Veil of Night: A Novel

Chapter Two

DETECTIVE ERIC WILDER SAT AT THE BAR IN HIS FAVORITE watering hole, Sadie’s, which was his favorite because it was the closest to city hall and the police department, therefore the most convenient. For most of the other cops in the long, dim, narrow room, that was the main attraction for them, too.

Over time, business and clientele had adjusted to each other, so now Sadie’s made allowances for the cops, and the cops made allowances for “Sadie,” who happened to be the scrawny redneck bartender. “Sadie” obviously wasn’t his name—that was Will Aster—and whatever ambience he’d been trying to project by choosing a woman’s name for his bar had long since been swamped under a tide of uniforms, weaponry, and testosterone. Sure, some of the female cops came in, and sometimes one of the guys would bring in a wife or girlfriend, or civilians would wander in, but Sadie’s was now solidly a cop bar.

If Will had ever intended his bar to be more sophisticated, he’d long since given up on the effort. The drinks served were mainly beer and bourbon, and the food offerings didn’t have much variety but tended toward the hefty side. You could get a basket of fried chicken fingers and fries in Sadie’s, but you couldn’t get a salad; peanuts were available, but not popcorn. Occasionally, if Will was in the mood, there would be “Wing Night,” and nothing was served except hot wings. The limited menu was fine with Eric, because he didn’t come to Sadie’s to eat.

He liked the place, liked the way he could relax here. The atmosphere was almost cavelike, with dim lighting, dark redbrick walls, rough tile flooring, and a row of small black tables along the wall. An aisle about six feet wide separated the long bar from the tables, giving the two waitresses room to maneuver. A jukebox stood in one corner, and that was Sadie’s nod to the idea of entertainment. There wasn’t a dance floor, but if enough people were in the mood they’d shove the tables to the back of the bar and make themselves a space for gyrating. The bar was usually noisy with loud laughter and sick jokes, which was how cops unwound after a rough day. Whenever Eric stepped through that door, he could almost feel the tension begin to ease from his neck and shoulders. By the time he’d made it to the bar, Will would have pulled him a Bud and was ready to slide the foamy glass to him. You couldn’t beat service like that.

After a day spent testifying in court, he needed a beer before he headed home. There were few things that frustrated him as much as lawyers and the entire court system, even when the outcome was a good one. A bad outcome was when some slick legal eagle got a drug case dismissed because some unimportant i hadn’t been dotted, which pissed him off big-time, and he wasn’t above hoping that the druggie would then burgle the lawyer’s house looking for quick-sell items to support his habit. Today, though the cases had been relatively minor and justice had prevailed, he’d still had to spend too many hours hanging around just to give five minutes of testimony when he could have been out working cases. It was all part of the job, but it was the part he liked least.

He’d been there about fifteen minutes, long enough for the pleasure of not doing anything to begin seeping into his muscles, when the outside door opened, letting in street noise and warm humid air. All the cops in the bar automatically glanced over to check out the new arrival. It was reflex, an unconscious threat assessment: Was the new arrival friend or foe, cop or civilian? Eric did the same, and immediately recognized the newcomer. A warm jolt hit his midsection. No doubt about it: she was the woman he’d bumped into that morning in city hall, just outside one of the municipal courtrooms. She was still wearing the same stylish black suit, which meant her day had been as long as his.

He liked what he saw now just as much as he had in the hallway at city hall. Everything about her said “classy,” from the suit she wore to the way she pulled her thick black hair into a smooth, heavy knot at the back of her head. She had legs, capital L, holy-shit, wrap-them-around-me Legs: long, shapely, nicely muscled and toned. He could almost feel the interest level in the bar rising several notches as the guys looked her over. The women cops who came in almost always dressed down, suppressing their femininity not only so they’d fit in better with the guys but so they’d be taken more seriously by the disorderly element of citizenry they dealt with the most. This woman didn’t downplay anything. Neither was there anything gaudy or obvious about her, which made her even more attractive, because “class” and “Sadie’s” didn’t usually collide.

