Remembering You: Pushing the Boundaries, Prequel (3 page)

God, her voice. Why did it sound so right? Was he trying too hard to make her into the woman he’d been looking for all these years?

Must be. It was too good to be true.

He nodded. “Thanks, but I’m good. I’ll jot this all down and be on my way.” He moved to the trunk of his sedan and tore the paper in half, then started copying his own information down.

Nina stood silently and looked out into the parking lot while he wrote, and when he finished, he handed her the piece of paper and her pen. “Well, again, I’m really sorry. Please do call if you change your mind and want to file a police report.” And then, because for some reason he felt it would be misleading if he didn’t tell her, he added, “I can help you take care of it, since I’m a cop.”

She froze, the smile sliding off her face for an instant.

She recovered quickly, but not before he’d seen the strange look cross her face. Almost like she felt as though she’d been betrayed.

That was ridiculous. Telling her he was a cop wasn’t like saying,
Surprise! You’re under arrest for being way too beautiful!
He was the one in the wrong, and he wanted to be honest. Why had it upset her? And she
was
upset—he could tell. She was smiling again, but now those beautiful lips were tight, and her jaw was tense. She was faking it.

She’s not the kind of woman who would ever fake it in bed, though.

He stiffened. Damn, she was doing something to him. He hadn’t been this interested in a woman since the one who had been nothing more than sound waves in a hospital room. And now he was fighting a near-painful erection inspired by someone whose car he had dented?

He needed help.

“Well, thanks! I’m sure our insurance agents will be in touch with one another. Drive safe!” she chirped, her stilted falsetto sounding ridiculous after her free-flowing, easy conversation until now.

He shrugged and waved as she disappeared around the driver’s side. “Sure, uh, sorry again. Bye,” he called, even as he heard her car door shut. The Range Rover’s engine started up and Ben moved to his own car, leaning against the trunk as she backed out carefully.

He gave her a wave as she pulled out and headed toward the exit. She gave a small salute in return, then she was off, the SUV completely out of sight within seconds. But he stood in the parking lot for a few more minutes, watching the road. He couldn’t shake the strange feeling she had been running away from him.

And he couldn’t help but feel like he had lost an important opportunity.

He shrugged. Maybe it was time to meet another woman. Even if the next girl he dated wasn’t the one he would spend the rest of his life with, it would at least do him some good to get laid. It had been nearly a year. Imagining some strange woman was the one he’d thought about for three years, and getting a hard-on in a parking lot over her—a woman who seemed to dislike police officers, no less!—wasn’t exactly where he wanted to be in his romantic life.

He sighed and pushed off the trunk of his car. He folded the piece of paper with her information and put it in his wallet, got into his car and headed to work, his mind now crowded with thoughts of two women whom he’d never see again.

Chapter Three

What a shit day.

Nina practically ran out of the main doors of Excelsior Media, desperate to get away from all the crushing bureaucracy. Her first day back in a desk job after more than two years traveling the globe, writing hard-hitting reports on human rights atrocities around the world, and she was already on the verge of quitting.

She’d wanted to cover the drug bust that had just gone down in the city. It was the most interesting local story they had right now. Exciting news with national implications. She’d grown up in Greenbriar and the recent breakup of a big drug dealing ring was shocking, even in this city of half a million people. She would have happily reported on it without feeling like she had come down too far, even if it did mean she’d have to interact with a lot of policemen. She usually didn’t like covering cop stories.

You wouldn’t have minded covering the cop from this morning.

Ben Crewes. Even after she’d found out he was on the force, she’d still been unable to control the desire pumping through her from the moment she’d laid eyes on him, standing by her car. And when he’d opened his mouth and in his low, gruff voice had asked whether she was okay, the need to get his clothes off had nearly knocked her speechless. She’d never been so attracted, so fast, to a man like this, to the point where she was ready to get naked with a complete stranger in a Denny’s parking lot.

It wasn’t solely his tough-guy good looks—light brown hair worn short, deep brown eyes, a well-defined nose to match his angular jaw, and a blue button-down shirt hugging broad shoulders and a trim waistline. His looks had definitely gotten her attention, but it had been his reserved but polite demeanor that had pulled her in.

A guy who could keep his cool in what could have been a tense encounter was sexy as hell to Nina. His attitude had struck the perfect balance between nonchalance and real concern for her welfare. It—
he
—had felt oddly familiar, somehow.

It wasn’t until that she was back in the car, driving away from him, that she’d realized why. He had been the one to lead the drug ring bust. She’d read about him from the reports that had come in to Excelsior.

Of course, she’d never actually met him before. This strange feeling of closeness that went beyond recognizing his name meant nothing. She definitely would have remembered a man who looked like he did. But talking to him had made her feel good, just the same. She couldn’t figure out why, but something in her also wanted to protect this big, muscled man from harm. There was just something about him that pulled at her.

