Veil of Night (2 page)

Carrie gave her a hard, cold look, but evidently realized she wasn’t going to get any traction on this issue, so she moved on to her next complaint. “I’ve changed my mind about the bridesmaids’ dresses,” Carrie said. “The shade of the fabric is too plain, all of them in gray like a line at West Point or something. I think it would look better if the one closest to me was in black, then the next dress would be a shade lighter, the next one a shade lighter than that, and so on. That would be really dramatic, don’t you think? And instead of having the sashes in pink, I think I’d like teal. Pink is too
Paris Hilton
. I want something more sophisticated, like teal. But not a greenish teal, I want something more on the blue side. You can take care of the problem, can’t you?”

Jaclyn bit her tongue. The poor bridesmaids had already paid for the hideous dresses, and Carrie, of course, hadn’t chosen an inexpensive fabric. The color wasn’t hideous, but the design certainly was. She’d tried to steer Carrie away from flounces and bows, but if Carrie ran into anything even remotely resembling good advice, so far she’d invariably run in the opposite direction. When the unfortunate bridesmaids found out about this change—when they found out they were going to have to pay for another dress, and this time a hefty charge for a rush order would be included—they’d probably all storm out. The girl who’d let Carrie have it and quit the wedding party was apparently the smart one.

“Carrie,” Jaclyn said in a purposely soothing voice, “it’s really too late to make this change. I think you’ll be very happy with the look of the bridesmaids’ dresses, when you see them with the flowers you’ve chosen.”

“I’m thinking of changing the flowers, too,” Carrie said, a gleam in her eye telling Jaclyn she was actually enjoying being difficult. “They’re just not right. I was studying the sample pictures last night, and they look like someone vomited Pepto Bismol. I saw the most wonderful arrangement in a magazine. If I change the flowers, then I also need to completely redo the bridesmaids’ look.”

“This will be quite an expense for your friends.”

Carrie’s lips pursed, her eyes narrowed. “They won’t mind. This is my special day, and they’ll do whatever I want them to do.” In her tone was an unspoken
or else
.

“If you insist, you can call the dressmaker and—”

“I want you to do it,” Carrie said carelessly. “I don’t have time.” She opened her expensive, oversized handbag, withdrew a fabric sample, and slapped it onto the desk. Jaclyn could tell at a glance it was a fine, heavy silk—another expensive choice, something that would set each bridesmaid back several hundred dollars, perhaps even more than a thousand. “Besides, when I called her this morning to discuss the matter, she was hateful and unreasonable.”

Dealing with the dressmaker technically wasn’t in Jaclyn’s job description; she handled the details of the event itself. But she knew Gretchen pretty well; they ran in the same circles, they very often worked the same weddings. Gretchen was never hateful or unreasonable, but then again, Carrie Edwards had the ability to bring out the worst in everyone.

“I’ll see what I can do, but I won’t make any promises. We’re running out of time, to the point there literally may not be anything you can do other than buying the bridesmaids’ dresses off the rack—”

“No. Never.”

“Then you may have to go with your original choice. Now, as far as the flowers are concerned, the floral designer has already put in a lot of time making sure every aspect of the wedding and reception are well coordinated and original, as you requested,” she reminded Carrie. “If you change your mind about the bridesmaids’ bouquets it will affect the bridal arrangement and the boutonnieres, as well as the arrangements for the reception.” Bishop Delaney was a genius. He also had a very low bullshit threshold, and if he walked it would be difficult to find someone reputable at this late date. “If you insist on making changes, be prepared to pay quite a bit more than you were originally quoted.”

“Why?” Carrie demanded. “If I don’t use the other flowers, why should I pay for them?”

“Because the designer has already spent a considerable amount of time making arrangements, and he shouldn’t have to take a loss because you changed your mind. His initial order has already been placed, I’m sure, but I’m not sure that he’ll be able to cancel.” Tomorrow was supposed to be about Bishop showing photos and drawings of his grand plans, not a point to start from scratch. Jaclyn did not want to be between Bishop and Carrie if they butted heads.

Sometimes she felt as if she was instructing a wayward, willful child in manners, but the gleam that was still in Carrie’s eyes was too calculating. She was so demanding because, all too often, she’d gotten away with it. Probably a lot of people finally gave up and took the loss rather than keep dealing with Carrie, which meant she’d learned to double-down whenever anyone called her on her behavior. Acting badly usually got her what she wanted.

Now she wrinkled her nose and sniffed, before waving away Jaclyn’s point, petulantly. “We’ll discuss it with the florist tomorrow. I’m sure
he’ll
be reasonable. At the moment, my main concern is fixing the problem with the bridesmaids’ dresses.”

Jaclyn took a deep breath. In. Out. She was not going to let this spoiled, nasty little twit get the best of her. “Why don’t we meet with the dressmaker tomorrow and discuss our options?” Maybe together, she and Gretchen could convince Carrie that it was much too late to make this change, that there simply wasn’t time to order the fabric and get the dresses made—not that reason and the bridezilla were well-acquainted. Jaclyn wasn’t sure they’d ever even met. In order to save Gretchen from another phone call, she said, “I’ll call this afternoon and make the arrangements.”

Carrie rolled her eyes. “Well, duh. That’s your
job.”

Jaclyn had dealt with difficult brides in the past, but Carrie was a one-in-a-million pain in the ass. One of the advantages of being her own boss, however, was that she could decide when enough was enough. She very slowly stood, planted her hands on her desk, and said, “It’s also a job I can walk away from. I won’t take any abuse, and my assistant won’t take any abuse. Are we clear on that?”

Carrie gave her an affronted glare.
“Abuse?
I haven’t abused anyone. I simply want my wedding to be spectacular, and I don’t see why—”

“Instead of spectacular, it’s going to be a disaster if you don’t stop changing your mind,” Jaclyn said bluntly. “I’m saying this because it’s my
job
to make things run smoothly, which means pointing out when you’re about to go off a cliff. I’m not saying the floral designer absolutely won’t be able to change the flowers at this late date, I’m saying that doing so might cost you quite a bit more, and you should really find out from Gretchen if it’s physically possible to have new bridesmaids’ dresses made before you do anything about the flowers. You might also check with your bridesmaids, because no matter what color you’ve decided you prefer, one or more might drop out rather than pay for another dress they’ll never wear again. Now, if
you
want to pick up the expense for new dresses, I’m sure none of them would mind—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Carrie snapped. “The bride doesn’t pay for the bridesmaids’ dresses.”

“Under certain circumstances, she most certainly does. Changing her mind at the last minute is one of those certain circumstances.” Maybe, Jaclyn thought optimistically, if she started playing hardball with Carrie, the young woman would either stop being such a pain in the ass or fire Premier. Jaclyn could heave a sigh of relief, and Carrie would set her sights on some other poor event planner who would let the promise of a big paycheck blind her to the true situation.

“I know my friends,” Carrie said. “None of them would be that petty.” She tossed her long blond hair, then reached into her handbag and pulled out the sample menu she’d already decided on for the reception—if she could only make up her mind about the kabobs. Beef or lamb. How freakin’ hard could it be? “And another thing …”

Jaclyn kept her expression calm, but as Carrie went on and on about what was acceptable and what wasn’t, she mentally checked out and made one very firm decision: before this day was over, she was going to need a good, stiff drink.

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.