She paused briefly in the doorway, scanning the row of tables as if looking for someone, then she strode toward the back where there were two unoccupied tables close to the restrooms. The three-inch heels she wore meant she wouldn’t be able to run, but she sure as hell had a way of walking in them that made it almost impossible for him to look away from the sway of her hips. This morning in city hall when she’d walked away he’d had the same problem looking away from her ass, but then again, a sight like that was worth savoring.

She chose an empty table and sank into one of the chairs, positioned so that he had a view of her profile and her back was to most of the bar, which told him she either didn’t have the survivor instinct to watch the door or she didn’t want to make eye contact with anyone. When she was seated she visibly exhaled, rolling her shoulders and tilting her head from side to side to ease tense muscles, as if her purpose in being there jibed a hundred percent with that of most of the patrons.

From where he sat at the end of the bar, Eric could easily keep her in his field of vision without turning his head. She wasn’t paying attention to any of the other patrons, had chosen her seat so she actually couldn’t without turning around in her chair. She was probably waiting for someone else to arrive. He found himself surprisingly interested in who she might be meeting in a cop bar. Was she dating a cop? Or had she and a boyfriend simply arranged to meet here for convenience, then they’d move on to their dinner date, or whatever?

He glanced at his watch, because appointments were normally made for the hour or half-hour. It was eight-eleven. If she was waiting for someone, the odds were that she was roughly twenty minutes early. He felt that little ping of increased alertness he always felt when he noticed something that was even a little out of the ordinary. Most women would rather wait in their cars until their dates or appointments arrived, rather than sit alone in a bar. Maybe it was a sense of self-consciousness, a safety issue, or they simply didn’t want to deal with any unwanted attention. For this woman to come in alone, twenty minutes before a logical meeting time, didn’t fall within his mental parameters of most common behavior.

He automatically assessed her physically: five-seven, between a hundred twenty-five and a hundred forty, black and blue. Her hair was true black, and even though he couldn’t see their color now, he remembered the clear blue of her eyes, the paleness of her skin: Black Irish coloring at its finest. She was tall and slim, dressed like a million bucks, and, he kept coming back to the word, classy.

No wedding ring, either. She wore a slim gold watch, and small gold hoops in her ears. No rings at all. If he got closer, whether or not he’d see a pale circle or an indentation on her ring finger was up in the air, but from where he was sitting he couldn’t make out any telltale sign.

One of the waitresses approached her table, slapped down a cocktail napkin, and waited with a poised pen for the order. Eric couldn’t hear what she ordered, but a few seconds later the waitress slid the order across the bar to Will and said, “Margarita on the rocks.”

There weren’t many froufrou drinks served at Sadie’s, but Eric supposed a margarita on the rocks was kind of middle ground: not so swishy that a man wouldn’t drink it, but not in the same class with a bourbon and Coke, either. When the drink was carried across to her, he watched as she took a sip, savored the taste, and sort of relaxed deeper into her chair.

She took her time with the margarita, sipping slowly, probably deliberately nursing the drink while she waited, and he watched the clock hands move toward eight-thirty. But eight-thirty came and went, and no one arrived. Neither did she check the time on her watch, so she wasn’t feeling anxious about the passing time. She never looked around whenever the door opened. Huh. Evidently he was wrong that she’d been waiting for someone. Maybe she’d come in for no other reason than she wanted to unwind over a drink, just like almost everyone else in the bar.

He thought about approaching her table, speaking to her, but even though his interest was piqued he was way more cautious with women now than he used to be. At his age, thirty-five, he wasn’t led around by his dick any longer, and he’d been through a divorce, all of which should make a man see the wisdom of not rushing in.

The fact was, she looked expensive, and he wasn’t in the mood for an expensive complication. Women were always complications, bless their perverse little hearts. He enjoyed women for a lot of reasons, but he also enjoyed the simplicity of his bachelorhood. A man didn’t even have to marry a woman to lose his bachelorhood; all he had to do was be in a somewhat steady relationship with her, and he’d find himself structuring his free time to accommodate her. And God forbid you actually move in with a steady girlfriend; you might as well get married. He knew, because he’d tried all the variations: married, not married but living together, steady dating, semi-steady dating … it all boiled down to the same thing, meshing their lives together. For right now, he wanted his life unmeshed. Some day, yeah, he’d probably get married again, but he wasn’t in any hurry, and when he did take that step he’d make damn sure they were more compatible than he’d been with his first wife. There should be a law against people getting married before they were at least twenty-five.

