Star Crossed (3 page)

To them, she’d always be the hysterical female rookie who tried to grass her superior.

“Screw it,” she said, lowering the pool cue. Bearded Guy tracked the motion with his eyes, same as most people would. This allowed her to pop him in the center of his forehead with her free fist. Her knuckles landed so squarely he went down like a feather.

A.J. might be tough but she was human. Her adrenaline fury spent, her knees started shaking with reaction. Stiff legs took her to the models, where she shook out her stinging hand. The girls had missed her epic takedown. They were fluttering around Luke. He was hunched in a chair holding damp paper towels to his bloody nose.

His friends seemed worried for him but otherwise useless.

“This is so bad,” the Kewpie doll brunette moaned. “You look awful.”

A.J. saw they could use direction. “One of you needs to take him to the ER. Those hits he took were substantial.”

“We have a thing tonight,” the redhead objected. “It’s Michael Kors. We’ll get fired if we don’t show up.”

Luke looked up at his fair-weather friend and gaped.

“I’m
sorry
,” she pleaded. “You know the agency’s rules about ditching assignments.”

“I . . . do,” Luke said slowly.

The Brit turned to A.J. “Couldn’t you take him? You seem capable.”

“I’d . . . appreciate it,” Luke put in with the same hitch of dismay.

Fuck
, A.J. thought, realizing she couldn’t abandon him. It was that thing people said in books: save a man’s life and you’re responsible for him forever. Resigned but irritated, she thrust her palm toward the hopeful girls.

“Cab fare,” she ordered. “Unless you’d rather I walk your friend to the hospital.”

The girls scurried to supply it, thanking her with a breathlessness that increased her annoyance. When they were done, A.J. held six crisp hundreds within her fist.

Must be nice
, she told herself.

Stuck in her Samaritan role, A.J. heaved Luke up with his long arm around her shoulder. He smelled good, despite dripping sweat and blood—just in case she needed proof Fate was kinder to some people.

Her hands full, she decided she’d let the bartender worry about her downed patrons.

“Thank you,” Luke said, leaning on A.J. but able to walk okay.

A.J. grunted semi-rudely in response. As they emerged onto the pavement, the sunshine’s brilliance startled her. She glanced up and down the street. They were in East Harlem. Not the worst part but not the best either.

God knows what Luke and his fancy-pants friends were thinking when they brought their bar crawl here.

“Do you care where you get patched up?” she asked.

“I don’t really know the city,” he admitted.

That was the understatement of the decade. She waved down a gypsy cab, probably the best ride she’d get on short notice. Luke only winced a bit as she helped him in. She guessed he might eventually procreate.

She slid in after and shut the door. The skinny foreign driver craned around for instructions. He didn’t appear freaked out by his passengers’ ragged state. Maybe he’d seen worse where he came from.

“I have a friend who’s a resident in the ER at Lenox Hill,” she informed her companion.

Luke tipped his head back against the seat, wadded paper towels still in place. Some of the blood from his nose splotched his nice white shirt.

“Anywhere,” he said wearily. “I’m completely in your hands.”

It made no sense, but a thrill zinged through her.

HER job being what it was, A.J.’s friend couldn’t see them instantaneously. Allowing for that, Nigella was pretty speedy. Fifteen minutes after Luke handed a nurse his insurance card, she came to lead A.J.’s charge to an exam room.

Luke craned at A.J. over his shoulder. “Aren’t you coming?”

Sheesh
, she thought.
Needy much?

“She should check you as well,” he said. “I saw you take some hits.”

Nigella stopped and narrowed her eyes at her.

“I’m fine,” A.J. said, automatically defensive. “All I’ve got are bruises.”

“Come anyway,” Nigella ordered. “I haven’t seen you in too long.”

A.J. sighed as she trudged obediently after Luke. She and Nigella had grown up two streets apart. Now Nigella was a single mom and doctor, her authority a hard-to-ignore mix of both. A.J. wished she could have stayed outside. Something in her old friend’s eyes said she’d heard how A.J.’s situation on the force turned out.

“Strip down to your skivvies,” Nigella instructed Luke, pointing her clipboard at the adjoining changing room. “I want to get a good look at you.”

Unexpectedly amused, A.J. covered her twitching mouth. Nigella was the only woman on the planet who’d mean this professionally.

