Veil of Night by Linda Howard Read Free Book Online

she didn’t have time for one of her own.
    She was pretty sure that made a statement about her life, but she didn’t know exactly what the statement was.
    Eric had remained sprawled at the table after Jaclyn had left, staring at his empty beer glass and wondering if he should order another. No, he had to drive home; one was his limit. And if he wasn’t going to order another beer, he should be nice to the waitress and get his ass out of the chair so the table would be available to customers who actually intended to order something.
    Someone slid into the empty chair across from him, and he glanced up to see Gillespie leaning toward him, his expression one of good-natured mischief. “Okay, old man, what did you say to her that would make a woman like that talk to someone like you, when she gave me the brush-off?”
    Eric snorted. Old man, his ass; he was only seven or eight years older than Gillespie. He could tell by the small pool of silence around them that eager ears were listening, hoping to hear something they could use to rag Gillespie in the locker room tomorrow. Not that the patrolman wasn’t well-liked—he was—but an opportunity was an opportunity, no matter who the target was.
    “Listen closely, Grasshopper,” he intoned, holding up one finger as if to focus the attention of a thick-headed student.
    “I’m listening, Master,” Gillespie said in a falsetto.
    “One must be subtle with women,” he continued, raising his voice just a little so their audience could catch every word.
    “Subtle.” Gillespie refrained from snickering. Eric wasn’t exactly known for his subtlety; he was more of a kick-ass type of guy who’d had to learn restraint.
    “Anything overtly sexual is a turnoff, not a come-on.”
    “Roll up your pants legs, the bullshit’s getting deep in here,” came a loud whisper from their audience.
    “You’re going too fast. Let me take some notes,” said Gillespie, pulling out his notebook and pen and flipping to a blank page. He wrote down one word. “Okay: subtle. I got that. What else?”
    “There’s one thing about me that gave me a big advantage,” said Eric, and their surrounding buddies erupted.
    “Come on, Wilder, it ain’t that big; we’ve all seen you in the shower, remember?”
    “Yeah,” added a black detective, grinning. “You’re not even the right color, man.”
    Eric kept his tone solemn. “Confucius say, sleeping tiger look small; attacking tiger look big as fucking rhino.” While everyone was still hooting with laughter, he slid his chair back and stood. When the bar was quiet enough, he looked at Gillespie and said, “But I wasn’t talking about the size of my dick. There was something else.”
    “Yeah? What was it?”
    “We’d met before,” Eric said, grinning, and walked out of the bar with their laughter and groans following him.
    He stood on the sidewalk in the thick, humid heat of a summer night, taking a moment to look around at the city lights, his immediate surroundings, the passing traffic. It had been a long day, and he’d killed more time in the bar than he’d intended, thanks to Jaclyn Wilde. He should be hitting the sack pretty soon, but he still felt antsy, coiled with tension.
    He didn’t want to go home, not yet. Normally he looked forward to the peace and quiet, when he could kick back in his recliner, turn on the television, and watch some baseball or a fishing show, maybe a thriller, or read the newspaper he hadn’t had time to look at that morning. But not tonight; tonight, he wanted … something else.
    Hell, he knew what he wanted. Her. Ms. Classy. Jaclyn Wilde. Expensive complication or not, he wanted her naked. She was easy on the eyes, easy to talk to, and unless he missed his guess she was as attracted to him as he was to her. She’d also made it plain she put her business first and wouldn’t make time for him until her schedule wasn’t as hectic.
    He walked to his car, restlessly jingling his keys in his hand.