There was one other possibility for Ms. Classy, too, one that made him doubly cautious. Maybe she was a cop groupie. Some women got off on having sex with a cop. It had something to do with the uniform and the weapon, whether it was the one in the holster or the one behind the zipper, or maybe both. Some cops, especially newbies, let the increased sexual attention go to their heads, which could wreck both careers and marriages. Eric had always steered clear of that, even when he’d been in uniform. Now that he was a detective, he was looking ahead to other promotions, and he wasn’t about to let a piece of ass, even a prime piece, mess with his good judgment and common sense.

The temptation got to someone else, though. A chair scraped back; he watched Blake Gillespie, a street cop still in uniform, approach Ms. Classy’s table. Eric controlled a scowl. It wasn’t any of his business if Gillespie tried his luck, and if she was a cop groupie, better Gillespie than any of the other guys. At least Gillespie was single. That didn’t mean Eric had to like watching another man make a move on a woman he’d spotted first, even when he didn’t intend to make his own move. Okay, so men were territorial sons of bitches. Inform the newspapers, call the TV stations, and see if anyone gave a shit.

He watched as Gillespie made his move, with the easy smile and an invitation to join him. Ms. Classy glanced up without a change of expression, then calmly shook her head and said, “No, thank you,” before looking away as if the matter had been settled. Eric couldn’t hear what she’d said, but easily read her lips because she’d formed the words so firmly and plainly.

Okay, so she wasn’t a cop groupie. Gillespie was a young guy, worked out all the time to pack his uniform with muscles, and he wasn’t butt-ugly, either. If she’d been looking to bag a cop in the sack, Gillespie would be sitting beside her now instead of shrugging and heading back to his own table. At least he hadn’t got pissy about her rejection, which upped Eric’s opinion of the young patrolman.

She wasn’t waiting for anyone, and she wasn’t looking to get picked up. Hell, maybe she was simply a woman who’d wanted a drink. He could relate to that. Not the part about being a woman, but wanting a drink was definitely relatable.

Eric turned his attention to his beer, studying the amber liquid for several long minutes. He should probably finish it and head home. The last thing he should do was waste any more time trying to figure out what a woman was thinking, even a woman with world-class legs and a drool-worthy ass. But—“What the fuck,” he muttered under his breath as temptation grabbed him by the dick and hung on. He slid from the barstool, grabbed his beer, and headed toward the classy, expensive complication.

Out of her peripheral vision, Jaclyn saw another man approaching. She could hope that he wasn’t really headed her way, that he was on his way to the men’s room which was just past her table, but it certainly seemed that he was walking directly toward her. He had a drink in his hand, so she was almost certain he wasn’t going to the restroom. Why couldn’t a woman stop after work for one drink without men—some men, anyway—assuming she was willing to be picked up? At least the first guy had been decent, taking himself off without an argument when she’d said no, so she could only hope this guy would do the same. She purposely didn’t look his way, hoping he’d take the hint and keep moving.

“Small world.”

The two words jarred her, because they weren’t what she’d expected. She looked up, her cool expression still in place, but when she recognized the man standing in front of her her mind kind of went blank for a minute. She never sputtered, but she came damn close to it as she mentally scrambled for something to say, and what finally came out was a far cry from the stone-wall dismissal she’d planned. “Don’t call me ma’am again,” she said, her eyes narrowing in warning.

The cop smiled, that same slight but humorous curve of his lips she’d noticed before, and something in Jaclyn unwound. There was something real about him, a straightforwardness that didn’t scream pickup or any other kind of game playing—and, damn, he was fine. That description seemed to be the best she could come up with. He wasn’t handsome, but all her hormones and little chemistry receptacles or whatever were sitting up and paying attention. They were saying Man! in all the best ways. She wasn’t the type to moon over a man, and God knows she’d never been a giggler or much of a flirt—much—but that didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate a man’s body and face, if he had a body and face worthy of appreciation.

