business.”

“Smart move.”

“What about you?” She finished the last of her potato chips. “Did you go to college?”

“Believe it or not, I have an accounting degree.”

She laughed. For some reason, he got this reaction a lot. As if he wasn’t people’s image of a number cruncher. “I’ve never actually worked an accounting job, but I’m good at math,” he said. “And I don’t dislike the work. But the day I graduated, I headed straight for the ski slopes and never looked back.” He grinned. “I think I surprised everyone, even myself.”

“You are a rebel at heart.” She laughed again, and her whole body relaxed, the tension erased from around her eyes and her shoulders straight instead of hunched as if to ward off a blow. He wanted more than anything to make this moment last. And not only for the way he could make her feel. He was able to relax with her in a way he hadn’t been able to with anyone in so long. Or rather, the tension from all the stresses and bad things in his life was replaced by a different kind of tension—an awareness of the softness of her skin when her hand brushed his, the curve of her breasts swelling the front of her shirt, the heady floral scent of her hair, and the heat and pull low in his gut when her eyes met his.

They finished eating and left the deli together. When they reached the sidewalk, she took his hand, and he squeezed gently. Neither of them said anything as he walked her to the lot behind her salon where she had parked. They stood for a moment in the glow of a security light, hands still clasped. She tilted her face up to his and he focused on her lips, drawn to their softness. To the possibility of passion. He wanted to kiss her, but once he made that move, he couldn’t take it back. They were friends, but could she possibly want more? He was still the man accused of killing her sister. She was still a woman grieving the loss. What right did he have to intrude?

He released her hand and stepped back. “Good night,” he said.

“Good night.” Did he hear regret in that word, or was that only his imagination?

He took another step back. “Call me,” he said. “Tell me what you find out.”

“I will. I promise.”

“CHLOE ANDERSON! WAIT UP!”

Chloe was running errands on her lunch hour Thursday when she looked back to see the reporter Jay Kleinman, jogging toward her. She faced forward again and began walking faster.

But his long-legged stride enabled him to quickly catch up with her. “Don’t run away from me,” he said. “I’ve got something you’re going to want to hear.”

She slowed, then stopped and faced him, waiting. He was red-faced and panting. “Give me a minute.” He held up one hand. “I’m not used to this altitude.”

“I really need to get back to work,” she said.

“You’re the boss, aren’t you? You can wait a few more minutes for this.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “What is this?”

“One of my followers dug up the name of a guy you need to check out.” He pulled a narrow notebook from the back pocket of his skinny jeans. “Somebody who knew your sister.”

Her heart beat a little faster and she dropped her arms. “Who? And why would I want to check him out?”

“Darrell Cooperman.” Kleinman read from a page in his notebook. “Seventeen, goes to school here in town. On the ski team.”