Not to mention that she definitely wouldn’t have minded stripping down and riding him in the backseat of the Rover.

Nina sighed and looked around the street. It was already dark outside, but considering it was nearly seven o’clock, she wasn’t surprised. The city had changed a bit in the past ten years, and the upscale restaurant-bar the news crew used to frequent after hours had closed. In high school, she’d hung around the place, eavesdropping on their conversations and dogging some of the journalists’ heels, trying to learn as much as she could.

But now she had another goal: she needed a drink.

She could either walk three blocks over to Trenton’s, another polished-wood-and-leather-seats, overpriced place catering to the white-collar clientele of this city, or she could head one block downtown to the Clipper.

The Clipper was a dive. But she didn’t care. She’d once lived for six weeks in rural Russia with nothing more than a single change of clothes and a pocket translator. She was usually up for anything, and her easy acceptance of challenges was often what got people to like her, to open up…and to get her a story.

Besides, she needed a drink, stat. The Clipper was closer, so the Clipper won.

She turned and headed down Whitehall Avenue, hugging herself as a gust of wind flew down the street, there and gone in an instant but leaving a distinct chill behind. She took a breath, inhaling deeply. Being stuck in this town might not be her favorite thing, but years spent in foreign lands and almost inhumane climates had taught her to appreciate the familiar comforts of home, including these biting winds during the strange transition between autumn and winter.

Her long legs ate up the pavement, and before she knew it, she was standing in front of the weathered wooden door of the Clipper. She’d been in here only once before, seven years ago, but she didn’t even hesitate before pushing the door open and stepping inside.

Today, she’d been rear-ended by a hot cop—and not in a good way—had had to deal with the barrage of well-meaning colleagues who’d stopped by her desk to express their pity for her over
your difficult situation
, as they’d called it, and then she’d been assigned the least respectable story possible.

A drink was mandatory.

Before she had moved back here, she had been
someone
in the world of investigative reporting. She’d literally run for her life in Iraq one night and not only survived, but had managed to get an article in the
New Yorker
too. But despite her credentials, Jerry the editorial director had given the drug ring story to Rob, the slightly more senior, but significantly more pompous staff reporter who already had good relationships with the force here and would likely know all the players—as Jerry had put it.

Immediately afterward, he’d handed Nina a fashion assignment.

Fucking. Fashion.

Nina liked looking nice as much as the next woman, and she certainly appreciated a well-made garment that would last through multiple hand-washings and wouldn’t tear if she needed to unexpectedly scale the wall around a makeshift prison or crawl into the cave home of a refugee from genocide. But asking her to report on how bright colors had replaced neutrals in wardrobe staples was like asking her to drive nails through her skull.

She’d followed Jerry back to his office after the meeting, swearing to fight to the death to get a better story. She’d never question him in front of the other journalists and undermine his authority, but she had plenty to say in private. Jerry and she went way back, since the days when she would hang around the journalists when she was a teenager. When she’d come back home—for God knew how long—he’d been the most logical person to approach about a job, and she was grateful he’d given her the position.

But she wasn’t
that
grateful.

“Are you seriously making me write something on yellow being the new black?” she’d demanded the minute he’d closed the door to his office.

But he hadn’t risen to meet her anger. Just sighed and gestured for her to sit. “My sources tell me it’s a huge deal in the fashion world right now.”

She hadn’t been able to hold back a disbelieving laugh. “Your sources? Who are your sources for this big ‘Fashion Exposé’?” She threw up some air quotes around those words. “Some big mob kingpin been slipping you tips on Gucci?”

“Look, Nina, you’re a good writer—”

“No, Jerry, Nora Roberts is a good writer. I’m a damned stellar journalist. There’s a difference.”

He’d given her an exasperated look. “Fine, Nina, you want the truth? Rob might not give the drug ring story the kind of coverage you’re used to, but even though this is a big deal in Greenbriar, it won’t make more than a handful of headlines anywhere outside of the state. I’ve read your work and I know you’re a ‘damned stellar journalist’. And it’s part of the problem, quite frankly. You’re used to having your byline in much bigger media outlets. Rob has been here a long time and the junior reporters respect him. I know you’re only here because of your dad. If I give you the big stories, what happens in another month or two when you leave? I can’t afford to piss off Rob just to soothe your ego. You’re temporary. Don’t insult me by thinking I haven’t realized that.”

He hadn’t pulled any punches, calling her
temporary
. It didn’t help she’d been thinking the same thing ever since she’d gotten the phone call for her to come back here.

She pushed the exchange from her thoughts. Ruminating on it might make her change her mind about what she was doing and bail out on the next flight to Somalia. And then she would hate herself forever.

She didn’t even pause as she cut through the one-room bar, not caring about the several pairs of eyes tracking her as she walked past.
Yeah, I’m attractive, I get it.
It would be ridiculous for her to pretend otherwise. But it didn’t mean she felt like getting hit on, and if anyone tried…

Shit.
She really needed a drink.