This cop had both.

She found herself giving him a small, rueful smile in return, and explained, “It’s just … on a bad day, being called ma’am by someone near my own age makes me feel old. You have good manners, and I shouldn’t hold that against you.”

“I hope your day improved after you left city hall,” he said.

“Not really.” She had to crane her head back to look up at him. The dim lighting in the bar, and the shadows his position created, kept her from getting as clear a look as she’d like at his features, but her memory was good. She’d known he was tall, because with her heels she was about five-ten, and he’d still been three or four inches taller than she was. She liked the breadth of his shoulders, the mature and muscled depth of his chest. Her memory provided a too-sharp sensory image of how hard and warm his body had felt against hers in that brief moment when they’d collided, and she mentally shied away from the intimacy implied.

Her hormones didn’t know their collision had been an accident; they just knew they had liked her contact with this man’s body. She might have felt this sharp a physical attraction before, but at the moment she couldn’t remember when. The fact that what she felt was so strong both compelled and repelled. Part of her was excited, wanted to respond, wanted to see where this would take her; another part urged her to run like hell. When she thought of what she wanted from a relationship, what came to mind was comfort and compatibility, a sense of ease, of fitting together—along with physical attraction, of course. If the physical attraction was so strong that it clouded her mind, that couldn’t be good.

“That’s too bad.”

His comment so neatly dovetailed with what she’d been thinking that it took her a moment to reconnect to the conversation. “But at least I didn’t smash into anyone else this afternoon.”

“That’s a plus. Another one, and I’d have to cite you for a moving violation.” The dryness of his tone made her smile again, even while she was having the usual arguments with herself. She didn’t know him. Aside from the fact that physically he really did it for her—like she was going to tell him that—they had nothing to talk about. Before you knew it, they’d be discussing the weather, or he’d ask for her astrological sign. She really didn’t want to do that two-step, but there was something about him … and she wasn’t ready to let him go. Not yet.

“Please, have a seat,” she said, motioning to the empty chair at her table.

He sat, placed his drink on the table with a solid thunk that almost seemed as if he was staking a claim to the spot, and looked her in the eye. His face was no longer shadowed, as it had been when he’d been standing. Nice jaw, a mostly straight nose, dark level brows, and a penetrating intentness to his gaze. Dark hair, and she thought his eyes were probably hazel, though in the dim bar she couldn’t really tell. But most important of all, this man was confident. He was accustomed to getting his way, which could be off-putting, but somehow he projected those qualities without coming off as arrogant. She suddenly had the thought that his good manners were kind of a camouflage, hiding a dangerousness hinted at by the piercing intensity of his eyes.

“Are you waiting for someone?” he asked, double-checking even though he was already seated.

“No.”

“Good.” Settling more comfortably into his chair, he extended his hand. “I’m Eric Wilder.”

Amused, she started grinning even before she placed her hand in his. His big, warm fingers wrapped around hers and she willed herself not to get totally, completely, sucked in by the feel, even though it was a sensation that would be very easy to get lost in. “Wilder?”

“It’s just a name, not a comment on my personality or lifestyle.”

“Pleased to meet you, Eric Wilder,” she said. “I’m Jaclyn Wilde. It’s just a name, not a comment on my personality or lifestyle.” He’d turned his hand just a little, the subtle movement changing their grip from that of a handshake to something more … intimate. Her heartbeat jacked up, and she fought the sudden urge to lick her lips.

He laughed, his eyes crinkling and his head tipping back a little, revealing a strong, tanned throat. “For real?”

“For real.”

“It really is a small world, isn’t it?” He let go of her hand, and as much as she hated to release that warmth and strength, she couldn’t very well grab his hand and hold on. Then he deliberately caught her left hand and lifted it, checking out her ring finger. She lifted her brows, then coolly gave him back as good as she got, pointedly checking out his left hand, too. Not that the absence of a wedding ring was a sure sign that a person was single, but it made for a safer bet.