“What?” Nigella asked, catching her expression.

“Nothing. Just admiring your bedside manner.”

Nigella frowned at her. “Are you really okay? I mean about your job.”

“Well, I
was
going to drown my sorrows, but Pretty Boy sucked me into his bar brawl.”

“Seriously,” Nigella pressed. “Being a police officer was your dream.”

A.J. resisted the urge to make sure the door Luke had disappeared behind was closed. If he heard, he heard. She shouldn’t care what he thought. “I’ve been better.” She shrugged with one shoulder. “I’ll be okay once I decide how the heck I’ll pay rent.”

“Your dad would hire you in a minute.”

“My dad let us down pretty bad when I was a kid.”

“Maybe he’s changed.”

A.J. heard something weird in her old friend’s voice. “Did he call you?”

Nigella looked sheepish. “He remembered how close you and I used to be and looked me up. Your mom’s got her new life in California with her new man. Maybe now’s the time to give him another chance.”

“Sheesh,” A.J. muttered. “Now who’s doing social work?”

Luke poked his head out the connecting door. “You ready for me?”

Nigella said she was. God love him, Luke walked out like being in his undies in front of strangers was an everyday occurrence. A.J. didn’t think he was cocky, just easy in his skin. Though she’d braced for him to be good looking, he was actually something more. His body had presence, as if he were the standard from which ideal proportions were measured. He was too thin for a regular guy, but his well-developed muscles and healthy color—seen between scattered bruises—kept him from seeming starved. Oddly enough, his shoulders looked even broader without his suit jacket. His abs were cut, his obliques mouthwatering. His nicely hairy legs had to be two miles long. His briefs were very brief indeed. They were navy, snug, and said
EA
on the white waistband.

Emporio Armani
, A.J. realized with a mental blink.

Even Nigella, the nothing-fazes-me resident, cleared her throat at the sight of him.

“Can you hop on the table?” she inquired. “I’ve got a stool if it hurts to move.”

Luke’s height meant the climb wasn’t steep. Once he’d settled, Nigella shined her little flashlight into his nose. As she gently turned his face, A.J. noticed the hollows under both his eyes had purpled.

“Okay,” Nigella said. “You’re not going to like this.”

A crack sounded as she used both hands to pop his bones back into place.

“Shit,” he gasped, eyes tearing from the pain.

“Right,” Nigella said. “You had a simple nasal fracture. Not a big deal. It should heal without cosmetic deforming. I’ll tape on a splint to keep everything aligned and write out an ice regimen for the swelling. It might be a couple days before you can hide those black eyes effectively even with make up.”

“Shit,” Luke repeated, even unhappier. “So much for my next go-see.”

Nigella patted his arm sympathetically.

“Turn away, A.J.,” she instructed. “I’m going to check that kick to the nads Luke told the admitting nurse he got.”

A.J. turned and stared at the wall, biting her thumb as Luke made uncomfortable hissing sounds.

“All right,” Nigella said. “I think you caught a break here as well. I prescribe ice, rest, and keeping the boys in a nice supportive jockstrap until they’re all better. No strenuous activity. And, yes, that includes sex.”

“So I’m not, um, broken or anything?”

“You’re not broken. If you want them, you’ll father many beautiful children.”

“Good.” He huffed a relieved sigh men all around the world would have understood. “Thank you.”

“I’ll give you pain meds,” Nigella said in her doc-mom voice. “Plus an anti-inflammatory. And—” she continued as A.J. turned back. “I notice you’ve got a bump on your skull. I don’t think you have a concussion but just in case, you need a friend to keep an eye on you for the next twenty-four hours or so.”

“Will do,” Luke said.

A.J. drew breath to speak. If he was counting on the “friends” who’d ditched him at the bar, she didn’t think he’d get much oversight. With an effort, she shut her mouth. Luke was a grown man. He wasn’t dying. This was no longer her business.

“You’ll see he gets home safely?” Nigella asked.

Okay, it was
almost
no longer her business. “Sure.”

Luke looked at her, sensing her impatience. “You don’t have to. You’ve done enough already.”

“I can’t disobey the doc,” she countered.

Nigella snorted at that falsehood. “Call me soon. Bree’s been pestering me to have you over for dinner.”