She made a beeline for the bar and grabbed the only empty stool, plopping down unceremoniously next to a small cluster of guys who were all built like rugby players, each with a glass of beer in hand and laughing raucously. They hadn’t noticed her, so involved in what sounded like good-natured ribbing of someone standing in the middle of their little circle.

The bartender approached, the middle-aged man looking at her curiously. “Can I help you, miss?”

She laughed. “God, I hope so. I’d like a Jack and Coke, please.”

The bartender nodded, flashed her another odd look and turned away to fix her drink. She rested her elbows on the counter and bent her neck forward, trying to stretch out the tight kinks that had worked their way into her muscles during the day.

For some reason, she thought of the sexy policeman from this morning—Ben Crewes—and wished he were there so he could rub her neck and make the tension go away. And she would kiss him in thanks, and touch him too, and—

A male voice broke into her thoughts. “Holy shit. Nina?”

She knew that voice. It conjured up images of deep brown eyes and broad shoulders and the sense of being at ease. And it made her think of sex.

She took a deep breath and turned to find herself face to face with Ben Crewes.

What the hell?

One minute, Ben was trading good-natured insults with Brewer and Donahue, and the next, he’d frozen in place, his beer glass halfway to his mouth. He could’ve sworn he’d heard
the voice
—the mystery woman from the hospital—order a Jack and Coke.

Twice in one day? What were the odds?

“You okay?” Brewer nudged him.

“Huh?” He looked up at his friend and fellow SWAT officer. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. Kind of zoned out there for a sec.”

Brewer nodded and took a sip of beer. “It’s cool.”

But a movement past Brewer’s elbow caught Ben’s eye, and he shifted his focus to the woman sitting beyond their group.

No. Fucking. Way.

He stood up so fast he nearly knocked over Brewer, trying to push past him.

“Holy shit,” he practically shouted, surprise rendering him tactless, apparently. “Nina?”

The woman at the bar turned sharply, her eyes meeting his.

“Ben?”

Even in the low light, he could see a faint blush stealing up her neck.

“I mean, Officer Crewes,” she amended.

Ben felt the breath whoosh out of him. He’d never been into playing policeman in the bedroom, but something about the way she’d said it made him want to take her home, handcuff her to the bed and hear her say it over and over as she climaxed around his cock.

Whoa.

The guys behind him chuckled. Brewer spoke over his shoulder. “You going to introduce us to your friend, Crewes?”

Flirt with her and I’ll shoot you.

But he didn’t say it. Instead, he settled for something approaching courtesy.

“Uh, yeah. These are some of the other guys on the team. Brewer, Donahue and over there is Davis.”

Each man raised his glass in turn and she gave each of them her killer smile. Ben watched the subtle signs of their interest as they went around—Brewer straightening his posture, knowing it would make his huge pecs stand out even more, Donahue putting on his lazy grin that seemed to make women faint into his arms, and Davis…well, Davis gave her a slightly less fierce scowl than usual.

Davis wasn’t exactly a ladies’ man.

“Nice to meet all of you. What kind of team are you on?”

A soft chorus of chuckles answered her.

“SWAT,” Ben said, but like this morning, Nina’s face changed at his words. The forced smile returned.

He felt an answering frown on his face, but he continued with the introductions. “Guys, this is Nina Lang. She’s a, um…”

Shit, he should have left it at her name. He didn’t know anything about her that didn’t sound ridiculous.
She and I met on the freeway? She drives a Range Rover? I want to handcuff her to a bed and fuck her senseless?

But she saved him, pushing her forced smile even wider. “I’m a journalist at Excelsior.”

Fuck.

The woman of his dreams was a journalist? But he couldn’t stand the media!

Hold up. The woman of your dreams?
At least this one had a corporeal form.

Unlike the woman who was just a voice.

Was that why he was so attracted to Nina? She did sound so much like the voice he remembered. But, hell, she was a reporter. One of
them
. The buzzing distractions that made his life a nightmare in tense situations.

Before he could say anything else, though, Davis sat up and looked straight at Nina. Without scowling.

He was so shocked at seeing Davis look anything except angry, it took him a minute to process what the usually surly guy was asking.

“Lang, as in General Lang, the Army MP who recently retired around here?”

At the question, Nina’s smile grew tighter, almost brittle. Her hand groped over on the bar until it closed around the highball glass the bartender had set there. She brought it to her mouth and took a deep swallow, set it back down and nodded.

Wow.

“Yeah, he’s the one.” She was practically gritting her teeth now as she spoke, but Davis didn’t seem to notice. Ben tried to catch his eye, to warn him off, but Davis was staring at her intently, as though scanning her features for a resemblance to this General Lang. He was so intense, in fact, that Ben couldn’t help but think in the next second Davis might pull out a photo of the general he was talking about and hold it up to Nina’s face.