He leaned back, lifting his beer for a sip. “So, Jaclyn Wilde, why did you have a bad afternoon?”

She sighed and reached for her margarita, mirroring his actions. He was probably sipping for pleasure, though, while the mere thought of Carrie Edwards made her need more liquid fortification. “I’m a wedding planner, and I had a long, miserable meeting with probably the worst client I’ve ever had in my career. She has the ability to turn the gentlest of people into raving lunatics.”

“You don’t look like a raving lunatic.”

“No, but it was close. I did feel the overwhelming need to stop for a drink on my way home, thanks to bridezilla. That’s not something I usually do.” She didn’t want him to think she was a lush … not that it really mattered what he thought. She’d share a drink with him, then she’d head home and that would be that.

Men didn’t make Jaclyn nervous. She knew who she was, and that was all that mattered … usually. Eric Wilder, though, made her nervous. Not jumpy nervous, not uncomfortable, just on edge and sharply aware, as if her skin had become too tight and too sensitive. Looking at him was suddenly too much, so instead she glanced around the bar with a nonchalance she was far from feeling.

“Wedding planner,” he said. “Sounds like an interesting job.”

“I’m technically an events planner, but most of our business is weddings. And I have to admit, some days are more interesting than others.” She forgot about nonchalant and looked directly at him, which delivered another jolt to her nervous system because he didn’t look away. Instead, those intense eyes—yes, they were hazel—remained locked on hers.

“In my experience, a wedding is a really crappy way to start a marriage,” Eric said.

“This opinion is based on what?” she asked, both amused and a little testy because there was a possibility that he could be right.

“My own wedding,” he said bluntly. “The entire weekend was a nightmare. I think I’m the only one who didn’t cry, and we’re not talking tears of joy, here.”

The bottom dropped out of her stomach. Jaclyn could feel her spine straighten, her unexpected enjoyment of the conversation shutting down. “You’re married?”

“Not anymore. Divorced. Six years, now.” He lifted his beer. “You?”

“Divorced, too.”

Thank God, that little detail was out of the way. They were both divorced and, apparently, available. Not that availability was required for a simple conversation, but it was nice to know.

“Were you a wedding planner when you got married?”

“I was. Mom and I had just started the business.”

“So, does a woman who plans everyone else’s wedding go whole hog with her own? Or were you already tired of the whole deal?”

“To answer in reverse order, I wasn’t, and I did,” she admitted, and added wryly, “The marriage lasted only slightly longer than the ceremony. But, no, I don’t get tired of what I do. When everything turns out just right and everyone has fun, it’s something to remember.…

“And in case you’re wondering, I didn’t cry at my own wedding,” she added, teasing.

“I don’t imagine you did.”

She took another sip of her margarita, and Eric signaled for the waitress. “Let me get you another drink.”

Jaclyn shook her head at the girl who was headed her way, covered the top of her glass to signal that she didn’t want a refill, and turned to Eric. “Only one drink for me. I’m driving.”

“You didn’t come here to get lost in a lime and tequila haze?”

“I never get lost in any kind of haze,” she said.

“What do you get lost in?” he asked, and she could almost feel that intense gaze boring beneath her skin.

“Work,” she answered with honesty, though a part of her, a part that had been dormant for a long while, realized that she could very easily get lost in Eric Wilder. “You?”

“Work.”

“Better a workaholic than an alcoholic,” Jaclyn said, thinking of her father’s struggle with booze. It wasn’t an accident that there was no liquor in her house, that she always limited herself to one single drink. She’d never had a drinking problem, but she was always aware of Jacky Wilde’s weaknesses and the possibility that she might’ve inherited a penchant for obsession. Or, heaven help her, addiction. But she didn’t want to think about her dad—she loved him, but a little of him went a long way—and she’d talked enough about herself. She wanted to know more about him. “How long have you been a cop?”

“Thirteen years. I joined the army straight out of high school, got my degree while I was in, and took my civil service exam as soon as I left Uncle Sam’s employ.”