Bree was Nigella’s ten-year-old daughter. A.J. and she got on like a house afire. The little girl had been happier than A.J. when she made it onto the police force.

“I will,” she said, not sure that was the truth either. “As soon as I . . . get my life in order.”

“
I’ll
break the news to Bree,” Nigella promised. Prescriptions scribbled, she dropped her pen into the breast pocket of her white lab coat. “You won’t have to explain anything.”

This was so understanding it choked her up.

*

A.J. hailed an actual cab this time. Luke gave the driver an address in Midtown South—a better neighborhood than she expected.

“It’s a condo,” he explained. “I’ve been bunking with the girls. I pay rent from my waiter job.”

At his mention of the girls, A.J. couldn’t help covering her face.

“I’ll be fine,” he assured her. “If I feel woozy, I’ll call one of them.”

“Okay, leaving aside whether that’s what Nigella meant by someone keeping an eye on you, are you sure they’d leave their important Michael Corleone party for your sake?”

“Michael Kors,” he said. “And they’re all right.”

“You’re a lost lamb. Someone should shear you and herd you home.”

He didn’t like her joke. His handsome bruised face tightened.

“All right,” she said. “I get it. You don’t want to rely on the kindness of grumpy strangers. Unfortunately for you, this grumpy stranger takes her responsibilities seriously.”

She knocked on the partition and gave the cabby her address instead.

“You’re running up the fare,” Luke said.

“That’s all right. Your besties paid for it.”

This sealed his lips together until the cab reached her apartment. She helped him out, perversely pleased to discover he was still unsteady on his long legs. He didn’t argue, but she could tell it took work. On the second flight to her one-bedroom, third-floor walkup, he succumbed to understandable bitchiness.

“The girls have an elevator,” he informed her. “I’m not supposed to do strenuous things.”

“Oh suck it up.” Despite her words, she took a firmer grip on his ribcage. “At least you won’t keel over and die alone.”

He smiled with his head averted as she unkeyed her locks. After they stepped in, he stood on his own while she re-bolted them. Her renewed awareness of his height made her feel off balance.

“This is cool,” he said, taking in the warehouse-style brick-lined space.

“I’m no decorator,” she warned, fighting her pleasure at his approval. By New York hipster standards, the place was nothing to brag about. It wasn’t messy at least, or cluttered, but she made no claim to it being spic and span. The heavy punching bag she’d hung from the ceiling beam was the only guaranteed dust-free article.

“I don’t care,” he said. “I’m a guy.”

A.J. rubbed two fingers across her smile.

“I am,” he insisted. “My folks own a farm in Minnesota. Just because I’m trying to be a model and apparently can’t fight, doesn’t mean I’m not male.”

A.J. ignored that opening. “You more interested in the bathroom or the couch?”

He chose bathroom, and she assisted him across the floor to it.

“Are you hungry?” she called through the door.

“Yes,” he called back. “But please nothing too carby.”

A.J. rolled her eyes. Along with everything else, she guessed she was supposed to watch his waistline. She did a quick swipe of the dusty coffee table, found a blanket and pillow for the old couch, and headed to her kitchen space. Finished with his business in the john, Luke made a halting circuit of her apartment before rejoining her.

Luke must have washed his bloodied shirt in her bathroom sink. He strolled into her kitchen with his smoothly muscled torso on display. A.J. should have been over the reaction, but her mouth watered regardless.

The reason the modeling agency signed him was obvious. Shirt makers should have thanked his shoulders for stretching them, and never mind the favors his long legs did for those trousers. Though he had a not insignificant package, his hips were narrower than hers—and she was no J.Lo. His perfect skin was sun-browned, the hollow of his navel a magnet for fingertips to trace. His shaved chest should have curled her lip with scorn, but in truth she could barely focus on what she did.

No more chef than decorator, A.J. was browning chops in an old iron skillet.

“You’re a cop,” he said. He’d spotted the picture of her graduation taped to her fridge. God, she’d been excited to put those dress blues on.

“I
was
one,” she said, keeping her voice neutral.

Luke leaned his weight on the
L
of her prep counter. A tiny shiver bounced down her nape. For just a second his intense green eyes were weirdly familiar. “Did you quit?”