Love by Association

“Seriously, if you find yourself at a loose end or just want to go out for lunch with someone who doesn’t put as much weight in how other people feel about her as she does about how she feels about herself, give me a call.” Cora had been speaking all along. Chantel wasn’t sure she’d heard everything the woman said. “You can ask anyone—I talk a lot, but I’m harmless.”

Taking the card Cora still held, Chantel smiled, made some appropriate—she hoped—reply and tucked the contact information securely into her clutch. Busybodies had a lot to say, but rarely was second-and third-hand information completely accurate. Still, if she reached a dead end in her investigation, if she got desperate, she could always call Cora.

She was on track. Working the room.

And working Colin Fairbanks, too.

Because he was her cover.

Cora Ashbury probably wouldn’t be pleased if she knew.

He’s a good man. Cora’s words wouldn’t get out of Chantel’s head. Whether she was at his side or trying not to ogle him from across the room, she was aware of him every single second. Johnson’s insides burned for him.

Harris, at the same time, just kept hearing Cora Ashbury’s words. He’s a good man. People had been using him, or attempting to do so, most of his life. And still, He’s a good man. Standing among crooks. Manipulators. Power-hungry, powerful people. And other good men.

He joined her at a merlot booth and took her hand as they swirled, inhaled, sipped and spat side by side. Her skin burned from the inside out.

He’s a good man.

It was ironic that a self-professed busybody—a woman people had probably long ago learned how to tune out—would have such an effect on one pretty-much-hardened cop.

At the next table, serving a merlot blend with, according to the three people already standing there having a haughty discussion on the complexities of the one sip they’d just poured across their palates, a tobacco component, Chantel had an attack of the guilts that practically consumed her.

Colin didn’t do anything particularly heroic, just handed her a crystal wineglass containing a taste of burgundy-colored liquid. He picked up a glass for himself, clinked it against hers and, holding her gaze with a warmth that was more liquid than the wine in their glasses, sipped with her.

She swallowed. Again.

* * *

COLIN TOOK THE long way home—driving along the coast instead of through town, to the resort where he believed she was living. Most of Johnson’s things were there, in the room that was being comped to the department. Whenever she had the time, Chantel was getting ready at the resort for her undercover assignment. It helped her to get into character.

And why waste a great room? It wasn’t like she’d ever be able to stay in such luxury on her salary.

Because no matter what she wanted Colin Fairbanks to believe, she wasn’t Chantel Johnson. She was Chantel Harris. A cop on duty.

A cop whose senses were tuned in to Leslie Morrison’s absence that night.

“I looked for Leslie,” she said, gazing out into the night. “I was going to tell her I finished a rough draft of the script.”

She’d finished reading it and thought it was pretty damned good. Considering.

“Someone said that Ryder had the flu,” Colin said. “I’ll have Julie call to see if Leslie needs to have the meeting at her house instead of the library. There are few enough of us on the committee, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

He was holding her hand in the car. Johnson’s hand. She liked it. A lot.

Liked, too, that he seemed to be certain that Leslie would be holding the library committee meeting as scheduled the next day, even after news of Ryder’s “flu” had broken.

Which meant that she couldn’t be too obviously beaten up, if she’d been hurt at all. Kids did get the flu. Enough that it wouldn’t be a coincidence to have it happen on a night his parents had been scheduled to go out. Especially considering the social schedule the Morrisons seemed to keep.

“I was reading up on some of the local charity boards today,” she said, making herself focus on the job at hand. Not the man at the wheel. Or where they were headed. “There was one, The Lemonade Stand. Do you know of it?”

“Sounds familiar. It’s a women’s shelter, right?”

“Yes. Anyway, there’s a doctor who’s pretty closely associated with it—a woman who’s made it her cause to support victims of domestic violence. She works at the Santa Raquel hospital and used to be in the emergency room. I wondered if maybe it was the same woman who helped Julie...” A bold-faced lie, and if she hadn’t been desperate to help, she’d have been ashamed of herself.