“Your job is probably way more interesting than mine. At least the people I deal with usually stop short of committing a crime.”

“Usually?” His dark brows rose.

“You don’t want to know.”

He did, though, so she found herself telling him about the time the entire wedding party had been smoking pot before the ceremony, the time the groom had waffled and the bride’s mother had pulled a freaking knife from her purse and threatened to skewer his anatomical pride and joy if he backed out after all the money she’d spent, and other tales from the dark side. He laughed in the right places, a deep sound of genuine amusement that invited more confidences. He told her some of his own war stories, and she was aware that he kept things light, that he didn’t get into the darker, more disturbing details.

Talking to him was easy. Despite the heat of physical chemistry that could completely burn her up if she let it, she was somehow able to push that aside and simply enjoy being with him. There weren’t any of the usual awkward silences between new acquaintances. For the moment there was nothing except the pleasure of talking to him and feeling the heated tingle of attraction. She’d felt it from the instant she’d collided with him that morning, and closer acquaintance hadn’t dulled any of the sharp edges. She’d walked into Sadie’s for no other reason than she’d been driving by and seen it, a parking place had been available, and the idea of some downtime with a nice, soothing drink had been too tempting to resist. She was glad she hadn’t resisted, glad she hadn’t moved on to one of the more fashionable bars.

If she’d been thinking she would have realized that, this close to the police department, the odds were a bunch of cops would be here. She didn’t think her subconscious had led her here, hoping she’d see him. Her day had been so hectic he honestly hadn’t crossed her mind again … but if her subconscious had been at work, then all she could say was, good job. She was glad she’d stopped here, and glad she’d run into him again.

She finished the margarita, but she wasn’t quite ready to leave. When the cocktail waitress came by to scoop up her empty glass, Jaclyn ordered a cup of decaf. Eric was still nursing his beer, and she was glad to see that he didn’t knock it back and order another one. Like her, he was very much in control.

It wasn’t like her to get comfortable with a man so quickly, but the sense of ease went both ways. From war stories, she moved on to telling him about her business, her mother-slash-business partner, and the absolutely insane schedule she had for the next few days.

He rolled his almost-empty glass between his palms, then glanced up at her. “So I should wait until next week before I call?”

Those hazel eyes were so intent her heart gave another of those disconcerting little thumps, and her mouth went dry. Her first thought was that maybe it was time her personal sexual drought ended. Her second thought was that she bet he’d be an excellent drought-ender. Her third thought was that, damn it, she didn’t have time. But when she opened her mouth, what came out was “Not necessarily.” Then her common sense kicked in again, and she sighed. “But, yes, next week would be better. Six weddings in five days doesn’t leave me with any free time, even though Mom and I share the work.”

“You have to eat,” he said, his voice low and easy and slightly gruff. It was the kind of voice that would be capable of talking her into, well, anything. Oh, damn, he was either good or dangerous, or both.

“Yes, I suppose I do.” Maybe the smartest thing for her to do was get away from the testosterone he was throwing out like a force field, so she could think more clearly. Besides, like it or not, it was getting late and she needed to go home and get to bed. She hesitated, then opened her purse and extracted her gold card case. “My card,” she said needlessly, placing the cream-colored business card—with Premier, along with her name and numbers, in gold foil—on the table and sliding it toward him. “My office and cell numbers are both here.”

He glanced at the card, holding it up to catch the light so he could see it clearly. “Not Wilde Weddings?”

Jaclyn smiled. “That’s not the image we’re trying to project.”

He studied the card. “Classy.” His gaze flicked back to her. “Like you.”

Before she could respond, he reached into his inside jacket pocket and whipped out his own business card. It was black and white, a plain font, all business. It said as much about him as her card said about her. He turned it over, took a pen from his pocket, and scribbled on the back. “My cell number. Call me any time.”

She dropped the card into her purse, stood, and said good night. “You’ll be hearing from me,” he said, and she didn’t doubt it. As she walked toward the exit, she could feel him watching her, just as she had that morning. This time she looked back and smiled … and sure enough, his gaze was locked on her. The way he looked at her was enough to make her bones go to butter.

Damn.